MOIblog
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Atmosphere
chilly yet sunny
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Mood
stressed but high
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News
Tory deputy chairman Lord Ashcroft is a non dom
but not a tax evader
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Week 21 22 spring is in the air
-- Birds are starting to sing again even before dawn sometimes, bringing a certain lightness to the atmosphere despite the persisting bitter cold weather, daffodils are showing their pointy green heads everywhere you look, and the sun is shining gloriously. Hope is in the air. Last week in France I saw the cranes coming back from the south, in their hundreds; you do hear them way before you see them, a loud and un-harmonious noise, a sort of collective sarcastic laugh contrasting with the grace of their perfectly choreographed formation flight. It is really early for summer migration, did they get it wrong or do they know something we don’t. My week in France went smoothly despite the freak weather with April showers, thunderstorms and a very big storm crossing France, big enough to be named Cynthia, which hit the Limousin at the exact time of my scheduled return to London. How unlucky is that, it would have been the third consecutive time that the weather disrupted my travels back and forth between my two homes. Luckily the wind managed to slow down for an hour or two, allowing the plane to land ands take off again at Limoges airport. The storm hit us around 3am and was really impressive.
-- We have a new exhibition at the centre of artist’s books ‘Atlas, maps and plans. Topography, Toponyms, territories ‘, a beautifully designed exhibition I have to say, with some fantastic works from Art &Language, Marcel Broodthaers, Wim Delvoye, Robert Filliou, Daniel Spoerri, Eric Watier, Hubert Renard and many others…. Also a timely one for me providing fantastic research material and inspiration for my storytelling collaboration project with Ian Stephen, ‘Is a thing lost if you know where it is’ where we are sailing from story to story from Brittany all the way to Iceland, via the Hebrides, Ireland and the Faeroes, all kinds of mapping will be involved.
I do sometimes wonder why I am keeping a job there, it is not good money, what I have to do is not always interesting, my time and energy could be put too much better use in my own projects and self promotion. On the other hand, it is a great place, full of beautiful and rare works, and the best place to develop my knowledge and critical appreciation of book art, and of course being part of a worthwhile project. Being there for such short time means that I have to make difficult choices on how to spend my little free time, between catching up with family, friends, and keeping some precious time away form it all, to reflect upon current projects in development. And I am always treated very well, amazing food, champagne three times in a week, chocolate treat… It always feels too much in the end but how can I complain.
-- I am currently in the train on my way up to Scotland for 5 days, meeting up with Ian and a few other people and places involved in the project, in Edinburgh, Glasgow, Inverness and the borders. No time to go the Lewis but this is all very exciting and I can’t remember how long it has been since I last visited, at least seven years. I haven’t had time to contact the few remaining friends I have there, beside we have a packed schedule already and I am hoping to have a bit of free time to enjoy it all and relax a bit, at least a day. It is has been a gruesome week, very busy and hectic, with three long consecutive teaching days peppered with numerous other meetings. Some of it very exciting. I am finalizing the bookRoom press equipment list, having hundred thousand pounds to play with, not often I can say that, funding Richard and I worked on and secured to set up production facilities for our research cluster, so that we can make in house small runs of high quality image, graphic or text based on the page and book works; from a digital press, to the best scanning and reprographic equipment, and all kind of electrical cutting and binding machines. So that by this summer, once I have had training on it all others and I can start using the facilities and make books. Also the connection between the library and bookroom is finally alive, from this week our collection is being catalogued and digitized and will be moved to the Library so that it can be made available to all. An internship has been created for one of our third year student interested in Archiving and Library work, every year in semester 2 a student will be updating and archiving our growing collection as well as looking after our website. After 6 years of sheer struggling in the dark and little support from the university, the bookroom is finally growing roots and branches and ready to expand. I have just seen the sea! dark grey sea under a dark grey sky of Berwick upon Tweed, Scotland here I come
Saturday 6th March 16.35pm
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Atmosphere
post valentine spring
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Mood
fair with occasional highs
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News
Gordon Brown shade a tear on chat show
the election campaign has started, sadly
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Week 19 20 Fish and organised love
-- Katy has been and gone, we met at the SPEAKING OUT conference at Tate modern, bringing together artists who use language in their practice, including Carline Burgvall, Brandon La Belle, Trevor Wishart, David Toop and Tomori Adachi who started the event, with composed and improvised vocal work, in and out and between languages, using similar real time processes that I use but managing to integrate them better than I do so far, by controlling it all with a customised glove and hand gestures, allowing for a more integrated body, voice, technology experience. I was impressed and slightly envious, being aware of that possibility for a while but not having managed to achieve it for all kind of reasons, mainly financial ones but perhaps also by lack of commitment to the idea, being already so fragmented between different mediums and projects; Jane of many trades and master of none. Well this is my excuse and I am sticking to it for now, or until I manage to find a way of not being stuck behind my computer to activate VILMA and VALTER. Tomori Adachi was the best of the whole conference, and the more alive, the rest was way too academic and analytical, even such people like Caroline Burgvall and Brandon Labelle whose work I like and respect, got lost in trying to be too clever, perhaps too flippant an explanation but talking to others, we were not the only one of that opinion. Brandon tried to subject us to his inner voice via a long and silent PowerPoint monologue/rant on the subject, a great idea in itself which started well but quickly lost us in the sense that it assumed that we would follow and obey it, completely ignoring the potential of the work for a subversive response in the form of our own inner voice competing with or challenging his. What followed was quite interesting and very funny, a few of us were voicing quietly the rude and flippant responses of our impatient inner voice to Brandon clever but narrow minded reflection on the existence and purpose of his inner voice. I didn’t have a chance to discuss it with him later on, Katy and I had enough and decided to do our own speaking out in the Members bar. I did have high expectation of this conference, really enjoying the book of the same name edited by Cathy Lane who also curated the event, but in the end it was highly disappointing and uninspiring apart from Tomori Adachi and Trevor Wishart of course. The next day once I had shown Katy my current work with language, voice and interactive technology, it was life affirming hearing her praise and compare my efforts to what we had seen and heard at the Tate, saying that I had nothing to envy them; except I argued the fact that they have been chosen and immortalised in print to officially represent the best in their field by the artistic and in this case academic establishment. This lead to the endless debate about what makes good art and bad art and the pros and cons of the system and how to best operate within it. I do not have the answer. I have been navigating the waters of Academia and the Art world for the past 15 years, I am not against it, working with and alongside the ones who are at the forefront and shaping it, with mutual respect in most cases, yet never wanting to be completely part of it, needing to keep a certain distance to allow me complete freedom of action in my work, but rarely also having been solicited to represent it at top level. The two perhaps being connected.
--- Anyway what followed was much more creative and interesting, two middle age women artists catching up and comparing notes on work, love, relationships, sex, children, ageing…. with endless bouts of laughing and remembering our past and youth together. Katy doesn’t look a day over 30, amasing figure, perfect skin, a radiant smile, the same spark in her eyes, and her mind is as sharp and irreverent as ever. I did feel slightly envious, feeling that gravity and time had affected me much more than her at least on the surface... She confessed working at it a bit and being partial to a bit of cosmetic work. She thought that perhaps it was pay back time, remembering how envious and slightly frustrated her chubby self was one or 2 decades ago when we lived together, at my care free attitude and lack of self consciousness in the way I looked, flaunting it happily, walking around in the nude or sprawled naked in the stairs, legs up on the banister, a cigarette in one hand, talking on the phone. I laughed at this image, which doesn’t ring true at all, not the way I remember myself, funny how personal histories are created. We talked and talked and laughed and laughed, went dancing in Brixton for Carole 50th birthday, great to see it all through Katy’s fresh eyes, my ageing extended family that is, still dancing away and being merry, we all know each other for 15 years or more, we are now joined by a few grown ups offspring and their partners, most of us are close to 50, a few well over, some already grandparents. I had a small shock, small reality check, not having met them altogether for over 3 years, while away from London; we are definitely not spring chickens anymore, it is official.
