Tate til late - Gauguin

On Sunday evening I took my first visit to the Tate Modern after hours to see the Gauguin exhibition. Not knowing much about the infamous painter I was looking forward to seeing what all the fuss was about, but to be honest was a little disappointed.

His impressionist paintings were ok but I much preferred the colourful wood cut block printing he did, inspired by his surroundings, in this case primarily Martinique. I also really liked some of the photography and posters documenting the artist's background and his extensive travelling.

He sounded like quite a mischevious fellow, and the carved wooden panelling around his door which read 'Maison du joir' ie house of pleasure/orgasm was pretty risque, and also sort of ironic considering he died of syphillis.

A fairly interesting exhibition, but I'm still not a big fan. Visiting the Tate after hours is a recommendable experience however, so much more room, albeit sort of eerie and deserted.

Through the Looking Glass

In Saturday's Guardian Weekend magazine (on 11th December) was a piece called 'Through the looking glass' by photographer Maja Daniels and writer Andrea Gillies. It explored the issue of what life is like on a dementia ward, and the difficulties family members face grappling with the decision to place loved ones in them.




I think the photojournalism is hauntingly beautiful, and the subject matter was one which struck a chord, having seen my own grandmother's final few months in a dementia ward. The people pictured above are all waiting at the entrance to the ward for people they believe are going to collect them. My Gran did this too, she thought she was a little girl about to go on a trip to the sea side.

The piece concludes focussing upon the need for positive change but the difficulty of finding funding for this in the current economic landscape. But as Gillies puts it, what is the price we pay for not spending? At least 750,000 people in Britain have some form of dementia, and how do you know that you're not going to be affected by it at some stage?

To read the whole article click here.

The Highlight of My Day

So I have a bit of a highlighting fetish other people may have noticed.

All of this is actually highlighted but my scanner didn't pick up the fluorescent yellow, which is sad.

Conceal/Reveal

Madame Geisha & Spindle Present

This weekend I interned at Madame Geisha & Spindle Magazine's pop up shop and exhibition event, which was held on Saturday at a warehouse in Great Eastern Street. Friday was spent in preperation of the main event, and saw the shell of a venue being transformed and lots of promotional work around Shoreditch, flyering and putting up posters.

The pop up shop opened its doors from 12-5pm, and included an array of bespoke fashion stalls and art work. Among my personal favourite pieces were some lovely jumpers by Happy Harriet, though the beautiful animal designs on pieces by Brat and Suzie were also noteworthy.





Also making an appearance at the pop up shop was the fabulous Mrs. Jones, fashion designer for the likes of Rhianna, Kylie and the Scissor Sisters. Accompanied by a barrage of helpers and an Aladdin's cave of glamourous garments (most of which a poor student such as myself could sadly not afford) Mrs Jones and her team presented 'Sort yourself out LOVE', a styling service offering hair, make-up and general life advice.



Next in the line up of exciting events was the contemporary art private view and party from 6-9pm, featuring work from a range of artists including acclaimed graffiti artist Inkie. Much appreciated entertainment was provided in the form of infamous rapper Roots Manuva (pictured below) along with music from DJ Jawa.



From 10pm onwards the party got started with a night of entertainment hosted by Madame Geisha and I was introduced to their 'Frisky Panda' cocktail; the perfect end to a busy day.

Don't Try

"Somebody at one of these places asked me: 'What do you do? How do you write, create?' You don't, I told them. You don't try. That's very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It's like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it."

-Charles Bukowski

hussel hussel hussel

For years now I have wanted to see M.I.A live, and so when tickets came out for her recent tour promoting /\/\/\Y/\ I was more than a little excited. Brixton Academy was the venue and on arrival I was a little disgruntled to find I'd inadvertantly booked BALCONY SEATS,a hideous rookie mistake. We made the best of the sitution though, trying to console ourselves with the fact we could have a good time wherever we were.

