New motives at twenty.

   I just took a moment to look at the title of my blog: “This is my blog and my brain”. And Ive realised that I have made a mistake in the current content of this ol’ blog o’ mine. It’s all too- formal. My previous posts are article formatted, my voice is there, but not 100%. Strangely stiff, like an awkward best man making his speech nervously at a wedding, pushing jokes out uncomfortably.

   All of you who read this blog and know me personally know that I like to think. I probably think too much, the nerve synapses in my brain are working overtime pushing those electrochemical signals about. Im surprised my brain hasn’t gone on strike yet. Otherwise, known as a stroke (ba dumm tssshhh).  Thoughts zip around this noodle like many metal balls in a particularly mad and colourful pinball machine. My brain even tries to think when I’m asleep, hence my vivid dream-filled nights.

   So this is why I came to this decision. This blog is about to become personalized. I plan to write more on my general musings, as well as the usual reviews and articles. This entails the introduction of more rants and raves. Articulate rants of course, a far cry from the embarrassing “y is lyf soo harddd?!!!1111 2k12” facebook-esque whingings. I also aim to stick more of my poetry on here as well.

  

   The original plan was for this blog to be like a portfolio, professional, witty and perfect. But it was inevitably going to revert back to me and my thoughts. This is my blog, and my brain.

Frieze Fair is like the Ideal Home Exhibition.. Except connoisseurs buy large scale installations instead of Shiatsu Massager chairs.

   With a thick head and profusely runny nose (bad cold at the time)I was swept into the meat market that is Frieze Art Fair. With Fine Art pieces filling every physical space in the large white tents, the experience was somewhat overwhelming. There is only so much scrutinizing of contemporary art from all over the globe you can really partake in in one day, without your brain deteriorating into a mushy peas consistency.

   Funnily enough, the more “well known” artist’s works seemed to catch my eye the most (i.e. Mark Quinn’s “Shell Sculpture” and Cornelia Parker’s “30 pieces of silver with reflection”). Which made me think, did I like their work because they are renowned? Or the opposite, are they renowned because their work displayed ultimate aesthetical and conceptual finesse? Cornelia Parker was mainly located in the Frith Street Gallery section, an area I would recommend, a fulfilling and intriguing selection of works, including Tacita Dean’s, laid out and curated effectively, Cornelia’s silverware levitating spectrally in the centre of the enclosure, creating a flow of visitors around the perimeter of the installation.

Cornelia Parker "30 Pieces of Silver with Reflection", 15 pairs of silver plated objects with squashed "reflection" 

  Overall, it was interesting seeing the contrasting and differing interests and styles in each country the galleries originated from. The Americans, East Coast particularly, take a fancy to Japanese artists who take inspiration from cartoons . NY’s work was colourful, playful, grabbing inspiration from pop culture (reminiscent of the Warhol days) and apparently, childhood. Meanwhile in Europe, Spain’s styles seem so far away from the US’ and England’s, who’s correspondence in art styles is still going strong. Spain’s work seems almost quite traditional, or even commercial. I decided this when viewing Spain’s Galeria Helga De Alvear. Japan’s pieces contained massive elements of traditional motifs from the past and history of the country.

 Marc Quinn, "Shell Sculpture", 2011

   One thing that struck me about Frieze was its wonderful potential for great people watching. One particularly interesting Bob Dylan-esque bloke ambled around dressed head to toe in purple, a large green feather placed in his hat. Maybe I was so prone to desperately people watching at Frieze due to Frieze Fair’s general lack of humanness in the work portrayed. The work for me that really impressed me and really struck an emotional chord was Nan Goldin’s “Cookie Meuller (March 2 1949- November 10 1989)”. It was found on one of the outside walls of the Matthew Marks Gallery area, and it was one of the only pieces at Frieze that people seemed to really stop and look at. A small crowd congregated around the wallful of framed photographs, I slowly edged myself to the front so I could see what everyone was so engrossed in. The frame on the far left of all the other framed photographs was different. It had a written extract in, a short summary of the artist’s 13 year relationship with Cookie Meuller, a woman you could probably call Goldin’s muse, who died aged forty of an AIDs related illness. Goldin had documented their entire relationship, thinking that if he “couldn’t lose her if he photographed her enough”. These A4 cibachrome prints were simple yet effective, snaps of Cookie singing, playing with her son and dog, getting married, drinking sat at the kitchen table. I was drawn, you could really feel the closeness between artist and subject. It was beautiful, personal, sensitive, an entire life on one wall. I don’t know whether I loved this piece because of the emotion in it, or the medium of photography as a technique to record a life, or even the fact this piece had a summary next to it (something I found lacking at Frieze, there were never any descriptions next to a piece so I often felt lost to what the work actually meant), but to me personally, it was a successful work.