-- Tow days later skipper, poet, storyteller and fantastic cook Ian visited again from the Hebrides, so that we put down on paper our storytelling project together. It has a name now ‘Is a thing lost… if you know where it is’; a voyage through the Hebrides, on the trail of local sea legends connecting one island to the next, starting on the Isle of Lewis, from Brittany all the way up to Iceland, via Shetland, Orkney, Mull and a few others whose Gaelic names still elude my memory. At each port of call a gallery will be the home of a site specific telling of each story by two different kind of storyteller, inspired by the classical myth of Echo and Narcissus; Ian Stephen, a teller of traditional stories who seems to be closer to Echo, He can only repeat what he has heard; myself as the narcissistic artist who has to experience, see, touch, smell it first, finding it impossible to break free from seeing herself in the story. These roles are not set in stones and often glide from one to the other. There are also recurring motives, ensuring continuity and flux from one place to the next, from one story to the next. It was an intense week of highly creative input, organising the project as a whole, each partner institution but also contributing local artists, but foremost the site specific and medium specific conceptual telling of each story; both of us really enjoying working abstractly on paper, inspired by the content of each story but also by the cultural, geographical and technical specificity of the host island and institution. Our two minds egging each other on yet always one ready to intervene when things were getting confusing or out of hand in terms of logistic or budget. We spent a fair bit of time doing this at Paulo’s, the fantastic Portuguese café around the corner from mine, ideal setting for think tank activity, looked after lovely Ruiz and Raoul for regular coffee breaks and the occasional bottle of wine with olives too. All proposals have now been sent to all partners, confirmed and prospective one, we are waiting for feedback. It is a big and long project, starting in February 2011 and hopefully concluding 2 years later, depending on what happens with the international partners, in France Ireland and Iceland. There are still some funding and management issues but I truly excited at the prospect of applying my tools to something entirely new as well as discovering new territories and cultures, completely alien to me. And working with Ian is proving very enjoyable and highly productive, our egos feeling at ease with one another so far. I am thankful too, for this great opportunity he has put my way. I am hoping to visit Lewis around Easter.
-- We celebrated anti Valentine together, with Karen, James and Hu dong. An amazing fish feast, all cooked by Ian of course, fried squids and whiting, fish soup and lightly roasted filets of hake with onions and leeks. I was in charge of salads and desert, a tartatin, upside down apple pie with caramel. I hade made for the occasion a pile of special napkins, each one adorned with a rude comment written with thick black marker. The effect was hilarious yet highly effective; great way to break the ice, they didn’t know each other and all eager to make good impression on each other; Hu Dong and Ian are both poet and great cooks, Karen and Ian have links with Scotland, and actually found out that they have friends in common… James and Hu Dong are avid collectors of all kinds, not just junk; James and Ian share a similar quirky and rude sense of humour, not always appreciated. I knew they would get on somehow but I never enjoy being a host so the napkins did the trick and within ten minutes they were calling each other all kinds of names; sweet bloody fuck, you tart you, get the fuck out of my heart, drips of smelly rotten egg, dirty cunt, old fart and making out new slogan napkins. Ok quite basic and not very sophisticated but much more real than all the organised romantic drivel seen in shop windows for the occasion such as the buckets of ‘5 pounds’ roses in Saynsbury’s bought in last minute panic by countless hopeful if not romantic men.
Monday 22nd February 15.48pm
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Atmosphere
usual early february mild
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Mood
grounded with occasional vertigo
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News
Chilcott enquiry reveals little we didn't know
Tony Blair would do it all over again
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Week 17 18 life is a spiral
-- I am still here and here and here, feeling grounded at last, able to spend a whole day working on one project, no desire to fidget, no need to move about. I am finally feeling grounded and focused, I am catching up fast with the piles waiting to be dealt with for 3 or 4 months; Ballade n1 and n2 are documented and archived and video clips online, the 2 short videos Brief encounter 1 and 2 are finally re-edited, looking and sounding perfect, if I may say so, with Jurg Frey soundtrack, The YEAR vol3 is ready for print, meanwhile it is available as a PDF to download from the website. The only thing left on my list is to edit the sequel to Bohemian trip. I have formalised my ideas regarding possible (artistic) ways of reconnecting with Morocco, my place of birth left behind in 1974; I did present these ideas to Sean Williams at the British Council, we worked together on a mad exchange of young women photographers between Jeddah and Farnham in 2005, he is now starting to develop possible projects in North Africa. It seems that my proposal could fit very well with his ideas; it starts to feel like Morocco is getting much closer suddenly. Besides it felt very good and positive to present my recent work around the idea of the ballad and the parallel I make between walking and writing/reading.
-- The only itch is that one of my external hard drive, the one containing all my master videos and photographs has crashed unexpectedly, ironically as I was trying to back it up on another drive; it is now asking me to re-initialise. I am hoping to find a way to retrieve all files, refusing to get too stressed about it or to think of the consequences of losing all, the equivalent of my studio burning down with all its content, reminding me that I did this summer lose most of my studio’s content in St Yrieix, ‘stolen’ by members of the local (political) mafia, they prefer the term intelligentsia. The only other itch to these happy and productive times is the fact that I suddenly developed what is allegedly called Benign positional vertigo or Meyer syndrome yesterday, I was in Farnham, 11am crossing the long corridor to get myself a bottle of water before starting my lecture on Narrative, when I found myself on my knees by the drink machine, overcome by incredible dizziness and drunkenness, I thought low blood pressure or sugar levels, went outside in the cold air, drank water, but no can do, it was getting worse. I ended up a few hours later in Guildford A&E being tested for all kinds of potential diseases until it was decided that it was BPV, no explanation given, the doctor was surprised it hadn’t happened to me before considering the strength of the fit and simply said that it could last a day or a few months, sent me off with travel sickness tablets and an emergency appointment with an ear specialist. I am fine as long as I don’t move my head up and down or left to right, if I do everything starts spinning. It is apparently due to something becoming displaced in the inner ear, I am wondering if my spectacular fall of a few weeks ago has anything to do with it. Anyway it is not life threatening, but slowing me down and bringing back to my mind uneasy memories of times when my body was out of control and a battleground.
