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21st May 2025
ASSOCIATED PRESS REPORT FROM PARIS AS FOLLOWS -- Police have found a bust of Jim Morrison that was stolen nearly four decades ago from the Paris grave that has long been a place of pilgrimage for fans of the legendary Doors singer and poet.
The bust taken in 1988 from Père-Lachaise cemetery was found during an unrelated investigation conducted by a financial anti-corruption unit, Paris police said in an Instagram post Monday.
There was no immediate word on whether the bust would be returned to the grave or what other investigation might take place.
Morrison, the singer of Doors classics including “Light My Fire,” “Break on Through,” and “The End,” was found dead in a Paris bathtub at age 27 in 1971.
He was buried at Père-Lachaise, the city's cemetery that is the final resting place of scores of artists, writers and other cultural luminaries including Marcel Proust, Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein and Edith Piaf.
The 300-pound bust made by Croatian sculptor Mladen Mikulin was added to the grave in 1981 for the 10th anniversary of the singer's death.
“I think it would be incredible if they put the bust back onto where it was and it would attract so many more people, but the cemetery wouldn’t even be able to hold that many people,” Paris tour guide Jade Jezzini told The Associated Press. “The amount of people who would rush in here just to see the bust to take pictures of it, it would be incredible.”
Known for his dark lyrics, wavy locks, leather pants, theatrical stage presence and mystical manner, Morrison has inspired generations of acolytes who congregate at his grave to reflect and sometimes to party, including a major gathering for the 50th anniversary of his death. The site has often been covered with flowers, poetic graffiti and liquor bottles left in tribute.
He was undergoing a cultural renaissance when the bust was stolen in the late 1980s, which peaked with the 1991 Oliver Stone film “The Doors,” in which Val Kilmer, who died in April, played Morrison.
London artist Sam Burcher recently returned to the now more subdued grave site that she first visited 40 years ago when the sculpture of Morrison was still in place.
“The bust was much smaller than all of these grand tombs. It was very modest, so I was quite surprised by that,” she told the AP. “But the other thing was the atmosphere, it was buzzing. There were people partying, smoking, music, dancing, and then I brought strawberries and kind of gave them out to everyone ... it was just such an amazing experience.”
Morrison cofounded the Doors in Los Angeles in 1965 with Ray Manzarek. Robby Krieger and John Densmore joined soon after.
The band and its frontman burned brightly but briefly, releasing albums including “The Doors” “Strange Days," and “Morrison Hotel, whose The California site that gave that album its name and cover image was seriously damaged in a fire last year.
After their final album, 1971’s “L.A. Woman,” Morrison moved to Paris. His cause of death was listed as heart failure, though no autopsy was performed as none was required by law. Disputes and myths have surrounded the death and added to his mystique.
https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x9jw6b6
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August 29th, 2023
This year marks the 100 year anniversary of a prestigious poetry speaking contest at Oxford in which my grandmother Diana Homer was a prizewinning speaker.
In the spring of 1923 the future Poet Laureate John Masefield made an announcement to The Times that he would be holding a verse speaking contest at Oxford. Masefield was an orphan sent away to sea at thirteen by an aunt who disapproved of his compulsive reading. A distressed seaman abroad and almost shipwrecked, he used his awe-inspiring voyages to inform much of his early writing, including Salt Water Ballads (1902) and Dauber (1913). Now, his plan was to discover a raft of beautiful speakers passionate about poetry to create a mainstream tradition for its performance.
As the principal organisers of the contest, John Masefield and his wife Constance sought help from their circle at Oxford. Gilbert Murray, the Regis Professor of Greek, George Gordon, a Professor of English Literature, Sir Herbert Warren, the President of Magdalen, and two winners of the Newdigate Prize: Laurence Binyon and Heathcote Garrod, a Professor of Poetry, all agreed to act as judges. George Gordon named the two day festival The Oxford Recitations, and gave the opening speech at The Examination Schools on July 26th 1923.
Over five hundred contestants entered, exceeding all expectations. But, after hearing the first dozen or so speakers, Masefield wondered had he made a mistake in pushing for the contest, when a young woman began to speak in a way that made him hold his breath. He later recalled, “I had heard nothing like it. What I had not imagined was the power of such speech upon an audience, which sat as if in a trance.”
