Week 37 38 the honeymoon is over
—I arrived here 10 days ago with good weather in my suitcase, next to the freshly printed Republique Française books, all excited and full of wonders at the week to come; finally seeing the mounted and framed images, setting up the exhibition, welcoming Marcus here in St Yrieix, the opening of the exhibition and his concert, anticipating the reaction of the audience to this almost hour long minimal abstract rendition of Blue Moon, a lot to ask from first timers, I am slightly doubting my decision…… and of course the 4 belgium editors show to open at the centre of artists books. Quite full on for this remote place.
—The show is up, looking good despite the usual unexpected problems. This time the mounted prints on dibound falling off their wooden structures due to faulty double sided tape and exreme heat, for three days the atmosphere was tropical. Two images are slightly damaged but the framer is accepting full responsibility. The opening went well, a family affair with mother and sisters making lovely snacks and canapés, brother in law providing champagne and father orchestrating the whole think as if he was at home; welcoming guests, serving, shmoothing the officials…. The staff of the cultural centre were very amused, I was less so when he started to boss me around as to who I should speak to or when to start the introduction of the work or when he left taking with him what was left of Champagne considering the party over and saving it for me….. My first opening with family around, as touching as it is stressing. The work was well received if not entirely grasped, the reactions were many and the issue of the political tendencies of the work, the main concern so far, is left unresolved, as I intended. People did engage with the various associations made between images, coming up with all kind of interpretation but the main game remained the guessing game of finding out who’s who and comparing scores. After that Marcus Kaiser performance was superb, intense, concentrated, his visual and sonic deconstruction of the king image and voice (singing blue moon) was mesmerising. The added pleasure for me was witnessing the audience negotiation of the work, the novelty the minimalism the length, the monotony and lack of narrative, that was as fascinating as the work itself, only one person left half way through, the rest sitting it through with various degrees of involvement and enjoyment. Yet the clapping at the end was genuine and generous and the faces and smiles and reactions in the foyer afterward a real treat, I was amased and touched by their openness and willingness to engage.
—The other exhibition in town “freedom of expression of matter” is what you expect of a small town badly curated summer show mixing together some great large scale drawing/painting on layered tissues paper full of depth and layers and wonder with crafty, fiddly one liner pieces made of recycled wood, clay tools, paper….. disguised as art. The opening was a fascinating provincial highlight of the year with mayor speech, evening dresses and all the town officials mixing with Sunday painters, craftsmen turned artists and Mathieu Sevy the author of the drawings, a talented young artist from Limoges, disappointed by the show and putting up a brave face. Meanwhile across the road at the centre of artists books a much smaller event is taking place. The gallery is packed with beautiful bookworks, On kawara, sol lewitt, Robert Filliou, Robert Barry, Laurence Weiner, Baldessari…… published by unpronounceable belgium editors, Imschoot, Yves Gevaert, Yellow now and mfc michelle Didier. Visual and talent overload. I will need a whole week to absorb half of it. A more serious event, two of the editors are present and a few other connoisseurs talking books while sipping wine and delicate nibbles. All very serious and no mayor speech. For one evening only and within 100 metres of each other one can experience the whole range from the worst deluded amateur art to the most elitist high art. These two extremes are in complete denial of each other with no hope of any reconciliation.
—The Republique Francaise exhibition is probably my last project here, despite the success of all my other projects here. The honeymoon is over, I do feel small town mentality closing in on me, the novelty of my persona is wearing out and my status as an outsider or a friendly go between is becoming hard to sustain. I have made my point, the town feel it is a good point but they are not sure they want to follow anymore, it is not safe enough, and I am not easy to control. One side prefers to remain thinking that high art is obscure pretentious and unreachable while the other side thinks people are idiots and good art is wasted on them. Well I will finally have the time to stop and think and spend time in the studio, afterall that was the plan.
—Marcus and his cello have gone back to Germany, bringing with him a few samples of ferns from the area. I think he enjoyed French hospitality, and I did enjoy seeing the place through strangers eyes, though his nocturnal lifestyle was hard to accommodate with all the demands put upon my days, my nights were very short. His visit was followed by Nicolas and Roman and Katy’s sister Dominique who came to see the exhibition and spend the weekend with me. They brought with them a few items belonging to Katy that she wanted me to have, such a difficult moment. Seeing her two sons who now have left Paris to live in Bergerac with her family, and the few objects I remember her wearing, made her absence even more poignant. Her sister looks a lot like her too. The boys are doing extremely well considering, having matured so much in two months, and I was so amazed at their openness at discussing some of their feelings and concerns regarding the new life forced upon them by the death of their mother. I do feel so much their hurt and chaos and confusion, not knowing how or what to do to relieve some of it, and getting overwhelmed when I do manage to make a bit of difference. It was a very special time, I must make sure I am there always. I am off to Arles tomorrow, my first time to the rencontres photographiques with a show and a book to plug.
Posted moiblog0708 11 days ago
Week 35 36 cleaning the house
—On my way to the Liquid page conference in London last Friday, I read Tracey emin’s column in the independent. What an uplifting experience, perhaps not for the right reasons though. Any doubt I have ever had about the quality of my blog have vanished completely. She did concede that it probably wasn’t her best one as she felt so distraught yet compelled to write about the imminent death of her most beloved cat who had jusr been diagnosed with the animal strand of AIDS, not knowing how she will be able to keep on living once he/it is gone. Mind you I did learn something, I didn’t know animals could be punished for their promiscuity too. I was even tempted for a minute to offer my services to the Independent, I am not famous, infamous or glamorous but my emotional pseudo analytical regular accounts of life as I go through it beats hers even on a good week. But somehow I prefer to remain virtual, so that one may have the choice to tap into my stream.
—The academic year is over, at least the teaching and assessing part, the London Free range degree show went extremely well, a difficult space to work with in two days flat but in the end the best show around I was told by many. A few behind the scene issues with misplaced ego trip tempered my enjoyment of it all but in the end we all felt proud. And you know the saying once beaten twice……. I feel it is the second best final year in my 9 years teaching in Farnham.
