ARTISTS TALKING

# 9 [3 March 2007]

"In every heart there is a room"... and mine in in this room, occasionally but rarely floating up the curling plastic Italian staircase where I'd like to imagine sleep tucked eight in a bed, are Laura Ingalls Wilder and her siblings, cousins and neighbors, waiting for the Winter of Darkness to end and her father to stop twisting dead grasses into logs for the fire (I've tried it, it's harder than it sounds).

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, and on the ground floor falling lower it is toasty and warm, lights flicking on and off like angry candles - spontaneously combusting and dying at their leisure, and I am here, I am alive, and I greet you, even if your greeting isn't so much of one as a maneuvering around looking at what in your mind (and perhaps now in mine) is 'not really what you were expecting'. 

The day is nearly over and I can say that it has been worth the little physical energy and rather unexpected mental energy to complete the week. I'll take seven more, in three months time...

Enter - was clearly looking for something and clearly always will be:
"Thanks, yes could I have her name."
"Chao."
Exit - was clearly looking for something and clearly always will be.

Enter - a slightly tubby little boy (yes, I can say that), and a thinner one with a football:
"Do we have to pay to have a look around?"
"Thanks a lot."
Exit - a slightly tubbly little boy (yes, I can say that), and a thinner one with a football.

Enter - woman in reddish pink jacket, perhaps a daughter in tow (though she wasn't of the age that needed to be towed, I expect it was for another necessary reason):
"Is this a place anyone can put up things?"
"We have a place...even crafts and other things?"
"Is that an American accent? Where in America?"
"Thank you ever so much."
Exit - woman in reddish pink jacket, perhaps a daughter in tow (though she wasn't of the age that needed to be towed, I expect it was for another necessary reason).

Enter - couple (women, dressed to nines all gold jewelry with a laugh that read years of smoking capris) and man in comb over and gold rimmed specs:
"Do we have to go upstairs?"
"Heahha, heahha."
"What we'd expect is right."
Exit - couple (women, dressed to nines all gold jewelry with a laugh that read years of smoking capris) and man in comb over and gold rimmed specs.

Enter - two lovely ladies who'd just been to 'Mrs Potter' so they were and took a moment to look around:
"Quite into our drawings now you see."
"Oooohh it was delightful."
"See, it has perspective."
"Well, what we've discovered is that you're not from this Island...is that why Africa is so big on your map?"
Exit - two lovely ladies who'd just been to 'Mrs Potter' so they were and took a moment to look around.

Enter - purple hair carrying really really really strange dead flowers (where do people find these things and then why do they put them in their homes?):
"Clever inn'it."
Enter - purple hair carrying really really really strange dead flowers (where do people find these things and then why do they put them in their homes?).

Enter - couple (one large/one not so large...not so large one carrying the bags of course) eyeing the stairs before they even get the door open:
"They look lovely but..."
"Thank you."
Enter - couple (one large/one not so large...not so large one carrying the bags of course) eyeing the stairs before they even get the door open.

Enter - classic white short sleeved polo shirt, dark jeans and black boots, backpack, sweater around the waist, with a  pointed, yet slow walk of a SATURDAY AFTERNOON AT THE MUSEUM girl:
"Thank you."
Exit - classic white short sleeved polo shirt, dark jeans and black boots, backpack, sweater around the waist, with a pointed, yet slow walk of a SATURDAY AFTERNOON AT THE MUSEUM girl.

and finally: they'll never read another word of their work, but introducing a wider (however narrow they may be) public to a shrewdly edited scrap of A Thousand Plateaus by Deleuze and Guattari, ...who at one point dug me out of a hole in the middle earth of my postgraduate degree theory seminars... is enough on a day (week) like this.

"when chaos threatens...draw an importable, inflatable territory" accompanied by eight bits of paper white picket fence cut outs, I guess it is just a little chuckle isn't it.

# 8 [3 March 2007]

my life is truly amazing.

i am now sitting in the gallery on my last day, I came down geared up to get a lot of good thinking done (after I read the Saturday paper - which up to this point was just inspiring anger and needing to look up books on Wikipedia)...and then I sat in some coffee.

