If I could make a textual equivalent of that noise that happens when a stylus rips across an LP to mark a change, then I would. I have moved countries and am aware that everything in this blog so far has been a response to my being in Crete. I don't know yet how to make the change. I don't know yet if I will attempt to continue the previous practices in London (a shift in subject but continuation of viewing framework) or if London will demand different working practices. Until I settle down I won't know the outcome and things may be a bit turbulent in this changeover.
One of discourse's decisive shifts.
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Thursday, 23 July 2009
Found on the Other Side of a 'To Do' List
Horror of groundlessness, of the reset button, of losing yourself in the attempt to uncover that elusive something worth believing in.
The reset button puts us back at the rawness of the experience, it sweeps away the illusions, self-fufilling structures of being that justify their own existance, the structures built to give us something to hold on to. We wipe them away and there is nothing to hide behind and the rawness of our response comes.
The reset button puts us back at the rawness of the experience, it sweeps away the illusions, self-fufilling structures of being that justify their own existance, the structures built to give us something to hold on to. We wipe them away and there is nothing to hide behind and the rawness of our response comes.
Overview
Trying to decide which of my photos might be appreciated as a gift for my two closest friends here in Chania. These are a few of my short list:
In the end this process has become a bit of an assessment of all the photos I took whilst being away in Greece and Egypt. A natural closure.
In the end this process has become a bit of an assessment of all the photos I took whilst being away in Greece and Egypt. A natural closure.
Sunday, 19 July 2009
Observations #4
I want to give some proper time to the blog and maybe some writing but the days are so hot that I am reduced to that of a Vogue reader (Martha Rosler antidote here).
I have been feeling recently that there is a kind of illogical aesthetic to Chania though the ubiquity of being here day in day out prevents me from satisfactorily grasping and articulating it. These two photos are rough attempts to record some of it and I hope I have a chance to take some more. Then maybe more ideas can come from a later meditation.
I have been feeling recently that there is a kind of illogical aesthetic to Chania though the ubiquity of being here day in day out prevents me from satisfactorily grasping and articulating it. These two photos are rough attempts to record some of it and I hope I have a chance to take some more. Then maybe more ideas can come from a later meditation.
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
Observations #2
I'm getting tardy I know, but there are reasons.
Some observations recently in words:
So many birds in cages, birds singing gloriously, nailed to a crumbling wall, above the ancient woman who keeps them there.
Birds in cages outside the petshop. Chorus of competing singing and chirping to the accompaniment of terrifying Greek traffic on a tuesday morning. Birds calling to be noticed in cages.
A lone cockroach outside the supermarket. Retreating from the pavement as we pass. Returns to its position when we are gone.
A basketball court at night with the stars just visible despite the floodlight. Tall metal arms holding the hoops and their shadows falling over the court, one arm's shadow intersecting with an oilstain, interconnected, a centipede makes a quick scuttle across both and into the dark on the other side.
A rusty drain pipe protruding from the middle of a balcony four floors above us. Showering the street with soapy water. At midnight there were rivers of the stuff making inky landscapes all over our walk home.
A fish with a tail of fine silk billowing out behind it, locked in a never ending forward motion in a glass bowl. Glassy eyes that don't register me.
Some observations recently in words:
So many birds in cages, birds singing gloriously, nailed to a crumbling wall, above the ancient woman who keeps them there.
Birds in cages outside the petshop. Chorus of competing singing and chirping to the accompaniment of terrifying Greek traffic on a tuesday morning. Birds calling to be noticed in cages.
A lone cockroach outside the supermarket. Retreating from the pavement as we pass. Returns to its position when we are gone.
A basketball court at night with the stars just visible despite the floodlight. Tall metal arms holding the hoops and their shadows falling over the court, one arm's shadow intersecting with an oilstain, interconnected, a centipede makes a quick scuttle across both and into the dark on the other side.
A rusty drain pipe protruding from the middle of a balcony four floors above us. Showering the street with soapy water. At midnight there were rivers of the stuff making inky landscapes all over our walk home.
A fish with a tail of fine silk billowing out behind it, locked in a never ending forward motion in a glass bowl. Glassy eyes that don't register me.
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Market Day
Everything is a sensual feast at the moment and with it comes the urge to preserve or possess it all. I think that might need investigating - possession - a sign of the times or inheritance..? In my small way I wonder if my wish to hold on is because the date of my departure from Greece is looming ever closer.