My exhibition Republique Francaise is all ready to be hung next week, I have just seen the offset proof of the book and I am very pleased, beyond my expectation actually and it should be ready just in time for the opening.
—It is time to change home yet again. I am surrounded by boxes as I write, becoming an expert in tactical packing and each time less attached to my few possessions. Tomorrow at 3pm Simon the careful and reliable man with a van found in the ads of the Farnham Herald will be here to transfer my belongings from this little maisonette behind the station to a big shared house on the outskirt of Town, number 9 the laurels, as pretty a name as the current Southern way. Another temporary abode, but less expensive, until I work out what to do, sell my flat in London and buy something here, move back to London or change life completely. As much as I really enjoy what I am doing here at UCCA, now that I have been up rooted for a couple of years, I can imagine myself giving England up altogether for the first time in 25 years, and it is a great feeling. Let see what the wind brings. Anyway I have already worked out my retirement plan in my seventies. Hazel and I have decided to finish our life together on a yacht sailing the Indian ocean, she is from around there and have plenty of experience. It may read like a silly teenage fantaisy but it is a serious plan which if we wanted to, could be put into motion right now. But we both feel we have a lot we want to do first, her sailing the world from the North pole to the south pole while being a steady footed chef, me well following the art trail for a while longer.
—There is something quite liberating in packing your life in order to move homes: a chance to prune it and get rid of excess baggage. It is the first time in years that I am managing to plan a holiday for myself. I do feel uneasy though, wondering how it will feel to spend two weeks free roaming in Easter Europe, all that unplanned time to fill in without any prior purposes, all the choices… Summer is here now I have stored all my spring MOIblog images and opened up a new folder. This time next week someone else will be leaving in this place, my new home in the laurels will be full of boxes waiting for my return, and I will be putting up my show in St Yrieix, Marcus Kaiser will be there too to perform his interpretation of the king, Forgetting Elvis/Blue Elvis a composition for cello and video. How exciting…
Posted moiblog0708 26 days ago
Week 30 31 32 33 34 may day may day
—Apocalyptic week before the first bank holiday of the year, a storm in a tea cup but a storm nevertheless. Richard was made redundant after having to reapply for his job of deputy dean along with 4 others across the four campuses of UCCA, officially the price for much needed restructuration, unofficially an easy way to size down and get rid of unwanted or unruly members of staff. Two got the jobs they applied for, two went for early retirement and Richard didn’t feel the bill despite ten years of loyal services and speed climbing of the career ladder. No clear reasons given. It left a few of us really wondering about what kind of institutions we work for; it might be one of us next.
—Ken Livingstone got the boot too, no longer the mayor of London after more than 25 years on and off the job. It might have been time for him to go as some have suggested, bud do we deserve Boris, the eccentric public school boy who would be very useful as a scarecrow in a field with his mane of straw blond hair, birds would definitely fly off, what does he know about the need of Londoners, I mean not the privileged few like himself but all the inner city communities which are being pushed out and dismantled to make room for yet more luxury housing and corporate offices. Mr Johnson senior spoke on Radio 4 trying to convince us that his son was a serious politician despite appearances. How telling is that. His sister did the same a few days later. When I came to London twenty five yeas ago, the place looked and felt like a third world city, making me feel right at home, reminiscence of my childhood in Morocco, homeless and jobless abound. Ken really did wonders before Maggie kicked him out. I was there on the Southbank for the GLC farewell party; I shook his hand and photographed him too. Then he came back with Labour; by that time London was already on its way to become a beautiful and expensive city, one of the most expensive in the world. Even Brixton my neighbourhood became trendy, house prices trebling in five years, the lively community destroyed, most pubs and cafes having to close down to make room for soulless expensive brasseries and music bars, the locals not welcomed except as waiters, bar staff or door men. I live in Farnham now so I shouldn’t care but I do I do I do. Mind you even here the ship is sinking. In the past three months seven small shops have closed down in the centre of town, business is hard and rates too high. It is predicted that in the next few months 5 more shops will shut down when their lease come up for renewal, franchise and big names waiting in the aisle to take over.
—My dear friend Katy has lost her fight against cancer after eight years of resisting countless attacks always a smile on her face and boundless energy. She is leaving behind Nicolas and Roman, my godsons. Even harder than my grief and my frustration, anger, sadness, shame at not managing to be there when she needed me most or say my goodbyes face to face, is helplessly witnessing their shock and distress, what can be worse than losing your mother and only parent at 12 and 16, and trying to find the words, the gestures, the energy that could bring them some relief, however small. Both of them locked tight on their own pain, not coming to term with the irreversibility of it all, the possibility of the rest of their life without her, today, tomorrow, and the next day and the next and the next. There is family to take over the parenting and I am trying my best to be as present and supportive as I can, but how can it ever be enough. As painful and sad as it is to lose a close friend, it does make me feel even more eager to live it to the full. She did try so hard to hang in there, wanting so much from life for her boys, for herself.
—Apocalyptic month, an earthquake in China, hurricane in Burma, goodbye Hilary, goodbye Ken, hooray Obama, so long Katy, price of petrol hitting the roof, panic in wall street, So long Marianne made in Limousin, Culture does not come cheap or free I am afraid, it costs as much as anything else, sometimes more sometimes less, it requires the same investment than any other social or economical venture, when will politicians and power crazed civil servants learn that. I love a good recession. And I made it to June. With a soar heart and a smile. I remember the weight of her casket, only sign of her presence in there, wondering what she was wearing, which way was her head, really wishing I could have a last lasting look, better than having to imagine it day after day trapped in there. I have been thinking ever since that when I die, I would prefer to go up in flames.