So, now 1) I've clearly entered uber clumbsy week and 2) I'm sitting in the gallery wearing a makeshift skirt, formed from a rather minging old white t-shirst which goes just far enough down below my overcoat to make me not look completely ne'ked.

ooo victim no 1 to this sightly scene.

Enter - one of those people that wears glasses that go shaded outside and clear indoors...ooo fancy:
"Is that it?"
"Ha."
Exit - one of those people that wears glasses that go shaded outside and clear indoors...ooo fancy.

I have no symphathy or pity for these people, I've even decided that I could live in their town (though I admit it has more to do with the proximity to the greatest audience of all time ---- the sea........

I was running yesterday evening on that very seafront and grinning like a bloody fool. The smell of freshly cut grass was fronting a light breeze that was bringing in the evening and following mornings' showers. It was absolutely delightful. It hadn't fully occurred to me, in the majority of my life, I've lived a rather landlocked state, and even in the County of Kent, only 10 miles from the sea, I don't often think about it. But that evening, perhaps it was the state of the tide, or the steps build for the sailing club, or the clear inadequacy of a crow's build for seaflying and the obvious triumph by those wacky gulls at the same task...I don't know. Suddenly, I was running along the edge of the Royal Albert Hall of the sea, modest in it's acoustics but extraordinary in the views.

The evening couldn't have given me any more pleasure just as sitting trouserless in my gallery is now making a mere final day, a little more fantastic and it isn't even noon. Oh goody.

# 7 [2 March 2007]

i'm just about to sell out.

the lights didn't work when i came in this morning. i took

the momentary limping to run down to the shop and get the

local papers.

I'm thinking that if i stick around this county - allah

forbid - that i might live in this little town. hmmm.

I get rather excited when I see a notice that welcomes the

public down to the exhibtion i'm sitting in and the one

following that i've organized. yippee.

Man arrives to fix the lights. Sorted.

After a short while during which I have no recollection of

what I may have done. Phone calls?

Enter - man in green coat with shopping bags, reminds me of

the old men at my hometown church:
"Are there any pictures up stairs?"
"I'll come back...(and here I will tell you that I finished

his sentence with "...when there is something you'd like to

look at.")"
Exit - man in green coat with shopping bags, reminds me of

the old me at my hometown church.

I just want to come back, in July or August or whenever

there was another free week, take 4 days and hang up 10

slightly larger than A1 drawings. It would take me less than

7 days to make these drawings, without a doubt. I would

venture to guess, that if I advertised well. I would sell at

least one of them for somewhere between 100-300 quidsies. (I

have to write quidsies because there isn't a handy pound key

on my laptop.) So there it is, at once a personal challenge

and a public proposal. Everybody wins!! (Even though Mr.

Zerck is dancing in my ear again, holding up a hand drawn

sign stating "Sellout!" as cheerfully as blue smelly markers

can, his bushy eyebrows popping up and down.)

Enter - one of my favourite drawing students (whose actually

drawing skills are obscene - though I realize this is a

strange word to use - but his enthusiasm, actually that too

is in a constant state of decay, but he comes anyway...):
"I just parked across the street. It's great to see you in

here!"
"Well, if you are bored, I live here, I could come and

entertain."
Exit - one of my favourite drawing student (whose drawing

skills are obscene - though I realize this is a strange word

to use - but his enthusiasm, actually that too is in a

constant state of decay, but he comes anyway...).

And then I had to go to a meeting.

And when I came back, I was gearing up to go for a run on

the seafront so the time flew.

I could sleep in this gallery. I am more at home here than

in my house (and just as cold).

# 6 [1 March 2007]

I forgot to mention the open evening - laid out, was the very finest of all simple snacking spreads -- whole pears, glossy apples, cheese slices, carrot sticks and of course, Whoppers (as in the malted balls covered in choco, not that of the beefburger persuasion).

On my stroll before it all kicked off, I saw the depressingly critical (a style which I adore...) Jeremy Clarkson's 'The world according to...' in a shop window for less than 3 chucks. So I bought it thinking, if no one shows up, at least I'll be sitting warm and toasty in front of a fruit buffet, nibbling choco and hopefully laughing outloud at JCs antics. The day cannot end badly at this point.