Having arrived quite late and missing the support acts it wasn't long before M.I.A made her entrance, and boy was she hot. She may be nearly forty but there ain't no question she still got it. Swaggering in dressed in shiny garms, a head dress and accompanied by two dancers, a DJ/drummer and a set with more flashing lights than Oxford St at Christmas the opening Bamboo Bangaaa promised great things.




As we wound our way through the classics including old favourite Galang, World Town and Boyz (during which she got some fans from the crowd to join her on stage - curses) there weren't many interruptions from the new album which I was grateful for, seeing as I'd hardly listened to it and find XXXO plain annoying.
Born Free did however make an appearance minus its controversial video counterpart, replacing it an onstage screen with distorted captchas and other digital imagery accompanying the frantic shouting of the songstress, who at one point dove into the crowd. Despite all this energy I didn't really get the impression our beloved rapper was paticularly enjoying herself, which may explain why after a fifty minute set and a performance of the ubiquitous Paper Planes she departed.

At first we all thought it was merely a break, but no. I felt short changed, the party had only just got started and where were the rest of the classics, where was Hussel, where was Bingo and where was 10 dollar or even 20? In her pocket was the answer, and she'd gone and done one. What would have been an amazing gig all round was hacked short, it was as cruel as taking away your hot sausage roll on a winter morning just as you're about to take that second bite. For this reason I'd think twice about seeing her again, and would only recommend it if she's playing as part of a larger bill, cos £28's a lot to fork out for a show lasting less than an hour.

overload

I am so tired of not being able to do things I want to (however inane) because I have 'no time'. I don't even know where it goes...besides uni and work and procrastinating, freaking out and occasionally excercising wherrre do my minutes go, really.
Remembered earlier an exhibition on skin (oo it keeps your insides in) I went to about 2 or 3 months ago I wanted to write about but 'didn't have time', and a load of other stuff too. I want to write now but have the irksome matter of a 1,000 essay in for tomorrow to start/execute. Damn being at work all day/a bad organiser/a gypsy without a working tv. This has just become a rant. I'll make it less banal with a pretty video. Hopefully. It's a trailer for a film I saw a year or so ago called Cherry Blossoms and it is beautiful.

I'm getting the feeling

that i'm a child again, chasing after a butterfly and clapping my outstretched hands around thin air.

songs of experience

"Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk- real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious."

Jack Kerouac
On the Road

everybody wants to be a CAT

Too true man, too true. Whilst at home this weekend in an attempt to shake off that London fog and indulge in some home comforts I was delighted to find that The Aristocats was on TV Sunday afternoon, a prime slot for some pre roast, post saturday night chillin.

Now I'm by no means one of those saccharin specimens who at 20+ has an unhealthy obsession with Disney, still has a Pocahontas bed spread and adores Mickey Mouse, oh no, I think these 'women' have serious issues (mostly of the deep rooted oedipul variety) and should grow the fuck up. Don't get me wrong, yes I loved the Lion King as a child but that doesn't mean I have to play the soundtrack repeatedly and still have my Simba and Nala cuddly toys proudly displayed on the edge of my bed, come on, over a decade has passed since those cherished times.

Saying that, I have nothing against occasional fond nolstalgia, and Sunday night was the perfect timing for mine having run home to revert back to 'childhood' for a weekend (being cooked for, rallied round and generally fussed over). I think I'd go so far as to say that The Aristocats is my favourite Disney film (closely followed by Mary Poppins & Aladdin...and The Little Mermaid) because it combines two of my favourite things, (cats and France) is beautifully illustrated and has one of the best songs:





And besides, who doesn't want to be a cat?

grrrl power

fuck it, who needs men when you have Destiny's Child?



shame old B's married now huh.

yes Beckett

Eadweard Muybridge @ Tate Britain

The Eadweard Muybridge exhibition (that one with the pretty tube adverts with galloping horses) is on now so go have a look see. For a sneak preview have a look at my review here.

yesterday

all my troubles seemed so far away.
Not, yesterday on leaving the building where I go dancing I felt a pair of eyes on me, and turned to find a man dressed head to toe in blue lycra standing there looking (at least I presume looking his face was covered too) at me. I was speechless.

sod off google

I do not want to make an account with you so i can access my blog.
I also really do not want to write an essay tonight.
I also dislike the fact i'm having to wear gloves whilst I type this because I don't know how to work the central heating in my new house yet.
I also dislike how part of me feels missing right now.

