Meet David. The great work of Michaelangelo reduced to jigsaw postcard. Unfortunately this was not the end of his troubles, as I have further mutilated him by swapping certain pieces I have appropriated sentiment to for the occasion.
The occasion was my 21st birthday, the postcard my father's belated birthday present sent from his holiday in Florence.
No hard feelings though! I now have another addition to my collection of characters, in whose presence I find a source of comforting obscurity.
Furthermore, let it be known I have since received another card, with cheque.
Now for Tiffany. Tiffany is a manikin who was left in my studio in 3rd year, became my friend when I painted on her hair and make-up, was given to my friend Brooke who later moved in with me, and thus reunited me with Tiffany once more. Brooke is now in Chicago.
Tiffany wears a myriad of articles, one of which is a feminist slogan t-shirt I made "OTHER ME" (the 'concept' was buying into feminism). She waits until she grows arms to drink from her 'love' cocktail glass.
For the meantime she waits, the lady in the frame, bearing witness to objectification. No wonder she has a creepy stare.
Here is Hugh. Hugh is a Ken doll who has been elevated to hermaphrodite status courtesy of my friend and peer Kaye Harper, who dotingly knitted him a bikini featuring both male and female reproductive systems.
He wares a 'guilty' badge I picked up from the Embassy Gallery in Edinburgh, from a sweetie jar where you were invited to donate money (which I did, but only the cost price) for a piece of art. I can into the possession of another from my friend Katie, who felt the guilt too penetrating on her lapel, even though I believe she payed more for hers than I.
Hugh stuffs his hand into a Sun Maid, whilst basking under 40W charity lamp with fringe.
Meet the baby jesus. He began life as a girl, purchased from a charity shop in the south side of glasgow. His sex change constituted of having his hair chopped off. His body was already of pin cushion consistency, which was very in-keeping with a little line I wished to write on him.
You see, I believe we are all like little pin cushions, made to be pierced, and learning to manoeuvre like a cat whose whiskers have just been chopped.
He is only the baby jesus because he reminds me of the one doll I had as a child, since i didn't much like dolls, and I used him (Timmy) for the school nativity.
Having said that, I like him as an archetype. Its an interesting story.
There are many other weird and wonderful creatures in my glass menagerie...although none of them are so precious.
Hopefully I shall be able to introduce you all soon.
It’s all a bit hazy! My rebellion against conservative, ‘post-ironic’, conceptualism and my attempt at using a handheld video camera for still photos.
My advanced apologies for any offence either will inevitably cause.
Where’s the humanity?
After delving into installation and video in order to channel the power of such feminist works as Adrian Piper’s “The Mythic Being” of ’74, I began to mourn the romanticism of William Blake and the spirituality of Marc Chagall. When it comes to painting I confusingly aspire to Allen Jones’ “Night Moves” ’85, despite its inclination toward the pornographic.
He has a sensitivity of line, the sensuality of touch, and an appreciation of form akin to Rubens, and nods to Hockney’s drawings with machismo.
It is a pleasure to escape to paint. However the films do keep coming, attempting to marry the fantasy of Kenneth Anger with mocumentory sarcasm. But for how long can we keep laughing?
I’ve become obstinate. A seemingly necessary accessory for the successful art student. Disillusioned with the statement, convinced by artistry, I’ve begun a series of self-portraits as different characters developed in childhood. It looks like I’m at a party, trying to impress Cindy Sherman, when really I’m wanting to talk to Jung about the “internalized oppression” of archetypes and how Lacan was really onto something with the Mirror Theory, cigar in hand. Or perhaps to mull over the Situationist International with Jorn, and mimic Constant’s architectural innovation before heading to the after-party with Genesis P’Orridge to get down to deconditioning!
Hopefully they’ll be enough wine.
BYO, you’re invited! The topic of conversation is POMOBOHO (post-modern bohemia) – a disgusting bastardisation of the English language I coined in First Year. Now in Forth, my cheeks strained with the forced funny face, my brain searches for some transcendental refuge in philosophy. Do I really have to start singing LOVE, build a time machine or wear flowers in my hair to seduce modernity into appreciating the fabrication of fact? Must I dance in a multicoloured coat to dazzle complacency?
I’m bored of the authority given to the term ‘conceptual art’ and its ridiculous claims of being Contemporary. To conceive is, as Zeus to Minerva, to give birth to an object other than you. Something new and unclassified. In this way art has been and always will be conceptual. There’s nothing wrong with embracing a little artistry or artifice along the way – artist as illusionary not visionary!
We are swamped with opinions, manifestoes, facts, laws, rights and wrongs. Man’s eternal Want to carve into stone the one way of existence. I’m looking for the ether of reflection, where fantasy and reality can mediate.
[enlarge]
'Little Mermaid'.
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'Domestic Absurds..incomplete....', Mixed media.
# 6 [28 March 2008]
New paintings... exploring the fantasy land of the familiar, the irony of art as artifice, in order to critique the position of the fantasized gaze...