And it didn't, a simple evening of answering simple questions about the work, passing out sad little plastic glasses of wine and discussing next weeks activities made it an enjoyable evening nonetheless. 

I don't particularly like this kind of event, but when you are doing it for yourself, underneath not wanting to bother, you see that they are an important part of the whole process. 

Good ridance, and I got to read the book on the long busride home, so everyone's a winner (except that pilot - ouch).

# 5 [1 March 2007]

With my day creeping towards noon with the energy of a deydrated slug. I am tempted so very tempted. And in fact I could quite severely justify this temptation.

I've already committed to nearly a 1/5 of a century in fees on that damn DV camera that is meant to be solidifying my place in 'the art world' and the comments from the previous evening put me in the category I had a sneaking suspiscion I was creeping into....'gentle' and 'sensitive', and a few 'excitings' thrown in for good measure but only because one person had written it and the next four left one of these " in the comment box.

I could take a long lunch, get some sea air and vid the seagulls dipping and flying on gusts of up to 18 mph as updated every 15 minutes by my web browser. Or I could put up one of those 'so polite it's rude' signs "due to unforeseen circumstances...", I can't be asked.

and even Jeremy Clarkson is boring me this morning, as is Mandy Moore, Gwen Stefani and Kafka. I even looked up the Battle of the Bulge at 11a on my Wiki-love and grew disinterested after the third line where it was "bloodiest", "U.S.", 19,000 dead. Lucky granddad made it home with his new cig habit, and forty years later had to wheeze himself into heaven, leaving his initial sharing son to run the dairy business into the future.

I blame dehydration and staying up late dreaming in every fairytale ever told, and waking up thinking I was in one. Who would have thought that the Princess Diaries coming out in the past five years actually would change my life.

Two whole guests entered the gallery in the span of 8 minutes.

Enter - woman who huffed a little, but at least made an attempt to read things by leaning closer to them on the wall a little bit like they were infected, if I hadn't been there I bet she would have held her hand up to her mouth:
"Hmmf."
"Is there more upstairs?"
Exit - woman who huffed a little, but at least made an attempt to read things by leaning closer to them on the wall a little bit like they were infected, if I hadn't been there I bet she would have held her hand up to her mouth:

Enter - man in orange who is blatantly looking for watercolours and/or thick black lines:
"Thanks very much."
Exit - man in orange who is blatantly looking for watercolours and/or thick black lines.

If anything my continued analysis, not even that, observation and slight fictivity of these inidividuals taking a few moments out of their day to 'pop in' should be enough to keep me here. It is, but then again, it's not.

62 minutes is my goal. I'm happy to call it 32 and spend the final 15 cleaning up and taking a trip into the newsagent for a seriously necessary bottle of still water before getting on another time sucking bus to read a time sucking 'sunday book' on a Wednesday afternoon with the taste of aniseed and licorice putrifying my tongue.

Did I mention the decaf? I tell you what those, I refuse to give up dreaming in fairy tales late into the evening, waking up thinking I'm Ariel or Beau sans beau.

That is worth it. 18 months and a handful of Gs and only 25 minutes to go. Gotta get cracking if I'm going to make this convincing.

Enter - man who could potentially be the building owner.
"It would take a lot more time to take it all in." (paraphrased slightly)
Exit - man who could potentially be the building owner. (He was.)

and then my head blew off in the wind.

# 4 [27 February 2007]

and then an amazing thing happened.

I started to get tired. I turned the heaters off and made
myself a cup of weak black coffee and let myself an nearly
two hours to finish the cup.

And somewhere between reading up on an international
research project and a third of the way through a now cold
cuppa, I began to sing.

"senor hijo unico, jesu christo
senor dios dios, hijo del padre"

I am older (though perhaps no wiser) and I remember why I'm
here.

And "Julia, Julia" emerges, a young confused girl completely
in love - with herself mostly. It's amazing what a person
can do when they take a few moments to figure out just
exactly what is going on around them.