-- The spinning of life, spiralling away, ascending of descending I am not sure. This past 2 weeks has brought back once more a few faces from the past and a reconnection with Brixton nightlife. I went to The Grovesnor’s pub with Petri for Gordon’s 50th and 2 others birthday bash, with djs and 3 bands playing in the back room. I had hear of the Grosvenor, it stays open until 5am, the back room is complete with stage, lighting and good sound system and used by many obscure bands, some great, some less great. Grey’s of test department fame was playing with a bunch of great mature and weathered musicians, recognisable from other bands, he has become a great crooner, suiting him to the bone, doing his and other great bluesy, blue grassy, jazzy cover songs, with another young female singer with a great voice but to my liking way too bouncy and fresh and innocent to bring the required amount of grit and luscious decadence to the songs. Then a fantastic and mad band from Wales called Sick Note, full on, racy, dubby, crazy, dancy, dirty, irreverent and very potent, they kept on going and going going. The middle band was a woman punk ensemble with the great name of Velvet Underpants doing the usual punkish cover songs. Fantastic crowd, the usual potent Brixton mix of all ages, all styles, all cultures, all eager and experienced at having a good time. Anyway the first person I bumped into is Rod Morris, a photographer with whom I studied at Sir John Cass in the late 80’s, last I saw of him was probably 12 15 years ago, he is now a documentary maker and has triplets. Then I bumped into Glenn, Nina’s partner, both best friend of Andrew Moon, my partner for 3 years in the early 90’s, I left him when having children started to be part of the plan. I haven't seen Glenn or Nina since we all went to Egypt together in 1996 and I have lost touch with Andrew perhaps 8 or 9 years ago. I was shocked to find out that he was the happy father of 3. It felt so weird to have these 2 completely disconnected flashbacks of past life within an hour of each other and all connected to Gordon who is an old friend of both Rod and Glenn and Nina. It felt good actually, reinforcing the choices I made instinctively all these years ago, not able to imagine myself as a mother of three today, very happy with my lot and to be there with friends partying away. Tomorrow Katy Bauer, another old friends from the past, she went to live in South Africa 15 years ago, I have only seen here once since for her wedding in the Uk, is coming to spend the weekend with me, she is now living in Bristol with husband and daughter, speaking on the phone it felt like we had seen each other yesterday and at least our voices and our words haven’t aged a bit.
Friday 5th 22.27pm
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Atmosphere
usual January muck
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Mood
changing like the wind
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News
Haiti has collapsed
the rest of the world pretends to care
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Week 15 16 deep intellectual lust
--- I am here and I am here and I am here, grounded, at ease, finally feeling at home thanks to the various weather induced delays of the past few weeks. As of course after all the trouble and expense of trying to get back here in one piece and in time for work, I was stuck at home for another 2 days, the university being closed due to severe weather warning, because of a few drops of snow and a bit of cold weather, health and safety regulations gone absolutely mental… We had 70 students waiting to be assessed. We had to beg and put pressure on the powers in place to let us access the facilities. They made it so difficult that you would have easily thought that we were at war and this was occupied territory. Followed an incredibly demanding two days marathon of looking, discussing and marking work, 35 per day in front of the whole second year. To make things worse I had to be in 2 places at once on the last day, assessing as well as looking after and organising the day of our external examiner, coming to moderate first semester third and second year work. Once more chaos was created by lack of communication and the careless attitude of some and their reliance on me to save the day, no apologies or appreciation shown, not that it would make much difference.
-- Anyway I survived and was rewarded by the unexpected visit for a week of Ian Stephen, a coast guard, sailor, poet, storyteller from the Hebrides who came down for an intensive period of team building, comparing works and sharing stories in preparation for a collaborative project we have started to develop for 2011. He has invited me to respond to two traditional Gaelic folk tales he has been putting on paper for his next book project. The outcome will be shown in Lewis and other places, with possibilities to work in various medium, book form, performance, exhibition and to get the local population involved somehow. He seems to have been given great freedom by the gallery and Scottish arts council, which means that we have very little limitation. His arrival was preceded by a package of samples of his published works and documentation of his visual artwork. I was seduced by his writing. He has a very sharp yet poetic eye, his prose is direct and minimal, short pieces and short sentences going straight to the point, you rarely see it before you reach it, yet once you are there you wonder how you could have missed it. I also relate to his collaborative ambitions which are close to mine in the way he tries to create conceptual and productive structures so that others may get involved and explore a common idea. What I have tried to do lately with the Jeux de bouches and the Once upon Time event. His creative and collaborative ambitions remind me of what Joachim Eckl is doing in Neufelden with Die Station. And how as artists they are both actively involved in and significant pillars of their local community. Ian with various public sailing projects, trying to cultivate and maintain a certain ancient sailing and boating tradition. So far I have found it fascinating to exchange with someone whose practice is so rooted in culture and tradition. I am also looking forward to apply my tools and my tricks to someone else stories for a change, seeing it as an interesting way to decentralise my practice. It is also a challenge, all the stories he has told me so far are powerful and very evocative yet they also feel very alien and exotic in the way they do relate so much to a land and a place which I do not know and where the forces of nature play such a big role, the sea, the wind, the tides, and man’s entire existence is ruled by it, in awe and in fear. The legends I was fed by Ian felt as if not more exotic than Scheherazade thousand and one night’s stories. We compared ourselves to Echo and Narcissus in our differing ways of using language and storytelling; he tells it as it is told to him, and I tell it as I am experiencing it or seen it through my own eyes. Yet we could see some of the other also in what we are each doing. There was also much cooking and eating involved, his fish soup is unbeatable, the best I have tried, it was a pleasure to observe him inspect the 5 or six fishmongers in Brixton market before he could make up his mind on what mix of fishy ingredients to use in order to achieve a perfect mix of texture, taste and quality, a man who knows what he is talking about. He was impressed by both how fresh and reasonably priced it all was. Observing the chef at work was another treat; I think I would know now how to build up a good fish stock. The result was incredibly tasty and subtle.
-- He has now gone back to sunshine of the Hebrides, yes it is sunny and mild up there right now. I am pleased with the prospect of our collaboration, as well as the friendship we have developed and the level of natural intimacy we seem to have reached. It all looks highly promising and in such contrast to what we have both experienced at the London Art fair. A few of the most happening contemporary art galleries were there, yet I did find it hard to recognise the Art from the predictable packaging and the artists from the dealers. It all looked so contrived and predictable and beautifully safe. Mind you it did make me see Damien Hirst for what he represents, the Andy Warhol of the 21st century, as clever, as commercial, as appetising, yet slightly more cynical perhaps, Warhol was celebrating the icons of consumerism, Hirst is concentrating on the remains and the leftovers, reconditioning them in silver and gold and diamonds. The photography project on the top floor stunk of nepotism, neither doing favour to the selectors or the artists chosen or to contemporary photography. The only one that stood out from it all is Nigel Shafran and his five images of domestic kitchen sink, simple, modest and beautiful work. Another surprise and jewel, especially in the context of an art fair was the exhibition of archive photographs of various atomic bomb tests and other related subjects by a young American dealer going under the name of ORDINARY-LIGHT; all together beautiful and frightening to look at, thus reaching a certain sublime quality, in such contrast with most of the chocolate box aesthetic of the majority of the work in the fair. We spoke at length to the young dealer, another great story teller full of passion and knowledge for his work which consists of building various unwanted or overlooked archive of historical photographs. I am inviting him to give a talk in Farnham.
-- Meanwhile the medias are full of full on images of the Haiti disaster, as Eamon McCabe, picture editor of the guardian said on the radio 4 this morning, ‘ if we don’t then people will not respond generously to the appeal’. The saddest and most outrageous thing is that nobody challenged him on that affirmation, neither the journalist or the other guests on the program. Yet one woman rightly asked whether we would be so hungry for disaster images if they were taken closer to home ? I am wondering if unconsciously we feel relieved by seeing evidence of far away horrors, perhaps thinking that if it happens there it cannot happen here.
Monday 25th 21.37pm
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Atmosphere
snow and ice
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Mood
stuck again and spectacular fall
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News
Happy New Year
Eric Rohmer didn't make it
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Week 13 14 snow and falling
-- I am stuck once more, this time on the other side of my double life, weather conditions in the Limousin and in England were so bad a couple of days ago that my flight was cancelled, the low cost plane arriving from Stanstead to drop a load of humans and loading another one to take back, was diverted to Bordeaux, and we were all left stranded. I managed to jump the queue of confused passengers to re-book for next Sunday, I am not proud of it, but sometimes you need to act fast. I made amend by arranging a taxi to Limoges train station for a couple of older ladies and helping them to make alternative arrangements, one had to get to Norwich, the other to Edinburgh. I managed to catch a small train back to St Yrieix, my family once informed was so happy to have me around for a few more days. Not sure I shared the feeling, I was looking forward to get back to London. I was trying to ponder on the meaning of it all; bad weather once again disrupting life, as we know it and me being stuck twice in a row. I had closed my home here, the fridge was empty, shutters closed, not much I wanted to do or needed doing and I was missing a diner at Natasha’s by the fire, Eva’s birthday in Brighton on Saturday and meeting up with the future head of photography in Farnham. Plus one or two crucial deadlines and the prospect of furthering a new exciting connection.