Today C and I went to the λαϊκή ('leiki' - street market) and gawped at the amazing array of fresh produce. We talked of bringing our cameras next week to mark my final visit and try and save something of the visual experience. It was the fish that caught my eyes the most. Plump, compact, tiny bodies seemingly pushing out at their taught skin; the silver and yellow and black and blue shimmering; the shape of many of them slippery on top of each other; the death that their prettiness distracts me from until wide open jelly eyes stare me right in the face. Pools of bloody water collecting in plastic buckets under the table.
In the heat all smells are pungent, lettuces reek, parsley - fennel - celery emanate, peaches and nectarines drift down the busy corridor of humans pushing past each other, trolleys over sandled feet and body odor as normal as toothy grins and rough hands throwing bags of produce from the scales to the customer. I can let most of the noises ride past me as I don't understand much of the Greek.
There was an enormous woman in a bright red dress. Her flesh was visible underneath the thin layer, rolling, and she had no apology for it. I smile, this red is dazzling and suits the market. Mushrooms, peppers haphazardly splayed over everything, live rabbits to coo over, thyme, olives in vats, sweaty feta cheese, tomatoes tomatoes tomatoes, cucumber, cherries, potatoes, errant snails moving in their boxes. When we cleared the stalls the heat was unbearable.
Today C and I went to the λαϊκή ('leiki' - street market) and gawped at the amazing array of fresh produce. We talked of bringing our cameras next week to mark my final visit and try and save something of the visual experience. It was the fish that caught my eyes the most. Plump, compact, tiny bodies seemingly pushing out at their taught skin; the silver and yellow and black and blue shimmering; the shape of many of them slippery on top of each other; the death that their prettiness distracts me from until wide open jelly eyes stare me right in the face. Pools of bloody water collecting in plastic buckets under the table.
In the heat all smells are pungent, lettuces reek, parsley - fennel - celery emanate, peaches and nectarines drift down the busy corridor of humans pushing past each other, trolleys over sandled feet and body odor as normal as toothy grins and rough hands throwing bags of produce from the scales to the customer. I can let most of the noises ride past me as I don't understand much of the Greek.
There was an enormous woman in a bright red dress. Her flesh was visible underneath the thin layer, rolling, and she had no apology for it. I smile, this red is dazzling and suits the market. Mushrooms, peppers haphazardly splayed over everything, live rabbits to coo over, thyme, olives in vats, sweaty feta cheese, tomatoes tomatoes tomatoes, cucumber, cherries, potatoes, errant snails moving in their boxes. When we cleared the stalls the heat was unbearable.
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
Sticky
It's really hot here. Hot in a sticky mosquito-bitten irritating and grubby kind of way. I'm not coping very well.
I want to put something up though just to keep momentum. This image is a favourite from my recent trek down the Samaria Gorge. I want to write/post more about it later but the effort to concentrate is beyond me right now.
I want to put something up though just to keep momentum. This image is a favourite from my recent trek down the Samaria Gorge. I want to write/post more about it later but the effort to concentrate is beyond me right now.
Thursday, 2 July 2009
Blandness Transformed
Well, there are different ways of feeling down. I have been struggling a bit lately overcoming a stress-induced dead effect, being weighed down and with it not feeling inspiration or confidence about sharing. See-saw see-saw see-saw....
This photo I think is technically poor, but what I wanted to get at was the texture and blandness-transformed-into-something...
...and a sneaky pigeon...
This photo I think is technically poor, but what I wanted to get at was the texture and blandness-transformed-into-something...
...and a sneaky pigeon...
Monday, 29 June 2009
Ach Thoughts.
I am deliberating over how much word I want to put on the blog. For the sake of visitors I tend to think pictures and minimal writing is enough; sometimes though I am in the mood to talk.
I just went off on one with an opinion on someone else's blog:
Jane McCoy's post brushing off the chips
I have decided to re-post it here because it collates some of my thinking on this subject of disclosure, uncovering, truth, the ground of truth.. and the role of doubt in this process. Having suffered from doubt in various forms of discomfort/self abasement, it comes to me as something in the end that must be necessary. There is nothing more grounding than the continual return to making, producing, thinking, writing - even if this production is just the debris or excess of a kind of striving, aspiration.