Posted moiblog0708 40 days ago
Week 29 the end is nigh
—Life is good and in stereo again, my ears unplugged. Stress levels are high in Farnham right now, the end is nigh for all 48 of my tutees, pressure is on, tension rising, egos flying. I have to constantly remind myself to keep on step back or ahead, in order to take it all on board but let it slide and not letting it get to me, being able to leave it at the door when I go home. So far so good. Five days in France is giving me a chance to release some of the pressures. Weather is gorgeous here, nature finally exploding unashamed, all winter viruses have vanished, smiles are coming back, flesh is bared for the first time this year, mine stays covered, shy and concerned about the effect of a whole year with hardly any physical exercise other than dragging my suitcase back and forth across the channel. I am here to put the final touches to my first photographic exhibition in over 6 years starting on the first of July, Republique Francaise. The small book is almost ready to be printed and the final edit of images almost resolved, still one or two issues about cost to sort out.
—I am reading a lot of symbolist literature of 1890 compiled in Atlas press the book of masks; a strange mix of spiritualism, Puritanism, bourgeois decadent behaviour and sometimes anarchy. When it works it is quite powerful like in the case of Raymond de Gourmont or Jean Moreas or Marcel Schwob or Mallarme. A lot of the others I find quite tedious. One contemporary symbolist inspired book also published by atlas press is Circular walks around Rowley Hall by Andrew Lanyon, a brilliant selection of stories in words, drawing and images from his many books on the Rowley family of St Yves; a wonderful work recounting the life and work of a strange household of three eccentric characters and their conflicting ways of looking at life and art. I found a beautiful phrase about one of the main effect of the evolution from painting to more mechanical means of representation like photography and cinema. “ The moment pictures began to move mankind experienced a growing stillness, that trance-like inactivity of an audience hypnotised by its own image”. A world of Narcissus obsessed and blinded by our own fabricated reflections. Television and the media are the opium of the people of today, Religion requires too much commitment and active participation, it is left to terrorists, in a way the last true believers of this world. Even the preachers of today, pope included (his recent visit in America looked like a Madonna concert), prefer performing on television or in stadiums, churches are left empty or used for jumble sales.
—I watched this week all the Fritz Lang movies I could get my hands on, M, doctor Mabuse, Metropolis (still a masterpiece as powerful as George Orwell 1984, if not over optimistic and utopian). At the beginning and the end of Metropolis he wrote, the mediator between the head and the hand surely is the heart. He was speaking about the mediator between a boss and its employees, management and work forces, power and the masses, master and slaves… A beautiful idea in itself but not one I can associate with the ruthless capitalism that our rulers preach. The jeux de bouches video is almost finished, just lacking titles. I am pleased with the results considering the minimal budget, I only wish I had secured more funds to afford one more camera person, better sound quality and more time to edit. But it works and we have managed to convey the wonderful spirit and collective energy of old and young, amateur or professional, participant or spectator, locals and foreigners, vocalising together for a whole week-end.
Posted moiblog0708 77 days ago
Week 28 deaf on the left
—Ten days now that my left side is almost completely silent, my ear blocked by fluids stuck in one of the inner tubes. Half the world in mono is not much fun, I feel half trapped in myself and slightly drunk having lost my sense of balance, hearing my voice from inside my body, half getting what the world has to say, constantly asking others to speak up or repeat. It is hard to feel in tune with it all in these conditions. I am not sure what I would miss most if I had to choose between sight and hearing. I read this week something Schopenhauer wrote, so simple and so clear. “ The world is my representation. I do not see what is; what is is what I see “: quoted by Remy de Gourmont in its introduction to The book of Masks, French symbolists and decadent writing of the 1890’s, published by Atlas press. According to him there are as many diverse and different worlds as there are thinking minds. I find it difficult to argue against that statement. I am only wondering about what is a thinking mind? Every human being has a mind but how many thinking minds are there? Curious mind, sleeping mind, blind mind, lazy mind, borrowing mind, copying mind, confused mind, passive mind, these are easy to find, but a thinking mind is rarer. I do not see and hear what is, what is is what I see and hear. What is is what I see and hear. A silent world is a dead world, like Mogadishu, the capital of Ethiopia which has been left in ruins and deserted by its inhabitant, destroyed by internal struggle for power fuelled by American involvement to protect their economical and political interests in the region.
—While my various cold bugs are slowly dying and my air ways clearing up, I am catching up on sleep and news of the world on the radio, sometimes kept awake by reports of the ruthless games of capitalist monopoly unashamedly going on everywhere in the world. There are moments when I truly appreciate living here in Farnham with its gentle pace, despite the temperamental weather and high stress levels of students, seeing the end of their studies approaching fast. It is my favourite period of the teaching year, seeing final projects coming together, witnessing newly found confidence and maturity and the look of surprise on their faces when they become conscious of it. Last week end Thomas was here, visiting from New York, bringing me back little treasures, such as signed copied of Matha Rosler’s books and DVDs, Semiotics of the kitchen, vital statistics, and 3 works. We went together to the Pataphysical Museum and Archive hosted by Alaster Brotchie and Atlas Press, in the front room of a large (Victorian?) house in Highgate: a cabinet of curiosity full of rare Pataphysical and Oulipo works and documents. A timeless space, dark and stuffy, full to the brim and wonderful. The occasion was a display of Daniel Spoerri’s work and in particular various re-editions of his seminal Topography of chance, I have already the 1990 centre Pompidou reprint on the occasion of his retrospective there, a great show that is still inspiring my know, 18 years later. I couldn’t help getting the Atlas Press 1994 editions with wonderful supplementary annotations from Emmet Williams and Dieter Roth, and illustrations by Topor a truly wonderful continuation of the work in time. All kind of odd characters were mingling or hanging around, amateurs and specialists of all ages and shapes, among them an incredibly tall and lanky young woman with thick spectacles and her equally tall parents, al three with a timeless feel, they could equally fit in a late 19th or early 20th scene, buzzing around taking pictures, making notes, commenting…
—Thomas then travelled back to 2008 and found ourselves at the pool hall underneath centre point, to play and catch up with Steve, Richard and jochen, now a regular occasion when Thomas is visiting. In more than a year of not playing my game has improved greatly, consequently my enjoyment in playing too. Or was it the luscious red of the pool table or the lingering energy of Daniel Spoerri influence on my senses: his beautiful wands, collage postcards and table tops. More MOIblog images
Posted 97 days ago
Week 25-26-27 Easter and spring on springs
—Farnham, London, Saragossa, Madrid, Paris, Limoges in seven days flat, leaving me on my knees and mixing Spanish, French and English when I speak. The editing of Jeux de Bouches with Karen is going slow due to technical problems, I am losing the feel of it all and getting slightly worried. The exhibition El cuerpo (re)sentido in el Centro de Historia in Saragossa is a great success: beautiful space, some great works, particularly Jemima Stheli new video work, great hotel, amazing food, perfect timing as we were there during the Semama Santa, holy week which the Spanish always celebrate with great rituals of re enactment and processions. Sebastian and I managed to find us always at the right place to witness the best displays with amazing drumming and the traditional Ku Klux Klan like pointy hat and gigantic handheld carriages. It is all quite hypnotic, the processions last for about five hours through the centre of town with the same repetitive cycles of marching and stillness. We managed to catch both the beginning and the end of it at around 10 pm when each handheld carriage disappears amidst frenzied drumming down a slope through the Cathedral imposing entrance, giving the impression of being swallowed up. The crowd is clapping generously the mix of showmanship religious fervour and self-inflicted hardship. The weight of the carriages is tremendous, the pain and strain showing right from the start on the faces of all involved in the carrying.