-- When the train arrived in St Yrieix, after a 40 minutes ride spent readjusting and texting here and the UK to inform those who needed to know that I was stuck again and delayed, something quite spectacular happened, I had the fall of my life, a backpack with my two laptops on my back and my usual suitcase on my right hand, my left foot somehow slipped backward on the first step, about one meter high, I flew in the air, I saw it all in perfect slow motion, landing heavily on my bent knees first before bouncing headfirst on my right cheekbone before my hands managed to touch and scrape the icy concrete platform too late to protect any part of me. Bag and suitcase went flying; my glasses too after leaving a perfect round indent on my nose and right cheek. The pain was excruciating. I instantly thought I had broken something so I rolled on my back, legs in the air and tried to bend my knees and my elbows and my neck. I had been the first one off the train and all four in the air I noticed all the faces of the passengers still in the train staring at me stunned, not able to move for about 30 seconds, which was even more scary than the thought of having hurt myself badly. I could move everything, there was no blood but I was in shock, shaking all over, not being able to move either, a woman finally came down and tried to help, the station master, his assistant and the train controller followed, they all helped me up and gathered my stuff while I was standing there wavering in pain and shock, incapable of moving. I could now feel blood trickling down my legs but was amazed that nothing was broken. The station people kept on saying that they were not responsible for my fall, there was no ice on the steps, they kept on repeating this while carrying me back to the station office. My computers are ok, my glasses are unusable, badly out of shape and scratched. I ended up in ER, X-rays showed no fractures, they said I had been very lucky. Two days later I walk like a penguin and have a black eye and a half with dark bags under my eyes, the pain in my bruised and scarred knees is bearable but my lower back is stuck. I am wondering even more what is the meaning of it all, being stuck twice plus a spectacular fall from a train. These are strong signs, or tests perhaps. But of what?
-- The snow makes everything looks so beautiful and peaceful, I have rarely seen so much in the region. Last weekend I went to Bergerac to see Nico and Roman, a long overdue visit to my godsons who lost their mother, my dear friend Kathy, last year. They are small men now, both taller than me at 17 and 14, sweet and musty smell of sweat mixed with rising level of testosterone, yet they still demand a lot of cuddling which I am very happy to provide, and they do hug, stroke, play fight and groom each other quite a lot, which is very sweet to see. They are really flourishing and healing well, I am both amazed and proud of them, they show such maturity and resilience, having had to radically change their life in such a brutal way only 18 moths ago. They will be coming to London for a few days in March or April, my Christmas present to both of them, I can’t help remembering their previous visits with their mother and I hope I can make us forget her absence, and also show them as much patience as she did…. We were all staying in the beautiful wooden house of her sister Dominique and her partner Norbert, Dominique really looks like her and has similar expressions and gestures, it really startled me often and I was wondering how the boys felt about that, hoping it was a comfort to them, they seem very close to her. On the way back from my weekend there I got stuck by a freak snow storm in the middle of nowhere on a Sunday night, within 15 minutes all was white and the roads difficult to use. I had to phone for help, not sure what to do, being worried of ending in a ditch. My brother in law advised to deflate my front tyres counting up to ten on each side and to give it a go. Strong of his advice and encouragements, I started on the last 30 kms of my journey on small roads thick with snow, and still falling heavily, big flakes hypnotising me with their constant and regular bouncing on the windscreens, going extra slow, listening to a Nathalie Sarraute play on the radio, a beautiful man’s voice punctuated by the loud rhythm of my wipers, my lumix camera in video mode stuck in between the wheel and the glass recording it all, enchanted moment, so much so that I forgot to keep close ones informed of my progress and worried of not having any news and my phone not responding for lack of signals, they decided to come and rescue me. Half an hour later my camera unknowingly recorded the flare of their 4x4 headlights on the other side of the road. We didn’t recognise each other. I am a lucky woman. It took me another week before I could get back, having to cough up an extra 200 pounds to get back via Paris, flying to Luton.
Tuesday 12th 22.34pm
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Atmosphere
merry and foggy
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Mood
merry and happily stuck
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News
Jesus is born.....
again
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Week 12 Merry and stuck
-- Bad weather created more havoc than I thought. So much so that I ended up spending Christmas in London and getting to France a week later than planned. Eurostar trains couldn’t cope with the difference of temperature inside and out of the tunnel, ending up remaining stuck in it, 5 of them for 16 hours; passengers left in the dark without water and food nor information on what was happening; just thinking of it sends shivers down my spine. I was somewhat luckier, I was due to travel the next day, finding out an hour being leaving home, suitcase ready full of gifts that all services were suspended for the day. I remained waiting for a couple of days not knowing what to do, information given by phone being very different from what I was hearing on the news or reading on the internet. I was finally told on the 21st that Eurostar couldn’t guarantee me a seat before Christmas and that I should make my own way there, my ticket will be reimbursed of course. It is a very strange feeling in today’s world of global communication to be literally stuck somewhere as urban as London. Airports were also closed, harbours too, all because of severe weather conditions, yet the most I have see is ten cms of snow for a couple of days. The English were quick to blame the French and the weather conditions across the channel, The French blaming Eurostar, Eurostar blaming Eurotunnel, I personally blame Sarkozy, who else… I was OK, I was home and had plenty to occupy myself but hundreds were left stranded at stations on both side of the channel. On the 22nd, under pressure from Eurostar to give up hope and ticket, I did and had to pay for a flight to Paris on the 26th for 150 pounds and resolved myself to spend Christmas in London. It is only then that I received an email from customer services saying that service was resuming the next day and that they might be able to get me on a train, strictly on first come first serve basis, advising me to get there as early as possible to ensure I would travel. I decided to count my losses and not trust them.