However in other news:

I do like the prospect of finishing the essay and actually unpacking properly.
I am excited at the propspect of planning my 21st birthday.
I am also excited at a variety of endeavours I plan to start soon.
I have not lost my faith in other people just yet.

So everything is fine, really.

un petit peu

North Vs. South

When I first ambled across the quaint leafy suburbs of north London only three months ago I was unimpressed. The surroundings that greeted me were a far cry from the hustle and bustle of the south, the sound of sirens replaced with bird song, the flashing lights replaced with the gentle glow of a dusky country scene.

After moving into my house on Highgate hill I found adapting to my environment difficult, so strange was it to look out of the window and be greeted with the sight of leafy greenery and not confronted with one of London's largest skyscrapers.

On leaving the house I was faced with the task of the hike to the tube station, up one steep incline and down another, a twenty minute trek which ensured arrival at the tube was both flustered and sweaty if you even thought about rushing. The bus service was awful and waiting in excess of ten minutes normal. The nearest supermarkets were a whole fifteen minute walk away in Crouch End and there was a choice of the non student budget friendly Waitrose or Budgens.




I was not happy. Where were the greasy spoons, the launderettes, the nail shops, and more importantly, where were the 24hr supermarkets and southern fried chicken shops?
Nowhere to be seen. The things that were in sight however did become clear in the end, and they included a beautiful borough with a sense of tranquility which is very much an alien concept to many native Londoners.

Walking into Crouch End on an autumunal afternoon, leaves crunchy, cold air crisp, is lovely. So is being greeted by elderly residents with a cheery smile, and your lovely neighbour Doreen chatting to you at length about her love for the V&A, and kindly agreeing to alter a dress you just found in one of the treasure trove charity shops in Crouch End. Also lovely was taking a leisurely walk amongst the greenery in some time out from the usual everyday chaos at Hampstead Heath, eating fish and chips on the village green in town and spending time with my housemates drinking hot chocolate.

Now I've moved back south east, to my original idea of London part of me does miss the north. One afternoon whilst walking through Elephant & Castle market I was even beginning to think that I'd prefer to be back there, amongst the beautiful scenery, until I turned the corner and witnessed the scene of a short, elderly chinese man feeding the pigeons some bread. He looked so happy despite the fact he wasn't in a park but on a concrete walkway, and the ducks were not ducks but winged vermin. He looked so happy and it really made me smile and remember that beauty is everywhere, not just in the picturesque.

let's take our precious time about it

Being one of those people who regularly crams as much as is possible into my day/week/month/year, it has occurred to me that moving to London may not have been the best of ideas. Don't get me wrong, I absoloutely love the place, always have done, and having lived here a year my infatuation has grown tenfold.

The only problem is, I am constantly tired. A simple tube journey into central renders me useless for the rest of the day, fatigued by the tasks when I arrive at my destination such as navigating around packed pavements and stressed shoppers. Although the tube makes travel easier I underestimate the energy that is required to deal with everyday commutes - rush hour especially - and often struggle to stay awake whilst sitting in the embryionic like carriage being rocked gently, encased underground. I've found an effective antidote is to take the bus whenever possible, that extra vitamin d has never been so good!


Another problem is that I now have no time to do things leisurely. Even when I do not have an engagement to get to I have found myself rushing about like a maniac, on auto 'Londoner' pilot. In the same way people crush together at the front of the tube lift out of habit despite there only being 5 people present, I rush from pillar to post trying to do everything as fast as possible so I can get home and do whatever my latest to do list comprises of.

After running myself ragged to the point of exhaustion I have decided that this urgency is no longer necessary, generally and also when I am late. Sure I don't like to be late, but being on time by nearly inducing a heart attack is not the answer. From now on I'm going to take my Grandma's lead and take my precious time about things...for a while maybe.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

My latest book review on Haruki Murakami's wonderful memoir.