[enlarge]
# 5 [10 March 2008]
Meet David. The great work of Michaelangelo reduced to jigsaw postcard. Unfortunately this was not the end of his troubles, as I have further mutilated him by swapping certain pieces I have appropriated sentiment to for the occasion.
The occasion was my 21st birthday, the postcard my father's belated birthday present sent from his holiday in Florence.
No hard feelings though! I now have another addition to my collection of characters, in whose presence I find a source of comforting obscurity.
Furthermore, let it be known I have since received another card, with cheque.
[enlarge]
# 4 [10 March 2008]
Now for Tiffany. Tiffany is a manikin who was left in my studio in 3rd year, became my friend when I painted on her hair and make-up, was given to my friend Brooke who later moved in with me, and thus reunited me with Tiffany once more. Brooke is now in Chicago.
Tiffany wears a myriad of articles, one of which is a feminist slogan t-shirt I made "OTHER ME" (the 'concept' was buying into feminism). She waits until she grows arms to drink from her 'love' cocktail glass.
For the meantime she waits, the lady in the frame, bearing witness to objectification. No wonder she has a creepy stare.
[enlarge]
# 3 [10 March 2008]
Here is Hugh. Hugh is a Ken doll who has been elevated to hermaphrodite status courtesy of my friend and peer Kaye Harper, who dotingly knitted him a bikini featuring both male and female reproductive systems.
He wares a 'guilty' badge I picked up from the Embassy Gallery in Edinburgh, from a sweetie jar where you were invited to donate money (which I did, but only the cost price) for a piece of art. I can into the possession of another from my friend Katie, who felt the guilt too penetrating on her lapel, even though I believe she payed more for hers than I.
Hugh stuffs his hand into a Sun Maid, whilst basking under 40W charity lamp with fringe.
[enlarge]
# 2 [10 March 2008]
Meet the baby jesus. He began life as a girl, purchased from a charity shop in the south side of glasgow. His sex change constituted of having his hair chopped off. His body was already of pin cushion consistency, which was very in-keeping with a little line I wished to write on him.
You see, I believe we are all like little pin cushions, made to be pierced, and learning to manoeuvre like a cat whose whiskers have just been chopped.
He is only the baby jesus because he reminds me of the one doll I had as a child, since i didn't much like dolls, and I used him (Timmy) for the school nativity.
Having said that, I like him as an archetype. Its an interesting story.
There are many other weird and wonderful creatures in my glass menagerie...although none of them are so precious.
Hopefully I shall be able to introduce you all soon.
[enlarge]
# 1 [5 March 2008]
It’s all a bit hazy!
My rebellion against conservative, ‘post-ironic’, conceptualism and my attempt at using a handheld video camera for still photos.
My advanced apologies for any offence either will inevitably cause.
Where’s the humanity?
After delving into installation and video in order to channel the power of such feminist works as Adrian Piper’s “The Mythic Being” of ’74, I began to mourn the romanticism of William Blake and the spirituality of Marc Chagall. When it comes to painting I confusingly aspire to Allen Jones’ “Night Moves” ’85, despite its inclination toward the pornographic.
He has a sensitivity of line, the sensuality of touch, and an appreciation of form akin to Rubens, and nods to Hockney’s drawings with machismo.
It is a pleasure to escape to paint. However the films do keep coming, attempting to marry the fantasy of Kenneth Anger with mocumentory sarcasm. But for how long can we keep laughing?
I’ve become obstinate. A seemingly necessary accessory for the successful art student. Disillusioned with the statement, convinced by artistry, I’ve begun a series of self-portraits as different characters developed in childhood. It looks like I’m at a party, trying to impress Cindy Sherman, when really I’m wanting to talk to Jung about the “internalized oppression” of archetypes and how Lacan was really onto something with the Mirror Theory, cigar in hand. Or perhaps to mull over the Situationist International with Jorn, and mimic Constant’s architectural innovation before heading to the after-party with Genesis P’Orridge to get down to deconditioning!
Hopefully they’ll be enough wine.
BYO, you’re invited! The topic of conversation is POMOBOHO (post-modern bohemia) – a disgusting bastardisation of the English language I coined in First Year. Now in Forth, my cheeks strained with the forced funny face, my brain searches for some transcendental refuge in philosophy. Do I really have to start singing LOVE, build a time machine or wear flowers in my hair to seduce modernity into appreciating the fabrication of fact? Must I dance in a multicoloured coat to dazzle complacency?
I’m bored of the authority given to the term ‘conceptual art’ and its ridiculous claims of being Contemporary. To conceive is, as Zeus to Minerva, to give birth to an object other than you. Something new and unclassified. In this way art has been and always will be conceptual. There’s nothing wrong with embracing a little artistry or artifice along the way – artist as illusionary not visionary!
We are swamped with opinions, manifestoes, facts, laws, rights and wrongs. Man’s eternal Want to carve into stone the one way of existence. I’m looking for the ether of reflection, where fantasy and reality can mediate.