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.