—VINST is behaving very well in this beautiful museum with a beautiful alabaster wall and polished ceramic floors and perfect lighting. The grand surroundings gives it a certain dignity and having to play and listen to it via headphones brings a new dimension to the work, a more intimate experience as well as being able to observe the silent choreography of the sounds.
—I am now in France in time for Easter weekend and my niece second communion, her first communion last year was the pretext for a gigantic trampoline, and this year it is a laptop. What a farce. Tomorrow will probably be the last time she will ever visit a church. My sister, her mother, had to bribe her other older children (who all went through it for the same reasons, a big gift) to make sure they all attend the service: no church, no feast afterwards and no Easter eggs. The church service was real torture, I have rarely seen a priest with least talent and charisma, it lasted two hours and a bit, the sermon was awful, truly boring, a succession of meaningless words trying to put together one or two simplistic ideas, no poetry, no dogma, not even anything to rebel against. I was looking forward to Easter classic singing, Gloria in excelsis deo… Instead we had a contemporary equivalent with live guitar, only a few could follow the choir leader and her cheap mezzo soprano voice. I kept my fingers occupied by making small dice with the wax of the candle we were all given just before crucifixion time.
—The traditional communion cake has been customised. Chloe my niece loves animal and dogs in particular; she has begged her parents to have one for years. Her room is full of dog replicas of all kind, from soft cuddly toys of all sizes, to posters, photographs, drawings and all kind of related electronic games, including a desktop dog you have to feed and look after. The cake was topped with a framed portrait of a smiling German shepherd painted with butter and cream of various colours on a dark toffee canvas, overshadowing the customary small figurine of a saintly looking youth in white robe holding a candle. The feast of delicious roast lamb served with white beans in tomato sauce preceded by numerous aperitif and canapés of all kind was followed by the customary hiding of Easter eggs of all sizes, from mammoth to pigeon size. Then the delicate operation of splitting the eggs equally among all involved regardless how active or successful one has been in retrieving them: no capitalist aspiration allowed, for once during this long Easter / communion ritual some form of Christian spirit does prevail.
—We had a whiter Easter, cold and windy, a rare occurrence and a disastrous one for fruit growers, as it usually bring ‘black frost’ (turning fruits black). It has already damaged almost half of the production in the southwest, of mainly apricots and pears. Summer will be bleak, shortage of fruits, high prices, and a bad year for homemade jam. The general mood is low around here and cold viruses of all kind are being passed around endlessly. I caught them all within two days of my arrival, a mix of head cold, stomach bug, flue like symptoms and bronchitis, living me flat for three days, staring at the wind and hale storms through my bay windows, while trying to complete a funding application for the regional arts board here in France, concerning my next project, Marianne made in Limousin this summer. First time I do such a thing here and finding the right French words to sum up my practice was no easy task, and fever probably helped. I haven’t yet dared reading back what I came up with, I can only hope it reads better than the French translation of my English statement. Time will soon tell…
I had this vivid image last week while waiting for my luggage at the airport in Paris. I saw a big balloon that some unknown force (or numerous drugs) had inflated for ten months continuously, then let lose to roam through space in crazy loops until completely deflated. I am half wondering when and where that would be.
Posted 109 days ago
Week 23-24 storm is the norm
—Last weekend I lost my hat and a chunk of my heart in Munich, the wind storm was so bad for a couple of days that they both flew away on leap day of this leap year. Who invented the 29th anyway? More to the point which Scottish half wit invented the silly custom of allowing women to propose on that day only? And even more to the point since when do I feel obliged to stick to the rules and take this custom seriously? Was it being in Munich, or the storm or leap day or the effect on me of Marcus’s wonderful living installation/vivarium Uberumterung / opernfraktal, complete with tropical jungle and crickets, the purpose of my visiting Munich together with meeting up with Joachim who hosted my artist in Heaven residency in Austria, a couple of years ago. Maybe it was that overwhelming mix of testosterone and creative juices flying around, being surrounded by 3 uber men. Anyway the point is I became over emotional and couldn’t help expressing my feelings in the machoest of manners, a mother of all macho behaviour that I couldn’t control. Quite funny in retrospect but highly embarrassing at the time and definitely counter productive. No regrets, no deep scars, just wishing I could perhaps stop treating certain fundamental parts of life as a project, some of the time at least.
—Maybe it was Spring working its wonders on my nerves, like it is doing all around me, bursting at the seems, blowing winds in all directions, a storm is brewing as I write, and hale storms too, so heavy in Munich that it looked like loud snow, covering the city in 15 minutes flat. Yesterday in Elstead Nature reserve I caught the most perfect full rainbow and its reflection in the clouds above, in between two April showers, the light was absolutely magnificent and surreal. I couldn’t stop snapping away while feeling guilty about this compulsion to record it all rather than living the moment fully. I do love the image though and this rare moment lives on, the power of the photography at its most basic level.