-- Beside I was really enjoying this extra time in London. It gave me a chance to finish up university work, marking and assessing fist semester projects and preparing timetables of semester 2, an interesting juggling act, considering the limited amount of funding and teaching hours I am given to run the last semester of 55 graduating students, when complaining, I am simply told that I can’t get what I want, as if my desires had anything to do with it. It was the first chance I had to really enjoy London and my flat since I moved back in September, so busy has it all been underneath the dark cloak of my winter blues, which has finally lifted up; it is not bright sunshine yet but the apathy and unease has gone. So I am trying to cram in these few extra days all the good time I can, meeting up with Ela whom I hadn’t seen for 2 years, Karen who gave me a wonderful shiatsu massage, she definitely has the touch, Roz and Petri for an afternoon in the Lido Spa, Carole and Eli to see Avatar in 3D, not as shallow as I thought it would be, we tried to go to the IMAX, my birthday treat to Eli but it was sold out for the next 2 months, the effect was still incredible on a normal screen, the difference between virtuality and reality quickly forgotten, and the details of the Fauna truly beautiful. Catching Michael Hanecke White Ribbons at the Curzon Mayfair the next day with Richard and Jochen was also an experience; such a powerful piece of film making and storytelling, a period piece shot in black and white, absolutely no music, yet you felt like you were completely in it, I could feel, weighing a ton on my shoulders, the stifling and oppressing hand of small town Puritanism, the three of us did let out a huge sigh of relief as the film ended. There is also a subtext of who done it? Which never quite get resolved and days later, flashbacks of images and bits of dialogues retrospectively become crucial clues. The atmosphere and content of the film was in starch contrast with the luxurious and spacious genuine 70’s style deco of the cinema itself, kept in pristine conditions marble toilets included, in starch contrast also with the area itself. I rarely walk around these parts of town where new and old money are so proudly and unashamedly in harmony, absolutely no sign of the current economic climate. I walked from Sloane square to Mayfair, via Sloane St, Hide park corner and the back streets of the Hilton, my eyes taking it all in with equal amount of wonder and horror; shop windows full of glitzy and skimpy clothes for high class whores or princesses, it was hard to tell, equally lacking style or class, few opulent men gazing at it all in wonder, few mature women grazing the displays with touchy fingers; Harvey Nichols windows spilling out crystal chandeliers, silver and gold and decadence, reminiscent of Pre war Berlin nightlife, uncannily appropriate and surely intentional; fur and cashmere coated men and women on their marathon Christmas shopping, loaded like camels with equal amounts of designer label branded bags on each side, Chanel, Yves St Laurent, Burberry, D&G, Gucci…. The total cost of one-person load probably reaching close to my annual income. I played with the idea of snatching a few loads, not out of envy but out of a desire for sabotage and the urge to unsettle the air of blasé confidence that they all have in common.
-- I spent Christmas eve at Roz’s, and Paul, being merry, singing around the piano, listening to Paul’s great selection of dub step and other tunes, including alternative Christmas carols, drinking Champagne, Cava and Pit whisky from the isle of Sky, looking at photos of their summer visit to St Yrieix, discussing with Kyle and Angus their ambition for the future, amazed at how sussed they are at 16, others joined in later on, more singing and exchange of gifts. My homemade Kamut bread and Corn bread worked very well I thought and were well appreciated. Finishing in the early hours of the morning with a bit of Danish storytelling from a distant voice with the sweetest Scottish accent. A few hours later Jochen came for Sunday lunch, crossing London on his flashy yellow bike, a menu of Foie gras, Mont d’or cheese cooked in the oven served with potatoes and smoked sausages, and a tartatin. The sun was shining; the mood was good, not exactly a traditional one but a perfect Christmas courtesy of Eurostar…
I am now finally in St Yrieix, writing these words before joining the rest of the family tonight for a postponed celebration and the occasion for us all to welcome for the first time for a family meal Murielle and Clement, the respective sweethearts of my nephew and niece, Florent and Amandine, both very nervous, knowing full well what is in store in terms of silly family jokes and stories in dire need of new victims…
Monday 28th 22.38pm
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Atmosphere
snow and icy wind
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Mood
fair and rising hopefully
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News
Copenhagen climate summit: 1200 limos 140 private planes
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Week 10 11 Pilgrimage
-- The only thing I do remember clearly from the mad whirlwind of the past two weeks is the gale force icy wind piercing multiple layers of clothing and fat to reach my bones. So much so that we could only manage a 40 minutes walk after more than two hours drive from London to Dungeness. It had been more than three years since I hadn’t undertaken my ritual visit to what I call the end of England, the waves passing you by, boats lining on a sea of pebbles, the black wooden cottages, the newer crappy ones, the two light houses and of course the power station standing proud in the background. Last time I came it was with Joachim to show him the boats on the pebbles, reminding me of his big boat sculpture on the ground of Die Station. We still reminisce about the delicious crab we brought back to London. This time Guido came with me, I wanted to show him what I considered to be true Englishness at its best and I thought he would understand and appreciate the strange power this place has. He didn’t take seriously my advice to wrap up well; mind you this is the coldest I have ever been there, yet people were still rod fishing in the rough sea. We took refuge in this new strange addition to the landscape, a gift shop selling all kind of new age bits and pieces with a flashing orange neon light you can see from afar declaring the shop open. Such an odd place to set up business, I had to ask the gothic looking woman behind the counter. She has been there 2 years, moving down from London, like many others. But everybody keeps to themselves and the townies do not mix with the fishermen she said very matter of factly, not seeing it as a problem. She had never heard of the 2 other people I know who live 500 yards from her. Business was slow in winter but she proudly added that she was happy that day, having just had two groups passing through her shop spending eighty quid. We took refuge in the Falcon pub sitting by the fire in fornt of deliciously fresh plates of fish and chips and glasses of Guinness, comparing our differing opinions of what he calls finding the right ‘one’, and the impermanence of such feeling. Not that I think it impossible to find the right ‘one’, more that the definition of what constitute such being is for ever evolving and changing, as much as we are each evolving and changing, as such it needs to be constantly re-assessed. I am not too sure Guido got my point, anyway he has everything required to succeed in his quest, a great mind, good looks, charm and he is great company. Being 15 years older I have a different perspective on the matter. The old fisherman I used to buy my crabs from has retired, his son is now fishing and his daughter selling but I couldn’t find her place. Luckily the fish shop up the road was still open when we left, and we could drive back to London with the fishy smell of cooked crab and fresh scallops.
-- I managed to squeeze in a visit to the Whitechapel Gallery to check up the Sophie Calle exhibition, as it will finish before I come back from France. ‘Take care of yourself’ is a wonderful exhibition, the reading and interpretation by one hundred women of a break up letter Sophie Calle received, each bringing their own flavour and interpretation to a typically and hilariously pompous, hypocritical, egotistical yet poignant letter. I still do not know who the man is, a literary figure for sure, but I do hope he has seen the exhibition, this is the best possible punishment and the artist best possible revenge, a fantastic gesture, Not that I am one for personal revenge but bringing this letter to the public sphere and sharing it with all these other woman is a brilliant way of neutralising the personal history by making it so universal via this peculiar form of collective gestalt therapy. I do like her work but not all projects are as spot on as this one.
-- The rest of my time and energy has been occupied with the mad and stressing mess at work, no budget left for next semester, no explanation given, once again we are expected to cope, third years working hard trying to finish their projects in time for assessment this week, resources and facilities overstretched, I have luckily managed to find enough space for 53 of them to display their work, having to beg and be pushy, as if I was asking for the moon. Anyway it is now all over, the assessing the marking, some great pieces but so many mediocre ones lacking any critical engagement, energy, or ambition or work which are so subjective and self indulgent that it is hard to find anything to say. We are seeing the effects of 2 years of chaos and cutbacks and unmanageable student numbers and workload, yet everybody seems surprised.
- Snow and icy roads are creating havoc again, weather warning, university closing, and power cuts… I can never understand what is it with England and weather changes, so useless at coping. Once more the forecast for Farnham was wrong, the snow storms never materialised, I left early to make sure I would get stuck on the motorway and funnily enough that has been my shortest journey back ever, 50 minutes instead of the usual 1 1/2 hour. Tomorrow I am off to France; Christmas will soon be over, hopefully this cycle of winter blues too. I discovered a drink I am glad I didn’t know before, Sloe Gin, absolutely delicious and heart warming and comforting and uplifting thanks to the sharpness of the Gin. Friday 18th 23.14pm
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Atmosphere
wet and wetter
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Mood
all time low
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News
Dubai is bankrupt
the Swiss ban minarets
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Week 8 9 first frost and autumn blues
-- Once all challenges of this new cycle in my life were overcome and the novelty worn out I plunged into the long forgotten depths of gloom, familiar for sure yet always surprising and difficult to accommodate; like a dark opaque fog descending slowly yet surely on everything I touch, see, think, do, plan, contemplate, say. Sleep is the only relief, plus of course the experience of previous episodes which taught me to lie low and wait for it to end. The negative wisdom that the mind fabricates in the dark emerges with frightening clarity, making it impossible to ignore yet I am reluctant to put it down on paper. A certain impossibility to regroup myself, the more I try the more I disintegrate in thousand pieces. Doubt is everywhere, what I considered as strengths and successes have turned into weaknesses and failure, like my reluctance to progress on the power structures of the various institutions I am evolving in, or my multidisciplinary practice, or double life in between two countries, or my move back to London, modesty becoming lack of self esteem…. and on and on. I am smiling writing it all down, noticing the predictability and absurdity of it all. Lying low means getting behind on a few projects I have on the go, giving me even more reasons for dissatisfaction and frustration. The few boxes left to unpack are remaining untouched.