I adored this book and at several points whilst reading it wanted to exclaim 'Yes! EXACTLY.' I am also envious that Murakami beat me to writing on the subject, because I had had for about a year now some sort of vague idea to write something about running, at some point.

...

"Of course, it was painful, and there were times when, emotionally, I just wanted to chuck it all. But pain seems to be a precondition for this type of sport. If pain weren't involved, who in the world would ever go to the trouble of taking part in sports like the triathlon or the marathon, which demand such an investment of time and energy? It's precisely because of the pain, precisely because we want to overcome that pain, that we can get the feeling, through this process, of really being alive - or at least a partial sense of it."

Amen to that brother, the running shoes are being dug out of the wardrobe.

digestive biscuit

This morning when I approached the window of the ticket booth at Archway tube I requested my usual 7 day travel pass for zones 1 and 2. I recognised the man at the counter who had been smiling broadly at the previous customer and he gave me a strange look as I stepped forward. I proffered my oyster card and request and after another five seconds of staring he asked me -

"Would you like a biscuit?"

my brow automatically furrowed before I raised an eyebrow, and after a short pause enquired as to whether it was chocolate (it was). I said yes then I would love a biscuit but then continued to ask him if he had done anything to it. He laughed and said I knew where he worked and produced a chocolate digestive which he handed to me under the money tray, held between two fingers at all times to keep it clean and off the counter.
I took it carefully, thanked him and smiled broadly, displaying my prize proudly and grinning like a lunatic all the way down the escalator. I'm not sure why he gave me a biscuit, perhaps I looked as miserable as I felt. Eitherway, it made me feel like people aren't so bad, afterall.

ache

Lives of the Muses

Oh heyyy, first 'published' book review.
Check it out here.

Favourite Quotes:

(On Elizabeth Siddal's watercolour painting 'We are Seven')

"That a girl brought up in London, within a street or two of the Elephant and Castle, should have selected such a subject and executed it from pure imagination is remarkable."

(Lee Miller on her profession as a photojournalist)

"I'm extremely irritable quite often and especially when I don't understand people. I'm also inclined to scream at them when they try to tell me that the bombed out Hobfrau Haus won't make an interesting picture because it is all destroyed...The first ten times I explain that I'm busy making documents not art, and the eleventh I start screaming, 'For Christ's sake shut up and mind your own business-'".

Camberwell

Art show highlights, some months too late. As an aspiring journalist I appreciate that timeliness is a major factor in newsworthiness, but in my opinion it can never be too late to appreciate some art so here we go.

Recent purchases

So I got a little scanner happy when I went home this weekend. It's a sad state of affairs when the nightlife in Wolverhampton has so little to offer you you'd rather stay in scanning stuff instead.







On the plus side all of these things bar the album were cheap as chips. Well, compared to London prices anyway. I bought the scarf above for 75p, if I'da been in a charity shop in Angel or god forbid Rockit et al, I'd be looking to part with a least a fiver.

On the subject of vintage clothing, found out the other day that the guy on the vintage clothes stall in elephant and carrstle is actually from birmz and a supplier for Cow. This sacred bond of originating in the Midlands resulted in a third off his orginal asking price for a dress, which although still probably grossly overpriced was better than nothing hey.

First & Last

'Two stories that trace the course of a great writer's life, and his relationship with New York'.

Having only read a snippet of Capote's other work, and attempted but failed not once, twice but three times to sit through Breakfast at Tiffany's, this couple of short stories was a pleasant surprise.

The first story 'Master Misery' describes how a young woman named Sylvia both gains and loses her independence supplying the mysterious doctor character Master Misery with her dreams, which he pays for. With the help of an old clown named Oreilly, Slyvia manages to extricate herself from the following series of events.