Nan Goldin's Cookie Meuller prints viewed sideways on. Curious visitors are reflected on the photo frames.

   Yes, there was a slight presence of creativity at Frieze Art Fair, but I do think there was room for more. But understandably, Frieze fair is an event for Art and Business. Dealers and artists trawl the white tents for the next big thing in the Art world. After all, Art is rather like fashion, trends come and go. And the greats remain timeless. Notable rising stars include Tacita Dean (who has hit her big break in the form of the Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall), and Martin Creed. Who’s work is soooooo hot right now. You couldn’t swing a cat without bumping into one of his canvas painted with beams of bold acrylic.

   If I wanted to review my experience with a negative perspective, I would agree wholeheartedly with this quote: “Frieze is an overlit, overpeopled, overheated carnival of excess that has given me a couple of new images to mull over. I hold them close, to calm me down, and leave before my migraine kicks in” (Miranda Sawyer, “Frieze2011- review”, www.guardian.co.uk) . But Frieze Fair was an entirely new experience for me and I remain grateful. Even if I had lost my will to live by the time I had reached the last gallery space.

Meaningful, reflective, introspective, rite of passage, first-month-of-Uni post

University so far: A summary.

Months have been here: 1.2

Days have been here: 38

Paintings painted: 6

Essays written: 2

Diseases suffered: 1 (Freshers Flu, naturelment)

Pumpkins carved: 1 (see below) 

Money spent: URGH

Alchohol Units: Hmmmmm. Could still be worse though.

Calories: Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

House Parties: 1

Catwoman costumes: 1

Family Meal Fridays: 3

Disney Films watched: Roughly 14?

Open Mic Nights:1

Freshers Week: SO GOOOOOD!

No. of Mug Cakes consumed: 8

No of times have washed Bedlinen: 0

Above is a legitimate art school pumpkin. Isnt it beautiful? Happy Halloween for yesterday!

The Writer's Lump

   It was in the shower today, at roughly around half 3 in the afternoon, that I realised I wanted to start this blog.  I had all these wild words and opinions pinging through my mind at like, 5 bazillion miles per hour, and I decided I needed a platform to bring these musings and thoughts on to. It has been something I have not felt truly “ready” to start yet, due to lack of inspiration (for months I have not known what to call this blog or how to design it) but I’ve come to the decision that I’m just going to, in the words of my dad “get on with it.”

   My writing CV is a colourful one, beginning my writings at the tender age of four, my first publication being a short novella named “Dog in a box” or more precisely, “Bog in a box” (I always confused Ds and Bs) a cheery semi-biographical tale of my Granny and her dog, who one day discover a magical box in the local park (Somewhere in Crouch End, Haringey) which shrinks the dog and causes him to hang out with all these talking insects. It was highly plagiaristic of James and The Giant Peach, so never reached the critical acclaim it should have received (sadface). Other writing feats included an actual novel I penned when I was eleven, an epic story of four orphaned siblings who are trying to find their parents on some corrupt planet in the future. It was highly inspired by Star Wars and Lemony Snicket’s “A Series of Unfortunate Events”, and again, I broke the writers code by “borrowing” some elements of these two original creations… Unfortunately my Dad ended up deleting this accidentally. But maybe it was meant to be, maybe it was a punishment, karma, for my ruthless stealing of other’s storylines and writing styles. Fortunately now, I can draw inspiration from other things, without blatant copying or duplicating.

   Anyway, you are all probably wondering why this post is called “The Writer’s Lump” if you’re thinking “gosh the title for this is like, so irrelevant and has nothing to do with what the author is babbling on about.” You are wrong.  The sentimental, thoughtful moment of pensiveness is coming up.

