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2011

Has been full of many things. New discoveries. Artists such as Sophie Layton and Marcel Cowing. The hybridity of etchings and collage, of monotype and print. Countless artgasms at once. John Stezaker's lovely exhibition at the Whitechapel, discovering my equivalent of a treasure trove on unearthing a little print shop round the back of Tate Modern called Intaglio. It was full of pigments and rollers and etching tools and everything you could ever want to print with. I asked if there were any job opportunities. Unfortunately there wasn't. I may still go back with a CV in any case and try my luck. I have hands that have become gnarled and angry due to my inconsistency with any kind of moisturising before or after printmaking. I have hair that hasn't been cut since last April and is transforming into the Sigourney Weaver fro from Ghostbusters. I have a rear end that is gradually acclimatizing itself to the horrendous saddle on my bike and the poor state of the cycle paths between New Cross and Camberwell. I have turned into a domestic goddess who makes soup and decides to waste money on ironing water, orange blossom and pomegranate no less, to make my clothes lovely. This, however, was somehow undermined when my housemate let me know that what we thought was detergent turned out to be fabric conditioner.

Things are generally pretty good. The sun was shining yesterday, my room is lucky enough to be on the good side of the house, the side where the sunlight streams into your room on a morning and emanates positivity throughout your being. A bit like Scrubs when Dr Cox announces that its going to be a great day in a, what I think, was a Scottish accent. I bought Maggie tulips. It was Valentines Day after all. What is more exciting than Valentines Day you ask? Why of course, it is the reduced chocolate section in Sainsbury's the day after, that allows you to buy packs of chocolate love bugs for thirty pence. To go to the cinema to f i n a l l y see Colin Firth in the Kings Speech, and find yourself leaving the cinema tear-stained and lovebug foil wrappers dropping from your person at regular intervals as you negotiate your way out of the cinema. Lovely.

New Year

And of course, all my resolutions start tomorrow.

Artgasm II

Carly Waito

Artgasm I

Francesca Woodman

December

Scattered thoughts again, akin to the kirby grips that have lost themselves on my floor. My favourite things of this month. The Sylvia Plath poem that described the night sky as carbon paper, the tiny fractures and tears made within the stars. The Francesca Woodman exhibition, her black and white photographs that seemed to capture the same exquisite fragility of those words. Walking along Southbank in the biting cold, seeing the river always settles me. Arcade Fire. Rediscovering a burning love for Haiti, discovering the Suburbs live. Snow. Borough Market and late night Tate visits, getting misty eyed in Analogue whilst browsing endless amounts of zines and beautiful books.

'She was angry with him, turning everything into words. Violets were Juno's eyelids and windflowers were unravished brides. How she hated words, always coming between her and life? They did the ravishing, if anything did; ready-made words and phrases sucking all the life-sap out of living things.'

Lady Chatterley's Lover

It reminds me of something about signs, semiology. How we communicate in reference the visual only through language, something completely removed from the visual. Or something. I probably should have been listening more in my seminars about the particulars of what I'm thinking but there's definitely something in there about how our world is framed. Maybe.

Edinburgh. Standing side by side with Faith as she said to soak it up. We stood at the top of some snow laden steps and looked upon the horizon. No photos, only memory. It seems to have done the job, I can remember the pastels of the sky, the lilacs and blues fading to dusk and the christmas lights rising to prominence against the dull browns of stone building rooftops. Discovering that the colours I am attracted to is the ever changing palette of the sky. Except for maybe anytime that it's a bit red. I'm not on that.

I've

only gone and done it again, left my blog gathering dust in cyberspace and now I'm too cluttered up with thoughts to enunciate or elucidate or something of the sort. What is important for the moment is that today I ate an entire pineapple and wallowed in post waitressing arm strain whilst once again listening to Jarvis Cocker's amazing tone and indulging in some Lady Chatterley's Lover in the bath. The 50th anniversary edition cover sold it to me. It is effectively an erotic Rob Ryan stencil cut. But it isn't Rob Ryan.