Second story 'La Cote Basque' is part of Capote's final and unfinished, scandalous novel. It depicts a couple's conversation at a table in the famous restaurant La Cote Basque in New York, where they are surrounded by the social elite, among them a priest, a murderer and a whole host of former beauty queens.

A brilliant pair of short stories, the descriptive, blunt and often humourous narrative employed throughout making the book an indispensable companion for a lengthy tube ride.

Serpentine, Serpentine (never a straight line) Serpentine

After living in London for nearly a year, I finally got around to visiting tourist hotspot Hyde Park for the second time, during which I paid my first trip to the Serpentine Gallery; accompanied by fellow blogger (and fabulous friend) Ms. Ann-Marie Rayney.

Currently on is a photography exhibition by Wolfgang Tillmans (which you can see pictured below) which I really enjoyed, having not encountered the artist until this point. I might review the exhibition so won't mention any more about it apart from that it is on until 19th September and admission is free, so there's no excuse not to go really.

Other reasons to visit include the Serpentine Gallery Pavilion, pictured above and designed by Jean Nouvel. Around until 17th October, this visually arresting piece of architecture includes an array of interesting seating including air beds and hammocks, which we eagerly tried out with both elegance and poise...attracting the attention of passers by who relinquished their toddlers upon us to join in the fun. Also worth a mention is the bookshop, which (as most gallery bookshops do) excited me greatly, and allowed me to indulge in my nerdy practice of post card collecting.

House hunting hassle

So. Whilst scouring the vast world wide web for a suitable abode I have thus far found:

• The PERFECT PLACE...only availible monday-friday.
• Also the perfect place with a 50 year old man.
  
• Millions of flatshares consisting of (presumably) creepy guys wanting female flatmates.
• Again really demanding flat mate specifications from guys ie 'Must be female student with GREAT personality'.
  
• A flatshare but including a woman with a 'parrot named Bob', who she claims will be in her room and nice and quiet.
  

Curses. If only I could click my fingers and be in the perfect flatshare complete with non psychotic flatmates, affordable rent and belongings all packed and moved neatly. Or live somewhere like here:



If only Jim'll fix it still existed.

Hampstead Heath

10:23

A friend of mine used to refer to the practice of catching a train as ‘train roulette’; such was the temperamental nature of the train timetable and a whole host of other extraneous variables. I had never really agreed with this metaphor, simply dismissing it as their inability to catch a train on time and put it down to slowness and lack of skill.

I have always been one to cut things fine, leaving for appointments at the last possible second, not wanting to waste a single minute of oppourtunity, god forbid, doing nothing. Whilst unwise, stressful and risky, I had thus far mastered my ability to get to places with no time to spare and not missed, for example a single train of which I catch so many (and book in advance meaning timing is crucial in order to catch specific trains). Not today.

It seemed my luck had ran out, and as I fidgeted impatiently on the tube at Camden town saw it was 10:22, my train left in precisely one minute and I had a whole station to go. As I reached my destination stop some sort of delusional denial grabbed me, and even though I knew it was too late bounded off the tube and upwards towards the station; hoping my train had been delayed.

Confronted with the escalator I made the foolhardy decision to take the left hand side and briskly started walking up, when a combination of a very heavy bag, no spare hands and a misplaced step resulted in me crashing up the steps violently. I automatically cursed and quickly picked myself up lest the people behind me get an even longer viewer of up my dress and marched on, hobbling slightly and wincing at the pain.




By the time I reached the top I was struggling to walk properly and looked down to be greeted with the sight of my tights stained with blood, flowing from a gash below my knee; my tights ripped where the chunk of skin had been gouged out by the edge of the step. I tried to blink back tears but by the time I had limped across the station foyer to the overpriced toilets my blue mascara was dripping down my cheek in unison with the blood trickling down my shin. I timidly asked an attendant if she had a plaster and gestured towards my leg pathetically, before she wore a concerned expression and started talking to me in broken English. She said that she didn’t have any plasters and that she wished she could help but ‘there was only one of her’, and judging by the beads of perspiration on her forehead she was very busy. I nodded and dragged myself and my leg through the toilet turnstile, by this point resembling some sort of bag lady with a wooden leg.