—This is the first weekend in months that I can let go for a bit and take time to just be in my own time and my own pace, standing still for a couple of days, still mind, still heart, still body and savouring every minute of it, without thinking of all that is waiting at the door. Next weekend I shall be in Saragossa showing VINST as an installation, then onward to St Yrieix via Paris, finalising details and funding for the Marianne made in Limousin project in June July as well as giving visual documentation of the Jeux de Bouches project to the various participants. The editing of the video is progressing well, using the interpretation of the great Learning by Cornelius Cardew as a structure and the core on which we are weaving the various aspects of the projects. I have high hopes for the outcome.
—I have watched a documentary on Marcus Coates and his dawn chorus work, as well as a range of his video work on trying to become animal, I am fascinated by the equal poignancy of his failing and succeeding to do so or of his shamanic experiments to resolve contemporary social issues. I saw the Rothko retrospective in Munich, very disappointing as it was very difficult to engage with the work in this gallery in a trendy shopping mall with a very cool and clinical museum presentation, bright neon light and a big queue in front of each work with a constant murmur of the commenting voices coming from the headphones most were wearing. Not the way to enjoy the work, how wrong, but none seemed to mind. The Tate displays are so much more successful. By chance on the same day I came across a solo show of Scott King at Kunstverein Munchen, a big white cube styke gallery, perfect for its potent and sharp pastiche of our media driven society in glorious technicolors, his Lenin as Ziggy head sculpture is hilarious. Two films that have impressed me this week, Time code unknown by Michael hanecke, a beautiful work on everyday life and loosely connected stories of survival, and Ghosts by Nick Broomfield on the death of 24 Chinese illegal workers on Morecombe bay two years ago, using ex illegal Chinese immigrants as actors to re tell this awful story. Both films speak about immigration in such a powerful way. I wonder why politicians and policy makers can’t do the same, but maybe the answer is only to clear. I am about to close the winter folder of my MOIblog images, I love endings. they give me a certain sense of achievement and wonder about what comes next, even if it is only a new folder.
Posted 131 days ago
Week 22 back on tracks
—Yesterday Fidel Castro’s successor was chosen; a long page of history is turning. And I haven’t had the chance to see him give one of his famous long-winded speeches. I heard an extract on the radio today and I do love his slow and clear delivery with big echoing words: who else can still speak about the revolution and mean it after fifty years of it. On the other hand Sarkozy and Madame la presidente’s honeymoon with the press is over. It must hurt but they are probably working on a revival, what will it be, adultery? Divorce? Or nearly Immaculate Conception? Their official visit to England is getting close and I hear on the radio that the French ambassador was already stressing over palace etiquette, apparently Madame intend to bring her guitar to the royal visit in hope of singing a song. Surely this is a joke. It is hard to know as the international political circus is becoming more and more like a soap opera cum puppet show. We are ruled by caricatures inspired by Dallas and Dynasty with a bit of Eastenders flavour.
—University life has its fair share of political and diplomatic games, which have little to do with teaching. It is all about maintaining a high profile, negotiating influences in high places in order to find the right balance between personal interest and institutional progress. It is the nature of the beast that you always have to go forward, to do more, to expand your involvement if you do not want to be left behind. I am now encouraged to go for a readership and perhaps develop performance studies across the campus. Considering the success of the workshops I have been running this year, and their impacts on the students, it is a good idea and I do feel up to it. But I am not sure I want the academic responsibility or to be more involved with the institution than I currently am. The outsider inside me is reminding me to always keep one foot free. Are the two incompatible? I wonder. What is more important is that although I am now enjoying Farnham and the non city life, I am not yet happy with my living arrangement and I haven’t found yet a suitable solution; the right accommodation at the right price.
—Birds are singing non-stop and the first trees are in blossoms, Daffodils everywhere, Nature is waking up. We humans find it a bit more difficult: tired faces, sore throats and runny noses and low moods abound, it must be spring. This new cycle has been preceded by a few close encounters with death. My young mechanic is France, who helped me out the day I flew back ten days ago, died in a car crash during a local race. Debby’s mother collapsed and died without any prior warning. My dear aunt Kiki, the Franciscan none, is on her way out, deteriorating fast in the past two weeks; no particular illness, just a body and a mind at the end of their strength. I am dreading that call everyday. I am hoping to visit her at Easter but I am not sure she can wait. Time goes so fast, she told me. She appears calm and ready.
Posted 145 days ago
Week 19-20-21 riding the wave
—My longest week so far, twenty-four packed days in between here and there. Jeux de bouches is over and I am feeling over the moon, proud, fulfilled and on the high despite complete exhaustion. Last week end while Camden was going up in flames, St Yrieix la Perche was being invaded by hundreds of happy, loud, hungry and unruly mouths of all kinds, from all over, Holland, Germany, Finland, London, Paris, Grenoble and local ones too. Preceded by a few sensational headlines and articles in the press, endless announcements and reminders on local radio to motivate and inform the town as well as an interview on the regional TV news on the purpose of it all, the two days were a total success: great audiences and participation, perfect synergy between amateur, professionals and volunteers, a street parades of around 200 loud mouths of all ages crossing the city followed by passers by, an interpretation of The Great Learning paragraph 3 of Cornelius Cardew by members of the local choir, teachers and students from the music school, a few other volunteers and myself led by Sebastian Lexer, that left the audience entranced and speechless throughout; neither spectators or participants were familiar with such music, let alone improvisation. It was a truly magical experience for all. It was very difficult over the past three months to convince people to take part and try something new and radically different. At the first workshop with Sebastian only a few brave ones turned up, anxious and shy. They did enjoy it so much that they rallied all their colleagues for the next workshop and on the night, the stage was full and as the work progressed the voices and instruments were getting more confident and adventurous. A beautiful work that will be the backbone and lead of the documentary Karen Livesey and myself are making of the whole project.