The time was flying then.

and all the while I still managed to observe the lovely guests
slamming through the threshold and carefully picking their
way down the steps towards a pile of books (which well,
aren't really for touching, but I guess...well I hope she
stops before she reaches 'the one' that, like a corn cob in
a bin, will send the whole pile flying).

So up to 4p and closing time, when I need to venture seaward
and to the shop to pick up goodies for any further guests at
the opening event this evening...

Enter - man with a silver earring, who I already know:
"It's small isn't it?"
"My crew will fill it right up!"
"are you going to stick around here when you're done then?"
Exit - man with a silver earring, who I already know.

Enter - "Roland" and his accent:
"Just got back from 15 years in the states, as you can tell by my accent, but I've been here before so I know how to deal with the stairs."
"Good luck."
Exit - "Roland" and his accent.

Enter - woman with hair and a long coat:
"Hmmm...it's such a shame when on the days where there is something here I want to see -- a painter or something -- I always have to be somewhere else."
"I'm going to get my hair done if you can believe it."
"what do you want to do with yourself after this?"
Exit - woman with hair and a long coat.

Enter - wild eyed woman in pink, very chatty:
"Have you had many in?"
"Well you don't want them all to be the same do you?"
"Very creative."
"We'll see what she has this year, I might buy something."
Exit - wild eyed woman in pink, very chatty.

and so I close the door, swing back the sign for another hour, I'll do a bit more 'Julia-ing'  and see where the wind takes me. Thus far, a completely unexpected day (but then I don't recall setting any expectations past 11a, so I couldn't lose could I?

To the shop.

# 3 [27 February 2007]

Morning came and while the cookies were far to sweet to bring down for the open evening, I had one for breakfast anyway, feeling groggy too (perhaps because I had two for dinner as well…) and because it’s non coffee day.  I made the bus up a little later than I’d hoped, and while I busied myself warming up the gallery before opening, only a few minutes early, I thought about who might pop into today (anyone?). Time for tunes, Gwen Stefani’s ridicu-pop kicks things off. 

After the second patron, each seeming to find the perfect time to enter the exact moment when I jet upstairs to fix a tag or to place the instructions on the sound pieces, I settled down at the white end table with my laptop and decided to amuse myself with recording the nature of the guests I received throughout the day, perhaps the week:

Enter - man with a beard:

"Do you know who JG Garratt is?"

"I have the original of a print he gave Margaret Thatcher, Provenance."

"First one in and I didn't buy anything."

Exit - man with a beard.

Enter - woman with a double buggy:

"I'm looking for pictures of boats for my nan?"

"I'll have to get this thing out the door now!"

Exit (with assistance) - woman with a double buggy.

Enter - short woman wearing old lady earrings and hair:

"Being an art gallery, I thought you'd have a lot of pictures."

Exit - short woman wearing old lady earrings and hair.

Enter - older, but still sharp and intelligent looking man, and polite:

"Where is the gallery, upstairs?"

"Thanks very much."

Exit - older, but still sharp and intelligent looking man, and polite.

Enter – (struggling though, because I’ve forgotten to unlock the door after a quick breather at lunch) man in a bowler cap with a Northern sailor accent:

“I’ve never been in before, and I live here, how long has this been here?”

“I’ll pop down again, three weeks you say?”

Exit – man in a bowler cap with a Northern sailor accent.

As the bowler cap man is leaving, I’m thinking about all those people who also field the question ‘what is that?’/’that’s not art.’ statement and feeling rather low. I am onto litre three, coming on four and through my tuna salad as well.

I spend a little time searching some up and coming gallery sites, having a read at what else is going on. It’s not as discouraging as it usually is. I often find myself labeling works in local white spaces and those generally across the countryside as ‘non-art’ and ‘crap’ while personally struggling with defying this label in my own work.

