Molten light thick on a
tarnished floor, flows.
Saturday, 19 December 2009
Thursday, 3 December 2009
Linking Hodgepodge
Sound of an aeroplane descending echoes my growing doubt.
Today I have been buzzing off of:
http://kvond.wordpress.com/2009/12/02/humanities-and-ponzi-just-what-secures-the-investment-of-thought/
Great post on the Humanities and the market.
http://www.omniglot.com/blog/?p=1955
Different names for the moon.
http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/TEDBlog/~3/QHOOODxvVIg/cindy_gallop_ma.php
Problematic film and interview that I like (Make Love Not Porn) because I would too like to see a greater awareness of the language and tropes of pornography and its effect on our sexuality - without necessarily taking an anti-pornography stance. But, as the interview rolls on, it is clear that Cindy Gallop operates from within the media and marketing, the market, and this throws the luxury of thinking porn without the bad effects into doubt.
http://ubu.artmob.ca/sound/dial_a_poem_poets/giorno_waldman/Giorno-Waldman_02_waldman_fast.mp3
This rocks! A mantra-like charmer, seducer, trance inducer that just makes me feel great about being a woman.
http://www.cinestatic.com/infinitethought/2009/12/proletarian-university.asp
Nina Power's posts continually keep me on my toes and give me lasting thought.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/audio/AGAT-WomenOfTheAvantGardeP2-112409.mp3
Sounds of the vagina anyone? UbuWeb is just amazing.
Today I have been buzzing off of:
http://kvond.wordpress.com/2009/12/02/humanities-and-ponzi-just-what-secures-the-investment-of-thought/
Great post on the Humanities and the market.
http://www.omniglot.com/blog/?p=1955
Different names for the moon.
http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/TEDBlog/~3/QHOOODxvVIg/cindy_gallop_ma.php
Problematic film and interview that I like (Make Love Not Porn) because I would too like to see a greater awareness of the language and tropes of pornography and its effect on our sexuality - without necessarily taking an anti-pornography stance. But, as the interview rolls on, it is clear that Cindy Gallop operates from within the media and marketing, the market, and this throws the luxury of thinking porn without the bad effects into doubt.
http://ubu.artmob.ca/sound/dial_a_poem_poets/giorno_waldman/Giorno-Waldman_02_waldman_fast.mp3
This rocks! A mantra-like charmer, seducer, trance inducer that just makes me feel great about being a woman.
http://www.cinestatic.com/infinitethought/2009/12/proletarian-university.asp
Nina Power's posts continually keep me on my toes and give me lasting thought.
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/audio/AGAT-WomenOfTheAvantGardeP2-112409.mp3
Sounds of the vagina anyone? UbuWeb is just amazing.
Saturday, 7 November 2009
Work Lines (continuous update)
The following are lines I have scribbled on the back or in the margins of my rotas while working as a Gallery Attendant:
In longing there is escape from my present
a reach for more than.
An acknowledgement of my present limitations,
imprisonment.
Jeff Koons: funny, in your face, shocking - unreal - hyper-real, staged, ridiculous, egocentric, worrying.
Exposes the crassness, nastiness of the successful art world.
Unreality of imagery.
Strands of sexual liberation and money, fame = this.
Posed as porn films, what does she think?
Anti feminist but not because anti rights.
www.myspace.com/grainsuk
I am inside.
The world is outside.
On that threshold.
Ossification
Where are the lines of taboo? Fitting the female form into that shock factor - iconoclast - shock from images already exists.
I wonder if it would be possible to do a phenomenological reading of Peter Fischli and David Weiss' Untitled (Tate) 1992-2000 piece...
Jiří Kovanda 53
What do we hold as our object(s)?
The way we orient ourselves by whatever we place before us.
To the sane mind, the fantastical is an adventure, an important exercise in possibility and elasticity of thought. An exercise in the forgetting of the horrors of madness.
But with the first whiff of madness, fantasy's dark side, the devils and goblins, the devil worship and evil seeps forth again, makes us shiver, is threatening to our grip on reality.
Is reality anything more than the organising structures - grids - we impose onto it?