A recital by Diana Homer, the daughter of the Unitarian Minister F.A.Homer, would have a similar effect upon John Masefield. Diana was my grandmother, then a teenager drawn to Oxford with a headful of the poems by Chaucer, Shakespeare and Milton picked by the judges ahead of the competion. She would be a constant winner in the women’s division until 1929. More about that later.
On the whole, the first year of the Recitations revealed impressive talent and application. Each judge selected two favourites from amongst the trained speakers, talented amateurs, up and coming actors and students who competed in the ballad, lyric, dramatic and narrative classes to battle it out in the Oxford Prize Class Finals. Highly coveted silver and bronze medals were awarded to the first and second place men and women with prizes of around £200 in today’s money for the exceptional speakers.
The contest took place at the Schools from morning until late in the evening. Door stewards ensured the recitals went undisturbed and prevented the audience from questioning the judges about their decisions, or from asking them for autographs. Clapping was restrained during the day in case exams were taking place elsewhere in the building. But, on Finals night, the crowd was roused into rip-roaring song, ending with a resounding, “Three cheers for Mr and Mrs Masefield!”
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February 2023
The Painted Rocks
I spy chipmunks scampering over the rocks on the road to Tafroute. It’s been so long since I saw this striped, squirrel-like creature that for a second it’s hard to remember its name. Back in the 1970’s, chipmunks were caged pets in schools and households across Britain. But roaming free in Morocco, they are released from the karma of captivity. I comfort myself with this thought as we speed towards the Rocher Peinture, a group of brightly coloured granite boulders strewn intermittently amid the desert plains of the Anti-Atlas Mountains.
The largest rock is the size of a small hillock, and resembles a strong, muscular organ, rather like a giant heart or a lolling tongue. The land artist Jean Verame (1939-) originally painted it a deep azure blue ( left) in the mid -1980’s, but time has weathered its surface to a lighter cerulean (below right). Smaller rocks washed in bubblegum pink and acid green squat like unfamiliar blobs in the landscape. There is spacious desert as far as the eye can see, periodically interrupted by the bright protuberances. It looks and feels like a film set, especially when my lover walks off into the distance, a lone figure in the landscape. As I hang back at the big blue rock, I have a premonition he will soon walk away and not turn back.
A big full moon is strung over the Anti-Atlas as I pick out the Hotel Salama in the middle of Tafraoute's main square. For me the sign is an easy spot as it pokes above the low rise shops and businesses nestling under the looming mountains.The hotel breakfast bar serves particularly good coffee, the butter is excellent, and there is an egg. Later, we barter for blankets and shoes, and when I express how good it is to see the mountains from the town, a small group of traders complain the mountains get in their way!
The sheer beauty of Morocco’s physical geography abounds from the deserts of the Anti-Atlas to the snow striated 
Atlas Mountains. As the road winds from one place to another, a varied palette of stones create swirly textile-like patterns across the undulating hills, producing a breathtaking variety of ever-changing landscapes. A mountain in the shape of giant tagine cooking pot rises up to the sky along the way. On the ground, pebbles and larger stones have been arranged in piles by the roadside to communicate a myriad of messages; no entry, a place of prayer, a boundary marking the road’s edge, a sheer drop, and other possible alerts left by and for travellers and nomads. The hooded cloaks of the sun wizened men of the Maghreb seem to mimic the mountain peaks. And, late in the day, these pixie-like men sit in groups to appreciate the mountains, which all too soon will block out the rays of the evening sun.
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23rd August 2021
Amazigh is the word for the original Berber people from whom the majority of North Africa's population are descended. And truly the colours, landscapes, tastes, smells, sounds and music of Morocco are amazing! A rich tradition of handicrafts from shoes to soaps lives alongside a peaceful spirituality that reboots at the start of each new day with the call to prayer.
An unusually strong feeling of well-being emanates from the ground as I touch down in Marrakesh. Travellers glide smoothly over the marble floors under the high white geodesic arches of the pristine Menara airport. The scruffy greeters and taxi drivers must wait in the designated area beyond the airport doors on the orders of the King. Outside, I jump into a beaten up old blue Mercedes, which weaves its way through crowded roads with the horses and carriages, and wonder what is secreted in the old city behind the high fortress walls perforated with holes like a looming Swiss cheese.