Some days I feel a togetherness with art and this ‘scene’ and others though I am Puccini, Kafka and John Adams, I think and do as Susan Hiller and Proust, Carlos Capelan, others I am just me and my mud rolling, running down hillsides covered in birch trees self, energetic to understand, if not, to just do. And these are never good enough, either by my standards or by those of the schmumpkins who I come across on those off days, who put me off and make me think – perhaps if I want to make money, I should do my treescape drawings. I can paint, draw and probably even sculpt in the traditional manner to a relatively high level of competency, but currently, that ability does nothing for me. 

I am at a time, and I feel we’re all at a point where we need to ENGAGE BRAIN a little more often, and if that means that I end up making work, putting pieces in exhibitions where people walk in and say, “where’s the gallery?” then I guess that is where I am today.

Somebody someday might thank me for nothing making pretty-boats-by-the-seaside pictures and I’d like to think I’ll surely thank myself for not forcing the inevitable future to settle in too early (Wayne Zerck whispers ‘sell out’ in my ear).

I like what I do though, and if that means I have to grit my teeth and refrain from giving cold looks to people in an otherwise friendly seaside town then  I guess I can do that. As sure as an Minnesotan can make you  a Special K bar without a drop of Special K, I can accept that I’m currently trying to show ‘-work’ to people looking for ‘art-‘, though we both end up confused. 

Two more hours before a walk on the seafront where I’ll consider why I might want to do a research studentship in London next year, or rather more accurately, why these places might wish to have me as a research student in their name next year in London. Tricky business all this.

I wish I hadn’t lost the first post, this one feels rather less inspired.

# 2 [27 February 2007]

Rargh. There is little more annoying than forgetting to write your online document offline and then C/Ping it before posting.

Beautiful things disappear into the abyss. 

# 1 [27 February 2007]

I'm starting with the time in the space first, the previous efforts collecting information and organizing was scattered and frequently interrupted.

I entered a freshly painted space, very quaint and delightful (if not smelling slightly nauseating) on Monday morning, fresh up from ‘the city’ on a long bus, I’d given myself a treat of a non decaf latte and thus, was really raring to go. 

I bought a small 99p bunch of red tulips – red is the colour of this who she-bang – so it seemed fitting despite not particularly enjoying cut flowers generally.

A few people popped their heads in, having been alerted to the show via email from the space’s organizer, they were curious. I was curious at what they thought it might be…many offered to come back later in the week. Kind. A couple I’d helped out with the Big Draw stuck their heads in the door to drop off the newspaper article from the event. I invited them to the open evening, though I was secretly hoping no one would come. 

I worked piece by piece, labeling and photographing each as I finished, and by pinching wireless from a nearby business was able to post them in medias res, which I was pleased with.

As well as with the massive extent of tunage I was able to enjoy while the mood swings of putting up pieces I had the evening I had troubled over. 

A quick walk towards the seaside at teatime, a few pieces of sugary fruit and I can’t lie, some Smarties…I finished the last few pieces, made mental notes for the morning and cleaned up a bit. I felt pleased. I felt like I was in a different world. I had been everywhere I’d ‘discussed’ during the day, photographs of cows, a bandstand and a waterfall in Norway, I’d been there – often after moving onto a new piece, my mind stuck in the old thoroughly confusing my body as to where it was going when I boarded the number 6 just before 8pm.

I decided to make cookies for my private view and stopped at the shop to grab a few ‘bits’ on the way home.

--

I sat down with my notebook and laptop after sorting out the cookies and Shrek2, and made some comments about the day. 1) concerned about the audience slightly (they want pretty pastel pictures - did she (the organizer) tell them that is what I did?) 2) my entry display and the guest book I was given to use (gallery suggestion) look like a wedding reception at the Legion, or a High School graduation table. 3) Am I going to want to change it? 4) My favourite piece, is shoddily displayed (but it might work). 5) my foot doesn't hurt anymore!

Before finishing the description note to hang by the pretty flowers and after posting the remainder of the work online, I wrote a long email to my friend in Beirut who just started teaching and declared that a large chunk of my recent stress has been due to a continued insistence that nothing is ever good enough where I am (basically) and that though I do want to visit home, I know it isn't going to save me (but I will be able to play in the mud as liberally as I like, something I strangely lack the ability for in H&S land). 

 To bed, to "dream on the event.