Was writing a little recently on the violence of totality and the drive towards totalisation. I come to this from reading some discussions on the nature of knowledge (being a drive towards co-opting every 'thing' out there into the system of knowledge), and I live this through the disappointment of hearing sentences that I have somehow heard before, and before, and before... I'm not asking for pure originality (what's that?!) but instead am just recognising how homogeneous we insist on being in the name of our insertion into the world. I make a case for subtlety, listening, small things, sensitivities, taking the time to respond honestly, a commitment to letting ourselves respond.
(This last paragraph is woefully without references and steps rudely onto Derrida's toes. I will return to it as I think Derrida is right and that there is nothing really grounding beneath it all. But this is another post.... ach! thoughts!)
I just went off on one with an opinion on someone else's blog:
Jane McCoy's post brushing off the chips
I read myself in your excellent blogpost, not just in the persona but in the analysing it after. I've spent good hours negotiating the 'show myself/hide myself' dichotemy and thought I might share some thoughts with you (if you don't mind).
1) Coolness is always as we perceive. I have on several occasions been informed that it was me who appeared 'cool' at school despite the fact I was a nervous wreck. I am at the conclusion that everyone feels sensitive in the end, it just varies how we display it.
2) I come to the belief that there is something inherent to art-production that is about uncovering/covering or hiding/showing. It lead me to Heidegger.. blah blah and too much intellectualising later, I feel that the process of making art is experienced within us bodily as we bodily become extensions of the object we wish to manifest (or something..). Anyway, what I'm (taking too long) saying is that the negativity we experience is a crucial part of the dialectic and life and art-making - the boundaries, the retraction, assessment, etc. etc. Our abilities to be self-critical are not just psychologically the 'tortured artist' stereotype but just a necessary part of bringing something into the world. Being sensitive to it is because making art fine tunes our listening abilities precisely for this making process (and responding to the world around). If we had no doubt then we would be running ourselves and our art riot all over the world - a violent and monolithic way of making a mark. Ok, maybe I will make this into my own blog post... not sure... sorry to impose.... Keep up the good work, I like your drawings.
I have decided to re-post it here because it collates some of my thinking on this subject of disclosure, uncovering, truth, the ground of truth.. and the role of doubt in this process. Having suffered from doubt in various forms of discomfort/self abasement, it comes to me as something in the end that must be necessary. There is nothing more grounding than the continual return to making, producing, thinking, writing - even if this production is just the debris or excess of a kind of striving, aspiration.
Was writing a little recently on the violence of totality and the drive towards totalisation. I come to this from reading some discussions on the nature of knowledge (being a drive towards co-opting every 'thing' out there into the system of knowledge), and I live this through the disappointment of hearing sentences that I have somehow heard before, and before, and before... I'm not asking for pure originality (what's that?!) but instead am just recognising how homogeneous we insist on being in the name of our insertion into the world. I make a case for subtlety, listening, small things, sensitivities, taking the time to respond honestly, a commitment to letting ourselves respond.
(This last paragraph is woefully without references and steps rudely onto Derrida's toes. I will return to it as I think Derrida is right and that there is nothing really grounding beneath it all. But this is another post.... ach! thoughts!)
And More Pigeons
Yes I may be pushing up against the line between absurdity and boredom, but I am still very much in love with pigeons. It could be a little harmless anthropomorphism, it could be an attraction to their purely instinctual being. They seem to embody 'flow'. In groups their spacial awareness causes them to make evenly balanced patterns best seen from above.
And finding the odd squashed one on the road still affects me.
Thursday, 25 June 2009
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
One Hit Wanders
On to one photo posts at the mo, though I think the last couple of shots are strong enough to withstand it ;)
Woke with strange dreams of filming slugs and fishes in rising cave water this morning.
Woke with strange dreams of filming slugs and fishes in rising cave water this morning.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Monday, 22 June 2009
Derrida Drawing
Not sure if this will work but anyway...
..it's the product of the last talk on Derrida I attended at LSE, over a year ago now. I don't know if it works because the pencil is too fine really for the scan, but maybe the general idea is there - responding to the discussion with both words and doodles or free-flowing pencil marks, like automatic drawing...
..it's the product of the last talk on Derrida I attended at LSE, over a year ago now. I don't know if it works because the pencil is too fine really for the scan, but maybe the general idea is there - responding to the discussion with both words and doodles or free-flowing pencil marks, like automatic drawing...
Saturday, 20 June 2009
Friday, 19 June 2009
The Sea Sounds
Low-tech lustre.
Dedicated to David Eng, Last Nights of Paris Beautiful music, beautifully sensitive.
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