—Elodie in the bistroquet restaurant cooked for the occasion the most amazing stuffed carp that she was serving for the duration of the event I had never seen such a big soft water fish, more than 70 cms long without the head. She presented it on my parent’s Moroccan silver mechoui (whole roasted lamb) tray, it looked so perfect and decadent, very Peter Greeneway I felt. Even the weather was with us, blue sky with warm sun. It is one of the rare times when I am entirely satisfied and thrilled by a project that went way beyond my expectations. I have no criticism, no reservations, no doubt, no regrets; a small one maybe, I was looking forward to the special and unique opportunity of performing in front of my parents and sister and niece for the first time; I was very eager to share with them one of my special orgasmic vocal work, but the opportunity didn’t arise as Sebastian stopped playing VINST a bit prematurely for some reason and neither VINST or I (in a VINST costume) had a chance to reach a climax, we ended instead with a very beautiful silence which drowned my frustration, I don’t think I will have another chance.
—On Monday when I left, a lot of the town was talking about it all, everybody was smiling and waving at me when I crossed the town in my old English Peugeot 205. A lot of people (officials and others) in the past six months admired my energy and drive but thought I was foolish and naïve to think I could succeed in getting the town involved, let alone interested in my eccentric project. But we did it, they did it. It was such a treat to see the look of surprise and pride on their faces when they realise that they were part of what happened, they were involved and they enjoyed it. And now they want some more. Wonderful. I am so looking forward to finish the documentary with Karen but also to bring together all the photographs, all the mouths masks produced, all the contributions throughout.
—I am now back in Farnham for a bit, taking stock, unwinding and catching up on sleep in between university duties, so happy not to be in hectic London. The sun is out, the daffodils too, a taster of spring, before the weather deteriorate again for a couple of months, as it does every year.
Posted 155 days ago
Week 17-18 settled in the dark
—Wind rain and lack of light, it is January for sure, and February and March too in our beloved island. I feel as if I could touch the sky, it is so low. The beech tree in front of my bedroom window is stirring the clouds, majestically swinging in the wind, I am hypnotised every morning, postponing to the last minute getting up. I feel a bit more settled here, a simple matter of acceptance as well as trying to adapt to country life now I have understood that I needed to abandon my London ways for new ones. Daily walks on the multitude of surroundings footpaths, dedicated period of time off from working, thinking, teaching, writing (last weekend I went to Brighton for Eva and Maz’s birthday and a stroll on the beach singing with the seaguls), more planning of cultural, urban and social fix which used to be on tap, preventing the recluse inside me taking over. And it is already time to uproot myself, just over two packed weeks here and France feels like a distant dream.
—Yet Mouth games is getting close, emails are flying back and forth, everybody is getting excited and ready, I am often kept awake by details, lose ends, things to remember, things forgotten or dreaming of floating, sinking among thousands of mouths. The project is in full swing over there, kept alive by a web of unpaid enthusiasts and volunteers and paid cultural and city workers. It took a few stressing months to create and activate this formless Bwo (body without organ), it is now finally starting to show signs of independent life, its various parts sparking off and feeding each other. It is very exciting I do feel like withdrawing now, my work is complete, letting it take over for the final steps of preparation and the celebrations of the 8th and 9th. I am not sure I would dare though, or that my absence would be understood as part of the concept. I did mention it in passing before leaving; it was taken as a bad joke or a cowardly move. It has been accepted, if not entirely understood, that I am the artist behind the project, as opposed to “in front” or “my project”, it was written in the press as such, yet they had to find another leader for their headline so they chose VINST, my virtual and vocal alter ego. I also feel that revealing or clarifying too much at this stage might jeopardise the process by bringing in too much self-consciousness or confusion depending on the understanding.
—It doesn’t stop me thinking about it and trying to articulate what I have tried to do. One image that comes to mind when I think of my role in this project or where to look for the Art is as follow. I had a spark of an idea and I wanted to ignite a whole forest with it, I found a few twigs, then a few branches, then bigger logs. Once I had built and lit the fire, I only had to keep an eye on it, blowing now and then, finding a few more logs, making sure it didn’t collapse on itself or disappear in smoke. The flames do the rest. And I am there to admire and document it all, making sure to not interfere too much, yet stressing at my lack of control over the outcome.
—In true winter mode I am knitting again in the evening, adding a few more hats to the collection, while listening to music or watching dvd’s on my laptop; Donny Darko, Breakfast on Pluto, the shout, fellini’s dolce vita and 8 1/2, the ratcatcher, Jean vigo’s l’atalante, zero de conduite, Tatis and a propos de Nice….. My fingers slowly remembering the moves and the feel of the wool getting shaped. There is also the time spent chatting on Skype to Dany in Paris. It is still new to me and I can’t get over how magical it is, a familiar disembodied voice coming from my laptop as clear as if it was in the room. absolutely magical….
Posted 182 days ago
Week 14-15-16 heaven and hell
—Christmas is finally over, one to remember as it is marking the end of family reunion for us. We were 20 in total uprooted in the Alps courtesy of my brother, spread in between 2 cottages and his brand new apartment in this beautiful small ski village with breathtaking views on surroundings mountain peaks, glorious weather, perfect snow, a full moon, a perfect setting for a perfect family Christmas. Yet none of us really felt like being there for various reasons to do with silly unresolved grievances with one another.
Christmas eve went well enough, a few tensions but nothing major, everybody going through the well-known rituals of eating drinking, opening presents and thanking each other. On Christmas day, after dinner all hell broke, twenty five years of unreleased tension, everybody unloading their frustrations as a pack of dogs or vultures, on the one who continuously dares not comply with the rules of the majority, thus always triggering mounting anger and frustration. It was human nature at its worse, the ugliest mob action I have ever experienced, the object of so much grievances responding fiercely at first before collapsing in tears and shock. I tried to calm things down with little effect, a can of worm had been opened, and nothing could close it again. She left never to return for the rest of the week, hiding in pain and hurt pride, the rest of them feeling satisfied that all was resolved, the culprit punished, life could go on in paradise “altogether”, very little after thought or concern for the one left behind. I remained silent, not daring voicing my thoughts, dreading a similar treatment, so glad when it was finally over. I am to blame in a way as I had my share of grievances like the others and I was the one to offer that we discuss it all over diner, an open and friendly exchange to clear the air. How naïve and stupid could I be for thinking it possible. I tried to make amend, apologising for suggesting it, spending time with her, walking in the most beautiful scenery, trying to mend some of it in silence. The children were so shocked and wounded by such behaviours form their elders, finding it hard to reconcile the strong bond that unites them all as cousins and the instinct to defend their parents. They vowed never to let anything like that ever happen between them.