   I was watching Little Women with my Mum the other evening, spending some last minute mum-daughter time before I flee the nest to University in three  weeks time. And there was a part in it in which protagonist Jo meets the hot French lecturer guy (p.s. my mum: “He wasn’t French, he was German wasn’t he?”) and hes all like “oh you’re a writer aren’t you?” and shes like “yeah” and he goes “I can tell by your hands.” And I turn to my mum with a sort of puzzled look on my face in which she explains about the writer’s lump. A lump on the ring finger of the hand you write with, sometimes hardly noticeable, a small bump formed from too much pen holding. My mum held up hers to show me, a bump created over the years from excessive writing and marking school books (my mum is a French and Spanish teacher). And then she holds my hand up in front of my eyes, and there it is; the tiniest protuberance on my right ring finger. From all the years of book making, doodling, scratching, painting, scribing, mark making, a tiny writer’s bump has been weathered into the bone. It was in that moment that I realised that writing has always been there with me.

   

Tracey Emin's "Love is What You Want"

   “Love is What You Want” is an exhibition that has been crammed full with thoughts, memories, emotion. Starting on the 18^th May and concluding on the 29^th, August Bank Holiday Monday. The exposition begins with Emin’s quilts; garishly coloured and laden with passionate outburst; “You cruel heartless bitch”, “I do not expect to be a mother, but I do expect to die alone”, (“Hotel International”, 1993). The words all jumbled up together on the one sheet, are like a page of memories, clips of conversation and deep thought of the past. For me, they reminded me of insomniac rantings, the sort of anxious thoughts you have before falling asleep, or the words you hear mid-dream.

   You are herded into the neon room up the sloped ramp, a blackened room full of scrawled messages in fluorescent tubing. Emin was inspired by the aesthetic qualities of these lights; “ ‘It’s spangly, it’s pulsating. It’s out there, it’s vibrant.’ Reminiscent of tacky messy Margate nights, these lights display thoughts and statements fresh from the mind of the artist. These lights have elements of graphic design in them, especially noting a copy of the “Love is What You Want” neon light designed onto a bag in the Gallery Gift Shop. There is something advertised and sloganized about them. I personally enjoyed how if you shut your eyes whilst staring at one of the lights, the image would be burnt onto your retina, a copy in your own eyes. But hey, that’s just me being weird.

   There is definitely an element of self-deprecated humour in some of the videos exhibited, a few chuckles were heard from guests in the area of the video; “Love Is A Strange Thing” a portrayal of a particularly random dream the artist had had one night. Hats off again to the curators, who formatted this area so that three particularly light hearted videos are located in succession to eachother. An emotional preparation for the next particular area of ”Love Is What You Want”.

  The larger space of the exhibition is full of old personal items and memorabilia; underwear, hospital wristbands, toys. Emin really airs her dirty laundry (pffft) in one whack in this area of the gallery. The room had a shocked ambiance, reflected in the visitor’s sombre silence. You would not have been able to hear a pin drop in this room. I personally, found that area of the exhibition strangely exhausting, especially the video of Emin describing her experiences with abortion.

   The curating of the exposition overall is highly considered and calculated. Almost chronological (pardon the alliteration), we see Emin evolve through different periods of her work and life.  Childhood, love life, her family history, her friends, to more wider issues such as teen pregnancy. This is reflected in the outside terraced, spaces of the gallery, we see brass sculptures of small children’s objects. Eerily desolate, Emin is still clearly coming to terms with her relationship with motherhood and children through her work.

    The autobiographical works are the most controversial, the works that people have seen and groaned “Tracey is banging on about herself again.” Thats after they’ve gotten over the blood stained knickers of 1998’s ”My Bed”. If one must need an answer as to why Tracey would not just keep the “narcissism” on the DL, it must be noted that Tracey had to go through it. The artistic phase of self-discovery. Emin as a natural storyteller felt the need to tell the tales of her past and her present, like Egon Schiele’s many self portraits (except he died of the Spanish Flu as he was just leaving his personal area of autobiographical works, sadface) or Kahlo’s symbolic, pained paintings, some artists are fascinated by themselves, and use their work as a therapeutic outlet. Looking over the years, we do see this as a passing phase, soon overcome by different subjects.

I don’t want to get all philosophical on y’all, but sometimes Art is like Life in that sense, that it changes and compartmentalizes. And this is experienced in “Love is What You Want.” 

   Indescribably sensitive, an enriching emotional experience, which leaves you feeling full and highly informed of Tracey Emin’s life. Rich, colourful, honest, like the artist’s quilts. Bravo.