André Breton: What Is Surrealism? (Trans. D. Gascoyne) 1936
Uncovering the ground of the issue.
Pulling off another layer, flying carpet, rug. From under our feet (foot fall).
Pull away another layer to uncover the ground, uncover another carpet to pull away.
All this uncovering makes me think of falling down a well,
scaffolding gone, the brickwork is slippery to touch.
All this dismantling of conceptual structures,
and the ground is an eternal uncovering in the pursuit of a ground.
All this questioning makes me want to reach out and touch someone.
Gödel, Escher, Bach
Hofstadter - Maths, early 20th Century.
0845 300 7000 - London Bus Complaints
Fresh round drips off of umbrellas
collect in front of the art works,
bleeding into the wood grain and dust.
Weird, confronting the loneliness, grab a relationship and seals herself into it for some years. Jobs and houses follow. Experiment continues but with the expectation that settling down and moving up in the world is to come.
Colouring my mind
Romanticism with its cheap promise of completion
Plays itself out at my mercy
The Emancipatory
Emancipation as revelation
Sacrifice - McCarthy
Carly Simon
What's the rule? Adorno? (Internalising the law/s)
Baldessari
24th @ A's. Bring food etc.
The Overlap Series: Jogger
(with Cosmic Event)
2001-01
Imagine, being given edifices and abysses with out birth and box of characteristics. Across the way from the abyss, on the other side of the cut lies All That We Cannot See - our blindnesses, our abjects, our beasts.
We cannot see them. They look like murky areas of unseeing.
They unleash themselves on all that we encounter, colouring our perceptions, unknown to us.
Our neighbours, the other beings we come into contact with can see, they see our blindnesses, they make form from what we don't delimit. Their eyes and their powers make things out of our unseeing and give them back to us as real life encounters, the incidences, the bus stop chats with strangers, the friend round for tea, the kiss, the supermarket queue.
Other people see our blindnesses.
In longing there is escape from my present
a reach for more than.
An acknowledgement of my present limitations,
imprisonment.
Jeff Koons: funny, in your face, shocking - unreal - hyper-real, staged, ridiculous, egocentric, worrying.
Exposes the crassness, nastiness of the successful art world.
Unreality of imagery.
Strands of sexual liberation and money, fame = this.
Posed as porn films, what does she think?
Anti feminist but not because anti rights.
www.myspace.com/grainsuk
I am inside.
The world is outside.
On that threshold.
Ossification
Where are the lines of taboo? Fitting the female form into that shock factor - iconoclast - shock from images already exists.
I wonder if it would be possible to do a phenomenological reading of Peter Fischli and David Weiss' Untitled (Tate) 1992-2000 piece...
Jiří Kovanda 53
What do we hold as our object(s)?
The way we orient ourselves by whatever we place before us.
To the sane mind, the fantastical is an adventure, an important exercise in possibility and elasticity of thought. An exercise in the forgetting of the horrors of madness.
But with the first whiff of madness, fantasy's dark side, the devils and goblins, the devil worship and evil seeps forth again, makes us shiver, is threatening to our grip on reality.
Is reality anything more than the organising structures - grids - we impose onto it?
André Breton: What Is Surrealism? (Trans. D. Gascoyne) 1936
Uncovering the ground of the issue.
Pulling off another layer, flying carpet, rug. From under our feet (foot fall).
Pull away another layer to uncover the ground, uncover another carpet to pull away.
All this uncovering makes me think of falling down a well,
scaffolding gone, the brickwork is slippery to touch.
All this dismantling of conceptual structures,
and the ground is an eternal uncovering in the pursuit of a ground.
All this questioning makes me want to reach out and touch someone.
Gödel, Escher, Bach
Hofstadter - Maths, early 20th Century.
0845 300 7000 - London Bus Complaints
Fresh round drips off of umbrellas
collect in front of the art works,
bleeding into the wood grain and dust.
Weird, confronting the loneliness, grab a relationship and seals herself into it for some years. Jobs and houses follow. Experiment continues but with the expectation that settling down and moving up in the world is to come.
Colouring my mind
Romanticism with its cheap promise of completion
Plays itself out at my mercy
The Emancipatory
Emancipation as revelation
Sacrifice - McCarthy
Carly Simon
What's the rule? Adorno? (Internalising the law/s)
Baldessari
24th @ A's. Bring food etc.