She was far from being free of blame, but never deserved such bashing, nobody does.
—I am now back in St yrieix, more tired, depressed and stressed than when I left still not daring to voice my feeling, most are still righteous about it all, far from sharing some of the blame for what happened. I do feel that my coming back to France after 24 years, with my big mouth and my eccentric ways has unsettled the fragile balance of family ties. I have slowly but surely rebuilt communication and ties and forgiveness with most by encouraging dialogue openness and tolerance, rather than keeping it all in or speaking behind others back. I am wondering now what monster I have unleashed. Maybe silence is best.
—There are mouths everywhere in St Yrieix, Jeux de bouches might all work out…. America might get a black muslim president or a woman, the Paris Dakar rally has been cancelled for the first time due to terrorist threat in Mauritania, Sarkosy is dating a ex top model/ popstar two months after his divorce and a few months after his visit to the pope, where he officially endorsed the catholic religion as the state religion, something no other president ever dared doing not even De gaulle, a fervent catholic. He is already taking her on official foreign visit:Egypt, Jordania, Disneyland…
Posted 196 days ago
Week 12-13 longer than ever
- 6.30am on a Saturday morning, pitch dark outside the south western train taking me to London, trying to make it to Stanstead by 9.30am, fingers and buttocks crossed. It took me the past two weeks to recover mentally and physically form my last trip to France, the hardest two weeks since the end of the battle, finding myself once again at the edge of body and mind without the logical excuse of being a chemical plant, and almost wishing I was. Patience, yoga, self-control and the warmth of friendship have kept me safe from total collapse.
— My mind is constantly racing among the many hurdles of my two lives arrangements, not being able to settle on what is not right, my finances are close to total disaster. Yet apart from peace of mind I seem to have achieved everything I wanted to in these past few months. Possibly too much in too short time for me to cope with. It hasn’t yet turned out to be the ideallic and picturesque life I had imagined it to be. I have yet to establish a sense of belonging in both places in order to put to rest my feline territorial instincts.
—These past few days have been the usual seasonal frenzy of endless Christmas parties and strategic shopping. I have managed to keep it down to 2 work does, a big lump of Stilton and a big Christmas cake to take to France.
—It is minus 5 here with glorious sunshine and my car windscreen was covered with frost inside and out. The fields are frozen; some already have piles of dung waiting to be spread. I was welcomed by an enthusiastic article on my project Jeu de bouche in the local Newspaper, which came out last week, my parents kept it for me proudly. Even the mechanic I took my car too yesterday mentioned it when I introduced myself to him. Hopefully it will mean that a lot of the population will come out and play on the day…
So far all is going according to plan, the poster should be ready at the end of this week and everybody seems to be happily working on his or her various contributions. Yet I get very anxious when I think of all there is still to organise and bring to life somehow, all these mouths masks and costumes for the parade, the collective feast of the Friday evening, enough musicians and vocalists for the Cornelius Cardew great learning Paragraph 3 … Never has a project put me in such a state of panic, not even when I took my clothes off in front of a packed audience for the piece I confess. I was in control then, for this work I am deliberately trying no to, in order to allow for the collaborative and communal aspect of the venture to take place. So I am left with the usual stress and adrenaline but nowhere in particular to let it out. It would feel so much better to be my usual control freak…
The naked trees look majestic in the sunshine, newly pruned and ready for a harsh winter. I am about to close the autumn folder of moiblog.
Posted 214 days ago
Week 10-11 to hell and back
—7am on a Sunday morning on a stanstead train, another episode on my jetsetter experiment after three days in London for the ICA book fair. I love London. Four weeks of my provincial life in Farnham was enough to revive the old flame, I am revelling in the noise and chaos and visual stimulation and the warmth of friendship. BookRoom stall at the fair looks great with quite a few new works; we received an award for Astrid trilogy on pig dissection. I have sold a few books of my own and THE YEAR yearbook commemorating my battle against the pirates, complete with DVD supplement and recipes has been very well received, well worth the struggle and frustration to get the design right. The fair itself has lost a bit of its spirit, a feeling shared by most participants. Thomas and Lisa are in town from New York, bad timing as we just had time for a quick drink before I had to take off.
—The issue of the moment is how to get the balance right. However exciting and productive this month has been, performance workshops, cultural and national identity lecture, funding application, THE YEAR, the book fair, AHRC network project and Pakistan trip well on the way, Brighton week end, country walks, I did feel quite isolated and very cold in my new home. I need to find ways of making it a bit easier on myself until I feel a bit more at home (or not); more London trips, 1 or 2 Farnham connections or activities. Words are not set in stones but actions and changes recently put in place may well be if I do not watch out. Such a great desire to move back to Brixton.
—Half way through my week in France now, tomorrow is my father’s 80th birthday, reminiscence of my mothers surprise party last year. A small one is planned too but the mood is different this time and the ambiance not as friendly with slight sisterly tensions, due to my lingering presence here, I am dreading having to face the signs of rejection once more. I am enjoying my new abode here, very quiet and sparse and warm, I only wish I could say the same about some of my work commitment which are getting harder and harder to negotiate, I am not sure why and I am not sure how long I can go on for. I visited the school of image today in Angouleme, a couple of hours away, to introduce Jeux de bouches project to students and staff. Great response from all and a great feel to the place, situated on the riverbank, 30 students maximum per year, compared to our 50 to 60 in UCCA, a very friendly laid back atmosphere. The mood is very low, stress very high, weather true to the season, freezing and grey, studio very cold, French finance almost as bankrupt as English one after a major car breakdown, Christmas less than a month a way, desperately looking for some light relief somewhere, finding a bit of it sitting by the fireplace at my parents, relaxing in the warm glow of the burning wood.