-- I think what triggered it this time is going through last year blog entries in order to make THE YEAR vol.3. Apart form a few highlights and one epiphany, it reads as a marathon of disconnected fragments, continuously jumping from one thing to the next, overcoming constant pressures and commitments, mostly self imposed, and very little depth or continuity to any of it, very little progress to what really matters. This was quite a shocking realisation, yet an obvious one it seems now. It might be time to stop running and dig down a little.
-- On my way back to London last weekend I stopped in Paris for the last weekend event of an interesting research project called ‘l’encyclopedie de la parole’, The speech encyclopaedia, run by a bunch of artists, writers and musicians, one of them Frederic Danos, a long lost friend I reconnected with last June. They have spent the past few months trying to make sense and nonsense of the act of speaking, based on multiple recorded samples of speeches of all kind, be it political, fictional, philosophical, constructing in the process a method for analysing mainly the form but sometimes the content of any speech act, using a mix of theoretical, scientific, poetical and empirical approach. The result is an interesting collection of collaborative texts, conferences, performances, audio works, a great collection of speech samples of all kind and a fantastic choir where six of them, all men, are conducted by the only female member of the team to recite a few speeches, a short extract from the recent Mesrine film, a few lines from a Jacques Lacan lecture on death, and a short exemple of the famous train of thought of a brilliant France Inter radio presenter. They emphasise rhythm, silences, pace and prosody to great effects, a fantastic project for them to put to the task all their findings as well as their varied skills and interests. It was very inspiring and also a relief to let my head be filled by others words and sounds.
-- For the first time in my life I spent a night in a hotel in Paris, not wanting to impose my current mood on any friends. I also thought that I might find some kind of poetic comfort or existential relief in this new experience, making sure I chose a perfect little hotel in the Marais, quaint and authentic in its fake and cliché old fashioned classic French style, the internet is great for that, I got a bargain in the process. Virtuality didn’t lie, it lived up to expectation, the room was a bit smaller than expected and funnily enough the 3 men at reception that I saw during my stay were all of North African descent, you can’t get more Parisian then that. Yet I didn’t manage to live the dream of the distressed artist pondering on the meaning of life in THE existentialist city. Despite the tiny absinth shop next door to the hotel, perfecting the setting and reminding me of Rimbaud and Baudelaire. I did consider starting smoking again and getting high on absinth in my bedroom, but just as a silly and absurd thought.
-- Yesterday my mother was selling my BdeM hats at the Christmas market in St Yrieix, I managed to get 34 ready, all unique with label and all, 8 were sold and one given away. At 82 I was slightly worried it might be a bit too much for her, a whole day behind a stall in a big hall, but she loves it, stopping people, chatting and coming up with great lines. Last week when I was there she had a sudden fit of vertigo and had to remain in bed for a couple of days. She was fine about it, even enjoying being looked after by my dad and myself and her grandchildren coming to keep her company. Yet it had a profound effect on us, such a strange and powerful sight, seeing her horizontal, almost as if it happened to remind us that time was running out. They are very active and in great shape, but it can be taken away any day and it is not likely to happen to both at the same time, one of them will be left behind. We didn’t need to talk about it, just a silent acknowledgement that death had sent us a gentle reminder; we have all received it loud and clear. Strangely enough that elevated my mood for a little while.
While my hats were on display in the Limousin I went to the Tate Britain to check out the Turner prize exhibition, a way of still being proactive in my current state, I know Enrico David also and always liked his sense of humour and the way it comes across in his work. Sadly not this time, I was disappointed by his display, it gained in size what it lost in gentle potency and delicate craft, it looked like a collage of various half hearted puns, his recorded text was much more interesting, in parts. My bet is on Lucy Skaer, poetic, thoughtful, generous, conceptual yet sensual display. Or Richard Wright beautiful and ephemeral drawings. Roger Hiorns is way to post-modern and anal even for my liking, the atomised plane engine is a powerful concept but strangely not in its actualisation. Once again the idea in his video is a great one but I wish he were more generous with what he is given us to look at.
6th December 9.35pm
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Atmosphere
windy and wet
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Mood
low energy slight sneeze
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News
Christmas lights are on
hooray...
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Week 6 7 Multitasking and sneezing
-- I have started working on THE YEAR vol.3, reading for the first time all the entries of this year just gone, in order to spell-check the text and also extract the elements that will constitute the front page index and the headlines. I find myself often amased or surprised by what I read. On one level I am struck by the repetitiveness of one’s life, so many of the events or rituals I relate I can remember from previous years entries. I must take the time to check one day if I am or not actually recounting them in exactly the same way. On the other hand a lot of what I have written hasn’t stuck to my mind, somehow having been left behind so that it doesn’t belong to my recent memory. It is interesting to see what my brain has chosen to keep in its drawers. I am possibly influencing and changing the current flow of my thoughts and my current mind configuration by bringing back into the equation what was discarded up to a year ago.
I was hoping the volume 3 to be ready for the small publishers fair last weekend, keeping up with what happened with volume 1 and 2 but as usual I am late on my own schedule. The 2 other volumes have attracted a fair bit of attention once more and with my usual lack of business sense I kept on encouraging people to download the PDF for free from my website instead of paying 30 pounds for a hard copy. When will I learn? bookRoom display did very well again, sales of cheaper books went well, many good connections made, but foremost the overall quality of the books on display stood out; not that other exhibitors didn’t show interesting pieces but in my eyes very few of them manage to address equally well or critically or successfully, content and form as most bookRoom work seem to. Gorgeous looking and perfectly groomed Michael Mack of Staedl fame spent a fair bit of time looking at our books and had good things to say about quite a few, including one of mine ‘the two virgins form St Yrieix’. Luckily it took me a while to place him, preventing the usual cool reserve or awkwardness (to hide shyness and lack of confidence possibly) with which I treat influential / important / respected people, silly I know but I cannot help it. I have learned to accept it. I did overspend as usual, not able to resist a beautiful 1968 Robert Filliou poster of ‘galerie imaginaire’, Ian Hamilton Finlay ‘Brount’ based on Robespierre dog and a beautifully designed issue of Sea level magazine, a quarterly magazine from October foundation in Eindhoven, including works by Tacita Dean and Ian Hamilton Finlay. Each issue of Sea Level is designed completely differently and has different formats depending on the content. I also bought a few other recent works, my favourite being Kurt Johansen’s ‘lux’, he is an artist from Norway working with performance Language and the books. I could see many similarities with my own concerns, yet I was surprised to notice his complete disregard of the limitation of translation. He writes very poetically and beautifully in Norwegian, playing on the subtlety of words and their meaning, yet most books of his books exists both in English and Finnish, and someone else does translation. I tried to engage him on the subject, his English is impeccable but, though eager to have a chat, he didn’t seem to understand my issues with his use of translation. ‘Lux’ uses Latin, it is a black book with only hand perforated holes on the right page and a Latin name on the left page. Each hole corresponds to the size of a bird eye socket referenced by the bird Latin name. Absolutely no other information, it is conceptual yet simple and to the point and really tactile, a perfect addition to my growing ‘hole’ collection of works.