The Overlap Series: Jogger
(with Cosmic Event)
2001-01
Imagine, being given edifices and abysses with out birth and box of characteristics. Across the way from the abyss, on the other side of the cut lies All That We Cannot See - our blindnesses, our abjects, our beasts.
We cannot see them. They look like murky areas of unseeing.
They unleash themselves on all that we encounter, colouring our perceptions, unknown to us.
Our neighbours, the other beings we come into contact with can see, they see our blindnesses, they make form from what we don't delimit. Their eyes and their powers make things out of our unseeing and give them back to us as real life encounters, the incidences, the bus stop chats with strangers, the friend round for tea, the kiss, the supermarket queue.
Other people see our blindnesses.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
15th September 2009
Alrighty. Next stage: intermittent (guerrilla?) internet visits (get in get out), dump photos and videos and some thoughts. Disappear completely again.
These shots were from the night of my 30th Birthday.
These shots were from the night of my 30th Birthday.
Monday, 14 September 2009
Last Night of my Twenties.
On my walk home this evening, the last walk home after work of my Twenties. It means nothing really but I do want to mark it. Something is being said goodbye to, all the events that live in times now passed, all the people and places that are now gone. There's something about turning Thirty that offers the possibility of starting anew. Illusion maybe, but both nice and scary too.
This is the Thames again and I wish I could say it was this colour but actually it was very brown. It's the camera that's made it nice colours.
This is the Thames again and I wish I could say it was this colour but actually it was very brown. It's the camera that's made it nice colours.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
More Docklands
In the background there is the constant roar of a lot of traffic passing very fast.
Even the birds look a bit gloomy.
Even the birds look a bit gloomy.
Docklands
Yesterday I went on an excursion to London's Docklands.
Thames and ancient sewer brickwork:
Thames and the disturbance from a passing boat:
Quite different from Crete's Sea
Thames and ancient sewer brickwork:
Thames and the disturbance from a passing boat:
Quite different from Crete's Sea
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
More on that Discursive Shift
It's funny, I have felt stumped by a niggling worry that I cannot place myself at the moment, that I don't know where I am, as if this is a problem to be overcome and solved before I can resume an art practice or a commitment to writing regularly.
I wonder how much projecting ourselves into the future is locationally influenced. In Greece I let it go, circumstances forced me to live according to my mood, the space my inner world seemed to create beyond my physical limits in which to line the path before me on that day: the bad mood signifying a sullen commitment to my internal movements, a good mood turning my insides outside through a beaming smile.
Anyway. The manner in which my lack of placement has been known to me is the unease that my artwork - and particularly my blog - has been accompanied by when I have thought about it. I have noticed that my clothing style has changed in able to converse more relevantly with my London setting, and now I look on the works that I produced in the last year with the same distancing judgment, that my work was fine for the setting I was in but it must now be updated, freed of its innocence somehow, its safe position as outsider looking in, automatically possessed of the outsider/artist eye.
What am I, who am I here? Good questions. What I am is someone trying to define myself in this mix, knowing intellectually that definition should be treated with suspicion. Who am I? Silence. Silenced by the lack of definition.
I let the new thoughts crowd in: am I a failure that at my age I am (only) a gallery attendant and not successful as something of my own? How successful am I at playing the game? being part of this city? showing that I am part of it? what is my art? what do I want to achieve? what do I want to create? what do I want to say? what do I think?
Who do I want to be?
I am looking now at a set of cardboard storing boxes piled up beside my table. They are each wearing a different configuration of light and shadow. I think to myself 'it's beautiful' and I reach for the camera. After taking a series of shots I put the camera down, and I think about this decision making process I am involved in while photographing: natural shape, being - according to a kind of faith that I possess - instinctively the same as the shapes that our thoughts take. All our inner workings follow the same laws that the natural world does and therefore we can understand our own workings by seeing the similarity, or instinctively feeling a resonance with these shapes, knowing they tell us something about the behaviour of thoughts, conceptualising, and creativity.