Trying to locate a cubicle to clean myself the attendant saw me sniffing and dejectedly dabbing tissue at my leg and made the mistake of asking – are you ok? I couldn’t help but cry and splutter that no, I was not okay. At this the poor woman uttered something about maybe security would have a plaster, and told me to follow her, but there was no way I was about to be paraded through Euston as I was, so I said I would be fine. She wouldn’t take no for an answer and said she’d get someone to help in 5 minutes. I cleaned myself up as best I could and followed her to another attendant who bemusedly told me to go to reception. Or something.
I deemed this plan ineffective and instead shuffled to Boots and bought some plasters, feeling weak and washed out. I asked someone in the foyer if I could borrow their chair so I could put my plaster on and the old woman sitting next to me widened her eyes at the sight of my leg but didn’t bother to ask if I was ok. Smarting with the pain and humiliation of it all I bought another train ticket (as by this time the train had of course, long gone) and bitterly boarded another train, one hour later than planned.

The whole incident made me question exactly how far things have to go before a fellow Londoner would stop and ask – are you okay? Yes the toilet attendant had, but only after I tapped her on the shoulder and asked for help, and even then her colleagues couldn’t have cared less. Not one person who saw me trip on the escalator, who saw me struggle across the crowded foyer crying even tried to assist me, despite my leg being stained bright crimson.
It’s a sobering thought, and one which has prompted me to take my time in future, because anything less than a broken leg (and even then you can’t be sure) and no one will even blink twice.

Je T’Aime… Moi Non Plus

Aah Serge, you old dog. Goodness knows how you managed to charm so many beautiful women...the recent biopic Gainsbourg (Vie Heroique) not offering any answers to this either. If anything the film made me dislike him a little because of its somewhat maudlin ending in which left with nothing and no one, Gainsbourg buys the 'affection' of a young woman in a night club, whom he then ends up having a child with and living apparently happy ever after.

Pour moi, the best parts of the film were the musical performances including Comic strip between Gainsbourg and Bardot(the original video of which you can see here) and Bonnie & Clyde.



For a more in depth review, which I largely agree with read this.

favourite

Ikonic

A couple of highlights from the 'This Could Happen to You' Ikon exhibition:



Pieces by Irish pintmaker Tim Mara, who specialises in photographic screen printing, creating detailed, vibrant domestic scenes from the seventies. Repeated patterns, shadow and light and political issues are all adressed by the bold series of interiors, which were produced during a time of significant industrial change.





Ian Emes award winning 'French Windows':



the initial experimental film created by the artist, who went on to create the first ever comissioned animated concert film for Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon in 1974, which can be seen here.

Following this Emes has produced a critically acclaimed archive of animation and videos including the video for 'The Wall'. You can read about the filming of this/read more about Emes here.

A Stitch in Time

On returning to the Midlands I was eager to visit the Ikon gallery in Birmingham, one of my favourite contemporary art galleries tucked away in the city centre and complete with its own little tower.

Currently showing the exhibition This Could Happen To You, a programme detailing the history of the gallery's artistic programme during the 70's, one piece entitled 'A Stitch in Time' is a recreation of the original piece by David Medalla, which was created 1968-72.
During this time large cloths were distributed in public spaces, to which viewers were encouraged to sew small significant objects and trinkets. The concept was part of a series of 'participation pieces' by Medalla, who wanted to increase accessibility to art by challenging the creative hierarchy and encouraging a playful and experimental approach.



Pictured is the contemporary version of the piece, a large metallic cloth accompanied by a plethora of coloured thread and needles. My enthusiasm to participate was hampered only by my sewing abilities; which were a little rusty having not been employed since primary school. I had a go none the less and the results are shown below, a little feline attached to the already present bus ticket with some interesting red lines.



The original pieces were impressive patchwork creations, a far cry to their contemporary counterpart, which although interesting and an enjoyable experience to take part in, was looking slightly bare and lacking the commonplace sewing skills of yesteryear.