-- I had my first houseguest for a week, Pedro visiting from Saragossa via Barcelona. He was such a considerate and charming guest. We had a very strange little epiphany. I showed him a catalogue from VISOR gallery in Valencia from 1992.
Time spirals around in strange ways. In 1990 I was spending a lot of time in Barcelona because of my Catalan boyfriend Jordi, this is how I met his friend Eduardo Cortils, a very good artist photographer and poet, Jordi introduced us because he felt that we were working in very similar way at the time, making what poetic photo sculptures with existentialist tendencies if that make any sense. My friendship with Eduardo lasted longer than the relationship. He was represented by Visor gallery and often spoke about its director Pep Benlloch, how great he was. Twenty years later Pedro became my student in Farnham, a mature and ambitious student after a career change, he graduated four years ago and is now a fast rising curator, writer, and conference organiser back in Spain and running an MA in photography in Barcelona and also a good friend. Pep Benlloch is still an influential figure on the Spanish photography world and has helped Pedro to launch his new career; they are now close friends and collaborators. This small unassuming catalogue Eduardo gave me twenty years ago is now in Pedro’s hand who is pondering about the likelihood of such thing happening, this strange connection between 4 people and three countries. I wasn’t as surprised, simply a great example of the spiralling of life I often talk about. Incidentally as we were pondering the mysteries of life Pep phoned on Pedro’s mobile and Koldo Camorro, one of the photographer printed in the catalogue died this week. Spooky or what…. Yet strangely life affirming in the sense that it gave me some kind of certainty of being at the right place at the right time, all the way back then and now. Pedro and I went to see John Baldessari at Tate modern, not the best of show, I always loved his work, how playful and over the top and obsessive his layering and fragmentation of images and texts is but it sometimes went a bit too big and too far and I don’t like the didactic and formulaic way most Tate show are curated, really killing the life of most works, though the last installation and most recent work of his, a video relay with a delay creating this very interesting and beautiful trompe l’oeil effect really redeemed it all. As well as the new menu in the Tate members bar, now serving venison in a pot, very small round pot as a kind of a pâté, how post-modern is that, poor venison.
17th November 23:18pm
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Atmosphere
bright and chilly
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Mood
high spirits low pressure
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News
Chirac prosecuted for fraud
Bush will follow shortly maybe...
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Week 5 Sand in Vaseline and Halloween
-- Axel is coming out of hospital on friday, it is amasing to see once again how resilient the human body is. The only issue is that he will have to have some radiotherapy as his tumor had some cancer cells. Dust is finally settling, boxes are being unpacked, domestic space is being recovered inch by inch, studio space is being cleared one bin at a time, backlog of images are being uploaded, cleaned up, flickered then archived in a growing number of folders and subfolders in alphabetical and seasonal order, bills are being settled - sending my overdraft rocketing to the sky, a nicer image than plunging into the abyss – friends are being reconnected with one at a time – for some it has been over a year since we last saw each other in the flesh – Karen for coffee and Algerian lunch in a lovely new place in Brixton, opposite Opus, Debby for the full Ed Ruscha experience, she has caught the bug it was a slow process starting by saying “ I love the background but not the words” but she was won over in the end, Petri for Sebastian Lexer’s Interlace concert series, where I was so proud and touched to hear two Wandelweiser pieces performed, one by Jurg Frey for Recorder and the other by Antoine Beuger for piano and recorder. I must admit that I wasn’t that impressed by the rendition, the recorder player was definetely lacking finesse and subtlety, his sound overpowering the subtle harmonies of the piano. It made me realised how privileged I was to have experienced these works from the horses mouths so to speak.
-- 50 years of painting, the Ed Ruscha exhibition at the Hayward has definitely touched my deeply. It is the first time I see any of his work in real, apart from one or two artists books. I was a fan already, loving his way with words, simple but not simplistic, sharp yet humorous and sometimes poetic and the way he navigates freely between painting drawing and photography using a limited palette of words and visual symbols. His books are absolutely great. It was absolutely fantastic to follow up the evolution of his mark making as well as his subject matter, becoming more refined and sharper as time goes by yet never repeating itself, always finding new ways, new angles, new styles. I was blown by the tactile quality of his paintings, the way colors and textures are brought together ands resonate, the sane way that his word images resonate with their painted background. The one that really did it for me is ‘Sand in vaseline’. These three words are very evocative and conjure up such precise textures and colors, these are completely ignored by Ruscha, the letters are painted with pale grey egg yolks on a mid grey gently shimmering moiré background. I don’t see any logic in his choice but the combination of what the words bring to mind with how they are depicted feels so right and poetic and alive, turning it in to a beautiful object for contemplation where both eyes and mind are constantly dancing back and forth between what they see and what they read (into). The more I try to put it into words the more it eludes me but my fascination remains and I would love it on my wall. I rarely get so engrossed in a painting or an exhibition or in both as in this case, last time was for Rothko Seagram murals at the Tate modern, this summer. Another memorable experience was Georgia O keefe 1993 exhibition at the Hayward, and discovering Francis Alys work, which included a small version of his Fabiola series, in the Antechamber exhibition at the Whitechapel in 1997. When we left the Hayward gallery late on Saturday night, I felt so elated that I half jokingly spoke about a spiritual experience, not a bad achievement for a cool conceptual American painter photographer whose work fetches for millions… I do love his painting of the bible, brilliantly displayed next to the one of a manual of rules.
-- On the other hand I am amazed to see how Americanised this country is becoming. For Halloween on Saturday, the streets and the pubs were packed with dressed up adults, vampires and zombies and skeletons and monsters of all kind, few simple DIY costumes most were elaborate full fancy dress outfits. When did that happen ? I remember Halloween being for kids, lots of bangers and small groups in street corners doing trick or treats. South London resembled a small budget horror movie film set.
I finally started going to the Lido in Brockwell park, the place I missed most these past three years away form London. It has been completely revamped, they have done a great job, there is now a Gym, sauna, steam room, Spa and the yoga studios have big great bay windows onto the swimming pool, proper heating and creecky floorboards. After 2 hours there on Sunday enjoying getting steamed up and relaxing in the Jacuzzi, I felt like a million euros or as if I had been away to the seaside for the weekend. Nigel yoga classes are as precious as ever, the slow yet continuous pace of it, his naming of every smallest muscle and the way it should move up or down or sideway for each Asana works wonders. There isn’t one day when I am not rejoicing at being where I am, even the commuting to Farnham , though often heavy with traffic, doesn’t manage to spoil it.
4th November 8pm
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Atmosphere
chilly
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Mood
heavily stressed than relieved
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News
beyond his wildest dream
Blair president of Europe
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Week 3 4 St Yrieix London Farnham Munich London
-- Axel is fine, recovering in Intensive care, all seems as it should be, no sign of permanent damage so far. We all feel the worse is over, full recovery is around the corner, hoping that he will be out before Christmas. I can’t believe I wrote that dreaded word. I still think in summer mode, despite the change to winter time this weekend or the icy winds in Munich. My busy schedule of the past two months is finally over, I survived it all with a smile, managed to do it all, if I ignore all the boxes waiting to be emptied in my spare bedroom. I am behind as usual, about two weeks late I would say; I don’t think THE YEAR vol3 will be ready for the small publishers fair on the 15th of November. I will try but have no intention of doing a rush job. Now the period of transition is over I want to make sure I stop running and take the time to do things properly, at my own pace, making sure I keep stress at bay and plenty of space to reconnect with it all here in London. There are three major exhibitions I am eager to see, Ruscha, Calle and Baldessari. Put the three together and it sounds like a solicitors firm.
