The Dirty Yellow Project

by Chris Reynolds

The "Dirty Yellow" project was done in December 2015 - January 2016 while I was resting from drawing comic-books.

Dirty Yellow


by Chris Reynolds 3 January 2016

    When you realise you've been at work for weeks and just doing your personal projects instead of following-through with the agreed bit of work, it's disconcerting, one day, to find that all the paperwork for your official duties has gone, vanished in a tidy-up by your colleagues, who were reorganising the office and didn't know what was important and what was not.
    You ask them to move the seating because you have to access these particular shelves. Yet the notebook is gone. The reference books are not to be seen, and even your memory of what you were meant to be doing is insufficient to recreate the limited amount of work you have done.
The only thing to do is to leave - to move out of that job and try to get another one.

Dirty Yellow #1
dirty yellow #1
Dirty Yellow #2
dirty yellow #2

They Were Still Working on the Building

by Chris Reynolds Dec 23 2015

    They were still working on the building. My friend's new in-laws lived there. They all hurried on upstairs laughing and I was left to close the big front door behind me. I tried several times to close that big door but it didn't fit properly. I tried to slam it shut - making an incredible amount of noise - until eventually it fitted into place.
    Newly-known cousins were everywhere. There was Terry; tall, thin and moody looking, George; bonny, jovial, and wearing a padded onesie but with something unmistakably criminal about him, and a group of others, with Alan, who sat in a line of chairs over there with the women and stared at us new arrivals.
    My bed was near George's. I was slightly afraid he'd steal my clothes and so I put them on the other side. In the morning I couldn't find my socks - but that was my fault as somehow I'd got them tangled up among the bedclothes.
    We couldn't use all of the big house as they were still working on the rooms upstairs.

Lumpy Lacefit and the Boiler Room

by Chris Reynolds 24 January 2016

    The phones were still going in the boiler room and one of my friends was sadly having to wipe one of his ticks off the board as his contact cancelled on him. My job in the film room meant I didn't have to man the phones but the desperate air of those who did permeated the building. One of the girls had got a piece in the Evening Standard complaining about the car lift on the roof, all about how it gave her vertigo and scares. The boss said it was 7.30 and time to go home, anxiety about our results clearly visible beneath his joviality. I found my coat had been moved to the stock room with a lot of the others which delayed me a bit. My buddy and I looked back at the building and the car lift as we went out. The car lift didn't look so bad. He explained to me that the girl couldn't have sold just a story describing the old car-lift. She'd had to add the anxiety angle to make it sell.
    I opened the outer door and noticed that it had a green abstract design of squares, credited to Brian Eno. I was late for my usual train so I walked up the hill. This was not an exactly familiar part of the town, but then I saw a Central Line station in the gardens nearby. Home again now and the same tomorrow.

Dirty Yellow Face
dirty yellow face
Dirty Yellow Mould
dirty yellow mould

Terror of Another London

by Chris Reynolds 20, 21 December 2015

    I met someone I knew who seemed to have some idea of what was going on. We went to his house but he no longer had the key. He suggested we hide in the hotel next door as the danger was very great now. I began losing confidence in him. I went into one of the hotel rooms and lay down beneath one of the beds to hide. “What good will that do?” he demanded. “Got any better ideas?” I said.
    My dodgy friend took me to a secret Post Office. He'd found his house keys again. I asked him to explain what was happening but he told me not to ask him questions. I suspected he'd had his keys all the time. The Post Office was a lady in a chair. One of the chair arms dropped down to reveal two compartments. “Put any secret mail in this one and urgent mail in the other,” she said. My friend put his secret mail in the first and some other letters in the other. Then the woman opened some flaps at the back of the compartments and put all the mail into an ordinary battered-looking carrier-bag - for easier smuggling across the city.

More Paintings
Surf Paintings
Chris Reynolds' Mauretania Comics

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Chris Reynolds 2017