—Back in Farnham after a hell train journey back from Southampton airport, it took 5 hours; reasons being the usual sunday engineering work on the tracks resulting in 3 changes to get to Woking, followed by a succesful suicide on the tracks in Porchester, which paralysed the rest of the network while I was reaching my third change Fareham, and no emergency plan B of course. We were simply told to go back home! or wait 2 or 3 hours or take a taxi to Varant and wait for the London train there, which I did, sharing the ride with a fairly big in size student priest on his way to administer the funeral rites of an old family friend. When we got there 20 pounds lighter in money, all was worse there, the network was still on hold because of the death on the tracks AND there was a tree on the tracks somewhere along the line….. What a f***ing week !
Posted 230 days ago
Week 9 remembrance and the sea
—I was in Brighton last weekend, instead of my weekly London fix, visiting Eva who moved there 2 years ago, a long overdue fists visit. Being by the sea was so precious, to see to feel to smell to breathe to sing along with the seagulls. I was amused to notice they have a very different accent then French ones, with an added southern drawl to their 3 consecutive high pitch call, very melodic but quite hard to get right, Eva was much better at it, she had two years of practice, and a great life there by the sea, with a lovely house on the hills of this buzzing continental town and a great studio in Hove close to the water. It made me realise how alien my own set up in Farnham felt, very provincial, with very little potential apart great country walks, amazing charity shops and the proximity of work. It is quite a lot but not sure it will be enough to keep me here very long. It is early days but I am wondering if I will ever feel at home here, visiting Brighton reinforced that feeling. As pretty and charming as it is I think I will always feel alien here. A feeling I am used to since an early age, in Morocco, then coming back to France in my teens then in London. It is ok being an alien among others in London, the ultimate city of outsiders, but here is different, not many of us, such a traditional wealthy white middle class community. Work brought me here not the place itself.
—Doubts are crawling everywhere as persistent and dark as cockroaches making me feel quite depressed, the heating in my house is not efficient, making it all even more grim and staying at home working away on my computer quite unbearable. I have spent most of my time in the past two weeks editing and designing THE YEAR, a cross between a year book and an almanac bringing together the first 51 weeks of MOIBLOG, my refurbishment year in France: 64 pages of it, complete with pictures, recipes, poster, DVD supplement, hat collection. Perhaps it is explaining my low mood, having to go through the whole adventure, the ups and downs of my battle time and time again, in order to get the design and the feel right. It is very difficult to get the balance right between the newspaper format and the diary style of weekly entry and between textual and image content. I want it to be ready for the ICA book fair next week. More doubts, this time about the whole project, yet my instinct and my stubbornness prevent me from giving up. Beside it is starting to work and to look quite good.
—I haven’t felt that low for a very long time. Yet there are lots of nice things happening, the ICA book air next week, my republique francaise book displayed on the Print Matters website new available publications, going to France next week to move on jeu de bouche project and celebrate my father’s 80th birthday, an invitation to go and perform in New York, a possible visit to Pakistan and Bangladesh to organise links with the university, and more. Maybe I should resort to the wonderful molecule I was given last year to regulate my drug induced crazy mood swings. On Remembrance day, I saw parades of children in uniforms marching down the streets of Guildford, it looked there were no mre veterans around. I revisited Almodovar High heels, the actor playing the roles of the judge and the transvestite is so convincing and so sexy as both.
there are more moiblog images to look at.
Posted 245 days ago
Week 8 Death and Doris crack
—Time for fire crackers fireworks bonfires and fancy dress, the more the merrier, enough to make your forget the day of the dead, the dead past present and future, our own death, Death with a big D, enough to disguise anything to do with it. What is it that we are so scared off, dying itself, ageing, what comes after or what precedes it? I do wonder. In Farnham Park it was amazing to observe hundreds of faces staring up in wonder at the fireworks, despite the awful disco music trying to compete with it. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to celebrate Death that way, going out with spectacular bangs of colours and light? I think I am going to ask for fireworks when I die, just two or three big bangers when I do go up in smoke. And Champagne for all.
—Autumn here is Farnham is even more spectacular than in the Limousin, the landscape is actually quite similar, hills and forests, but there are more varieties of trees here and the colours are more vivid, more saturated. On Sunday Jason took me to a few of the surrounding hotspots to explore; the witches cove, the ruins of Waverley abbeys and Bore woods where the battle in the movie Gladiator was shot. In the first forest we walked through the beech trees were very old and so high that you could hardly see the top without stretching you neck as far back as possible; Jason explained that they owed their respectable age to their inadequacy as ship building material in previous centuries. All these and many others are within ten minutes drive of my front door, a fact I find hard to adjust to, being so used to escape to such places from London when I did manage to extract myself from the city, which is easiest said than done.
—My newly acquired car, the Proton, is a very thirsty creature but loves equally the small country lanes or the A31 taking me to London and the Tate modern, the current epicentre of my social life. I was there last week-end, meeting up with Roz and Petri and revisiting the wonderful sculptures of Louise Bourgeois and hopping along Doris crack, such an effective and playful aggression on the building and its overwhelming size: a perfect choice of scale. I refused to read the blurb contextualising the work, preferring to see it solely as an intervention on the powerful architecture of the Tate itself. With the artist challenging the foundation of the Art institution that chose her. On my next visit I will find out about her intentions.
—I have spent this week wondering how I did manage to catch head lice, for the first time in my life. I was horrified and disgusted at first and almost shave my head in a panic. Instead I scrubbed my home form top to bottom and put in the washing machine everything I might have worn or just touched for the past 2 weeks. The mystery remains unsolved and made me face the sad fact that I haven’t been physically close to anybody, close enough for our heads to touch, for more than a month, and the bastards don’t jump. Did I bring them back form France or New York? My other life in France feels really remote and I sometimes panic when I think about it waiting patiently for me there, projects, home and studio.
Posted 256 days ago