Marrakesh is guarded by a strategic mix of police, army and gendarmes posted in sentry boxes at checkpoints along the city walls. Inside the medina at night on a full moon, people work late and take bread home for supper. Behind more impenetrable walls are the fountains and plant strewn inner courtyard of the privately owned Riads. Small birds slip under plastic awnings stretched across the wide open sky to wait noisily for mealtime crumbs. Inside the narrow walls of my bedchamber, a four poster is festooned with red velvet and small vibrant flags rather like the bunting at a medieval joust. Unctuous oils, rose petals, and warmth conjure the quintessence of romance and continuity in this magical, scented kingdom.
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Almost twenty years ago I found myself sitting eye to eye with Nick Papadimitriou in the basement of an art gallery, just off Queen Square in Bloomsbury. It was our first day on a research project and we were both nervously rearing to write, even if science was not our primary concern. Over those weeks, I got to know Nick and admired his roll-your-sleeves-up dedication to writing, and was intrigued by his wayward and somewhat wild side.
I enjoy eccentricity, so happily listened to Nick prattle on about Gilbert White, the Woodcraft Folk, and the mysteries of Middlesex. His tales of a marginalised, middle-aged man with glasses bearing a sort of resonance. And, the more he told his stories and repeated his often humorous schtick, the more I realised that Nick had everything he needed to become a successful writer.
Over the years Nick would often call round to mine. We talked about everything as he would lend a helping hand in the garden, editing my first collection of poetry, playing with the assorted cats and dogs, and amusing the long-term boyfriends that might be around. Once, I switched on my recorder and just let it run while we talked. (http://www.samburcher.com/articles/notes-on/152-interview-with-nick-papadimitriou-november-2011.html) During another lovely day, I held my film camera on my lap as Nick talked about his latest project. (See below).
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SB: How’s your book going?
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NP: Slow. I’ve got the promotional copy in, which is the first three chapters and I’ve got five chapters done completely and I’ve got about another five chapters done partially, so I’ve still got a long way to go. And, I’ve got eight weeks to do it.
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SB: Are you happy with it?
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NP: No.
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SB: What’s the highlight?
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NP: The highlight? Merops, the crow.
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SB: Yeah. (Nick and I had long shared a love of crows and rooks and talked about them in relation to a place in Harrow called Roxeth – the place where the rooks drink).
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NP: Jocasta from Hodder and Stoughton wanted that out of the book and then she left.
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SB: You’re joking?!
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NP: Then I got a new bloke called Drummond Meyer, and he wants it in. Jocasta said it doesn’t really fit into the book.
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SB: It’s the best bit. The flight of your imagination.
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In Menory of John Lupton - 17/04/23
Part one of a series about a microcosm of lives in London and Birmingham in the late 1970’s.
It was a Saturday morning in June and later that night David Bowie was playing the Earls Court Arena on his 1978 Isolar II World Tour. My shcool friends and I were determined to see him. We bunked onto a succession of smoke filled, cigarette-strewn London underground carriages arriving at Earls Court. After crossing the road from the station to the arena we joined what was already a restless queue waiting to buy tickets for the performance. Not to be put off, we set up camp; singing songs, smoking and laughing with the other assorted young hopefuls.
I was sitting cross-legged on my sturdy leather-patched donkey jacket to contemplate the wait when a tall, stunningly handsome man with dark floppy hair and electric blue eyes walked over and sat close to me. “Can I make you up?” he asked. To my amazement it was almost impossible to understand what he was saying. “Can you say that again?” I replied, somewhat surprised. Firstly, I could not believe that this beautiful man was talking to me, and secondly that his thick Birmingham accent did not compute with the visuals. “Can I make you up? I want to make your face up,” he repeated slowly. “I’m an artist.” He petitioned me with a dazzling smile. Pulling over a large overnight bag he started unpacking eyeliners and eyeshadows, chunky and fine brushes, lipsticks, pan sticks and powder puffs.
At the sight of all the shimmering colours I began to seriously consider his offer. He was the first artist that I had seen that looked like that! Up until then, I had only met secondary school art teachers with alcohol and personal hygiene problems. His Birmingham accent was triggering memories of the puppet characters on a Central TV show called Pipkins which I childishly made references to by trying to role-play all of the animal characters to avoid acquiesce. Although we both laughed at my delaying tactic, his desire was not distracted. Finally, giving in, I said, “Ok, make me up!”