-- In the past ten days I have flown three times, I am not proud of it or of my carbon footprint, visited three countries, did an experimental voice workshop in Limoges with Geraldine Keller – powerful voice, beautiful grain, interesting group techniques, looked after a group of students from the école des Beaux Arts de Grenoble coming to discover the collection at the centre of artists books in St Yrieix It was so funny to observe the look of amazement on the face of the regional paper’s journalist; she couldn’t believe how engrossed and fascinated our visitors were among all these mostly rare books, it was beyond her understanding, she compared them to small kids in a toy shop, they were not amused. I had little time to enjoy the warmth of the Indian summer or to go and pick up the last apples and walnuts before the birds and squirrels steal them all. I came back for two days of teaching and one final day to finish preparing my performances for Munich, Ballade n1 and Ballade n2. I have never felt so unprepared and stressed about a piece of work. The more I worked on it, the more it was expanding or breaking up in many smaller pieces I am not sure which, so much so that by Wednesday night, the day before leaving I felt I had nothing at all, thinking of the performance two nights later filled me with dread and horror, the same kind of feelings you have in a nightmare when you are trying to run away but you can only move in slow motion. I took the plane the next day as if it was to the gallows.
-- Once on the plane I decided to let go of my sense of panic as well as of my idea of being perfect. I was here to enjoy myself and try out a new work in a similar kind of positive environment than in July in Die station in Neufelden. Christoph Nicolaus, a member of Wandelweiser, project Turm im Klam (art in the tower) is a monthly event taking place in his beautiful and spacious abode, one floor of a solid second world war concrete bunker tower which was hollowed out from the inside in order to create the current 5 stories building with one loft on each floor. Every month a different artist or composer is invited to perform there, this month it was I. The event is followed by soup cheese and wine. I had the whole day to get ready and try out sounds and visuals in the space with the help of André O. Muller, another wandelweiser member from Düsseldorf into microtonal music and overtone chanting. So that by the time I was on I was relaxed and confident, still aware that the work was not totally resolved and definitely not a masterpiece…. but I was ready happy and eager to perform. The room was packed, the audience attentive from what I could tell. It is true that I wasn’t completely in control of it all, an extra pair of hands would have helped but I didn’t miss a step, literally and didn’t trip on the way, apart form dropping my clip mike twice….. It never happened before. I have yet to look at the video documentation of it all, but I sort of know now what needs to be done.
I am much more pleased with the second work Ballade n2 that I wrote very quickly as a piece of concrete poetry: 100 steps “walked” together with Christoph on his beautiful stone harp and my voice, one step equals one breath equals on sound on his instrument. It lasted around 30 minutes, worked almost as I had expected, sometimes hypnotic, sometimes soothing, changing rhythm occasionally, we both got lost a few times which was what I hoped for and the sound of my breath definitely bringing one into oneself. Apparently all the audience had their eyes closed. I have a recording of it too; I can’t wait to hear it. I am hoping Christoph and I will have another chance to perform it and I wrote the work so tat I can ‘walk’ it with any other instrument or voice.
Here I am writing the last words of this entry before uploading them on my brand new website. It is now finally up to date, Ballade n1 and n2 included and ready to launch.
Tuesday 26th October 11pm
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Atmosphere
Indian summer
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Mood
average or low
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News
I don't believe in the recovery
of the ecomomy
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Week 1&2 autumn leaves Iwan and Axel
-- Everything is in place for this brand new cycle, the fourth one of this MOIblog experiment, yet one that brings me back close to where it all started early September 2006 when I drove off to France to start my battle against the pirates that were creating havoc in my body and mind. Victory is rarely clear cut, no winner or loser in my case, we have had to get used to each other, and we have managed pretty well so far. This has become my personal start of the year, slightly later than the academic calendar so that it is out of the way, and weeks before the 1st of January, avoiding post Christmas blues and the following dreary winter months. This is called blog year, and I have a bit of blog year blues. It feels like I am coming home after a three-year break from my life. Expectations are high, mine of course and while getting re acquainted with all I left behind, I am finding as much good things, memories, habits, places, friends, as bad ones, memories, habits, non places, non friends, pressures… I guess it is quite logical after 25 years in a town. What feels right is my flat on top of Brixton Hill and living alone again, it is wonderful, and Richard’s leather sofas and Catherine colourful hand made bed spread look absolutely right there. The rest will follow in its own time. I hoped this first entry to appear on my brand new revamped website but it will have to wait for the next one, the beast is not quite ready yet.
-- I am in the Limousin now for 10 days to fulfil my duties at the centre of artist books, collect my share of family warmth and play my part in yet another birthday rituals. The hunting season has started already, I have seen my first victims. On the way down here I stopped over in Paris for Iwan’s Wijono’s opening at galerie Impressions behind Beaubourg. Iwan and Miko are here for three months for a series of exhibitions and performances in Paris, Bordeaux, Marseille, Brno and Eindhoven, their first visit to France all the way from Yogyakarta in Java, invited by MATASIA an association from Bordeaux promoting Indonesian Art in Europe. I last saw Iwan in Toronto, when we were both part of 7a*11d festival l of performance art organised by FADO. I was in shock and mourning at the time, after my dear uncle/ second father figure Bernard suicide two days before I left. I was in a very strange place psychologically and emotionally. Iwan was just back from Mexico, smitten by the culture, the language and Frida Kahlo. My slight resemblance to her, mastery of Spanish and need for spirit medicine brought us close together, an odd pair but a natural coming together of bodies minds and souls without a need for explanation or the usual awckward social rituals taking place when strangers meet. We have kept in touch ever since. Seven years is a long time, a lot has happened in the world and our lives but we met up as naturally as last time round. His work is as strong and political as I remember it, yet deeply modest and generous. He is a great painter, I was more familiar with his performance work.
The paintings he is showing are of struggling Indonesian farmers and hand painted slogans expressing their frustration and anger. These are their own words, Iwan works with these people helping them in their struggle for survival and justice, he creates with them various photographic tableaux re-enacting or symbolising their plights. I do prefer the photographs, they are more anchored in reality and look very powerful, but photographs don’t sell over there. A big part of the money Iwan makes for selling the paintings goes back to the farmers and their cause. If you imagine Magritte making politically engaged work than you get an idea of Iwan’s paintings. Absolutely wonderful work. I must find the time to go and visit him, his invitation have been hard to resist, combining a bit of teaching and workshops and performing and collaborating combined with a guided tour of Java, but I haven’t found the time yet. The opening was very interesting; I was so surprise to see so many French people speaking fluent Indonesian and being so taken by the culture, the people and their hospitality. It was so unfrench, great and very refreshing to see, strangely enough all the people I invented to the opening didn’t turn up; the invitation looked quite ‘exotic’ and low key, that coupled with the assumption of what Indonesian art might be like, folk and crafty, must have put off more than one. Iwan and Miko are spending Christmas with me here, a traditional family Christmas in deep France, I can’t think of anything more exotic for them, and possibly depressing too, compared to where they come from.
I am thinking of Axel my seventeen year old nephew who is having a small tumour removed form the back of his brain tomorrow morning, we are all so worried, yet there is nothing we can do but wait and hope for the best. I have no doubt he will survive, I am worried about possible long term of permanent side effects.