But this thing about what is beautiful sticks with me here in London. Beauty is unquestioned to the traveller in Greece and being a tourist believing she had the kind of eye that went just that little bit further than the average tourist's goes unquestioned. Read: my ego met no major external challenges. By contrast, London is immense and home to countless intelligent, questioning, 'creatives'; they have already marked out the territory for themselves. London is grimy and difficult. It is competitive and requires of us hard work. And it is so big that it is difficult to get perspective.
My experience of London has always been one of looking for my place, although perhaps actually that is just life. It was always expressed by radical changes in the clothes that I wore, identities I assume, and continues to. It occurs to me this morning that the question of place - geographically, psychologically etc. is an intersection that pegs together a set of queries that I am so used to living with that I don't even see them, and yet they are the flimsy abode that I have lived within since I can remember. It's funny how far we go to discover new territory and yet the new material is just more of ourselves uncovered.
I wonder how much projecting ourselves into the future is locationally influenced. In Greece I let it go, circumstances forced me to live according to my mood, the space my inner world seemed to create beyond my physical limits in which to line the path before me on that day: the bad mood signifying a sullen commitment to my internal movements, a good mood turning my insides outside through a beaming smile.
Anyway. The manner in which my lack of placement has been known to me is the unease that my artwork - and particularly my blog - has been accompanied by when I have thought about it. I have noticed that my clothing style has changed in able to converse more relevantly with my London setting, and now I look on the works that I produced in the last year with the same distancing judgment, that my work was fine for the setting I was in but it must now be updated, freed of its innocence somehow, its safe position as outsider looking in, automatically possessed of the outsider/artist eye.
What am I, who am I here? Good questions. What I am is someone trying to define myself in this mix, knowing intellectually that definition should be treated with suspicion. Who am I? Silence. Silenced by the lack of definition.
I let the new thoughts crowd in: am I a failure that at my age I am (only) a gallery attendant and not successful as something of my own? How successful am I at playing the game? being part of this city? showing that I am part of it? what is my art? what do I want to achieve? what do I want to create? what do I want to say? what do I think?
Who do I want to be?
I am looking now at a set of cardboard storing boxes piled up beside my table. They are each wearing a different configuration of light and shadow. I think to myself 'it's beautiful' and I reach for the camera. After taking a series of shots I put the camera down, and I think about this decision making process I am involved in while photographing: natural shape, being - according to a kind of faith that I possess - instinctively the same as the shapes that our thoughts take. All our inner workings follow the same laws that the natural world does and therefore we can understand our own workings by seeing the similarity, or instinctively feeling a resonance with these shapes, knowing they tell us something about the behaviour of thoughts, conceptualising, and creativity.
But this thing about what is beautiful sticks with me here in London. Beauty is unquestioned to the traveller in Greece and being a tourist believing she had the kind of eye that went just that little bit further than the average tourist's goes unquestioned. Read: my ego met no major external challenges. By contrast, London is immense and home to countless intelligent, questioning, 'creatives'; they have already marked out the territory for themselves. London is grimy and difficult. It is competitive and requires of us hard work. And it is so big that it is difficult to get perspective.
My experience of London has always been one of looking for my place, although perhaps actually that is just life. It was always expressed by radical changes in the clothes that I wore, identities I assume, and continues to. It occurs to me this morning that the question of place - geographically, psychologically etc. is an intersection that pegs together a set of queries that I am so used to living with that I don't even see them, and yet they are the flimsy abode that I have lived within since I can remember. It's funny how far we go to discover new territory and yet the new material is just more of ourselves uncovered.
Last Batches of Bodmin #1
I'm just uploading the last few Bodmin images that still command my attention in an attempt to move on.
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
Tuesday, 1 September 2009
More from Bodmin
It's a dream of mine to make images that are of the natural and mundane realms that seem completely abstract, that is, without completely losing touch with the thing in its setting. Er, abstraction that isn't totally abstract... or at least isn't allowed to drift off to lofty heights...
These three are more obviously from, and of, a journey. It was a day trip I took with my half-brothers Jacques and Jim. I sat in the back taking in the beauty of Cornwall and trying to hold onto something from it in these photos.
Friday, 28 August 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
