Wolves

My life has been packed up into varying ikea bags and boxes and stowed away in the back of a transit van, making its way southbound. The idea of leaving Wolverhampton made me want to document my favourite bits. The matchbox pinhole worked well until, being a woman and all, I played around with it and promptly broke it. I need to stop fiddling. Luckily matchboxes are seventeen pence and I have enough black electrical tape to last a lifetime. So, Wolverhampton. Described by blandness, patterns, line. Dusky colours, freestanding walls that have been waiting to be demolished for at least two years, my favourite ever typography in sign form on a hotel that in my twenty years I have never seen anyone go in or out of. I think that's being demolished too. Walls with barbed wire that look like they belong in East Berlin and signs that incite the possibility of apocalypse any day now. Come to think of it, my cycling always gets a bit uneasy at this point.

Manhattan

'Not everybody gets corrupted. You have to have a little faith in people.' Manhattan.

The subtle optimism that glazes the final scene of Manhattan seems to have seeped through to me. I found myself half skipping down Swan Bank whilst re-falling in love with the Mystery Jets and Behind the Bunhouse. Everything feels good. Especially with Blaine's heartfelt choruses and bike rides at dusk, the lights cutting through the clouded blue. In keeping with my aim to be more in tune with art and culture and stuff I am half way through Brave New World. If I ever took soma and spent a night in a wistful state that no crippling emotion could penetrate I'd be willing to bet that if it had to take a musical form it would resolve itself in Four Tet's 'Everything is Alright'. Closely followed by Blur's 'Badhead'. Washed down with some Tesco peach sparkling water and visualised through a disposable camera form.

I'm captivated by Woody Allen at the first time of asking and I'm only one sixth of the way through the box set. I hope the same rings true for Hitchcock.

Sleep

continues to elude me.

It is most likely because I insist on watching 4od until the early hours of the morning and unwittingly (who am I kidding) fantasize about Richard Ayoade.

Quote

It makes me want to embroider.

'Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle, everything I do is stitched with your colours.'

Hurry

Every time I'm in a rush in London it feels like I'm in Sliding Doors. Except Aqua will never permeate my conscience at times of great hurry, nor am I as graceful as Gwyneth Paltrow. I always seem to equate public transport with running. Yesterday saw us legging it for the train home. Boots stuttering a rhythm on the marble, manically sloping in amongst the crowd, deftly weaving, clambering onto my bag to avoid bludgeoning unwitting and flustered strangers. Though those that leave their cello cases and wheely suitcase deathtraps in our path seem to deserve this fate. Something monumental feels like it should happen for making it, perhaps the train we are in time for will provide a brief encounter, a lustful hour and forty five minutes. No. Getting to the platform on time merely means I have time to buy an Appletiser. A girl can dream.

London II

Borough Market. My aim in life is to be able to afford food from here.

Tate Modern. My aim in life is to be able to afford most of the books from here.

Brick Lane.

The LCC Photography and Communication show was good. It had floating balls and a crowd of onlookers. Light boxes for slides for every hour of the day and a sensored orchestra you could control when you touched a coloured pad. Apparently each individual has their own specific electric charge so the outcome for everyone will be different.

What was less than impressive was the De Montfort Photography show. I'm not usually negative about work, which is perhaps a flaw I need to correct, for I remember someone saying your individuality is determined more so by what you hate than by what you like. If this is the case then my personality is dictated by my dislike of diamante and the word 'armpit'. Make of that what you will. Anyway, there was about two pieces in the entire space I liked. There was work supposedly conveying a serious political point. It didn't. It was kitsch and looked cheap, like those canvases you buy in homeware shops with black and white images and then a solitary red London bus or something. A photo that referenced Blair's role in the Iraq war was rendered thus, any serious gravity it held was completely undermined by a shocking aesthetic. Fluorescent yellow police jackets against a grainy black and white image. Oh dear. There was work that seemed to bear little consideration as to a subject, as though a sustained practice had yet to be salvaged. If anything the work on show was a chance to merely show off the quality of the camera used and the colour saturation than anything else of any significance. On the plus side there was a couple of nice double exposures and it was in a really nice setting. Though I got bike envy every single time an indie girl cycled past.

London

I can't wait to be embraced by your humid tubes, your concrete stare and your sporadic greenery once again.

I knew I was glad to be back when walking through London Bridge we met the sight of a woman unashamedly carrying a five foot long stuffed banana under her arms. I almost wish I'd kept sight of her long enough to see her navigate her way through the ticket barrier. Trailing behind was a flustered man embracing a cuddly love heart with arms.

The parched grass of Hyde Park led the way to the Serpentine, the toilets of which provided ample base for a strip show after the ridiculous heat of the underground. Wolfgang Tillmans. Amazing Venus transit series, circular visions of the moon with Venus gradually moving across its face. The 'mechanics of the sky'. Looking to abstraction within the real world, he found it. Folds and creases of photographs, large scale images, dusky colours, the wistful, ephemeral large scale images of delicate wisps, the manipulation of light on paper. He seems to possess an intuitive nature in relation to framing, in displaying grainy faxes and photocopies, of putting up photos with just double sided sticky tape. Escaping the wrath of the swans on the way back to the tube (they can break a man's arm you know) me and Pip headed onto the Photographer's Gallery, accompanied by a bottle of apple and raspberry juice and a packet of much needed bourbons. Sally Mann was what awaited us. Some really beautiful images captured using antique cameras and the wet plate collodion process. What this is I don't know but I think it involves silver nitrate. Maybe maybe. But whatever it was they incorporated any slight flaw of the technical process. Elements of dust, of outside interruption were embraced. I like mistakes, very much so.

Covered in London transport grime, I experienced my first jaunt down Savile Row. The adverts in Vogue proliferated into living form within one street. I got excited about Chanel. About Stella McCartney. About Hermes. Pip almost had a fashion induced heart attack. And probably explained as to why we walked around in circles for a good half an hour whilst getting sidetracked from the gallery we had planned on going to (Kurt Jackson exhibition). There were bouncers on the door, seemingly with the distinct ability to scare off all those who fell under a particular wage bracket. The only thing more ridiculous than the doormen was the yacht shop we walked past. I certainly felt like a bit of a fraud entering Vivienne Westwood wearing Primark. My scuffed Urban Outfitters boots only slightly redeemed this fact. Only slightly mind. The rain came. We hid in Berkeley Square planning our next manoeuvre. I enjoyed the sight of a doorman at a seemingly prestigious hotel take cover under two umbrellas stuck into some greenery to keep aloft. Hands free indeed.

Hoxton Square was the next stop. Dinner. We persevered with chopsticks but the forks won in the end. The toilets once again became our changing rooms. The hope was that they wouldn't recognize us as we were walking out as we couldn't afford to think about, let alone leave a tip, it was heart breaking enough leaving the Photographer's Gallery shop empty-handed due to my lack of funds. Broken Soul Night. Banging. Smoke filled room so you couldn't even make out the face of the person standing next to you. Hip flask came in handy to spice up our overpriced coke. It was one of my proudest moments.

We finished the night on the tube to Archway, to be met at the station by Marie. To be guided up the rolling hills of Northern London. To be presented with cupcakes taken from the funeral gathering at the pub Marie worked at. It was a really good cupcake. And a really comfy sofa.

Blog Trawl

Corriete Schoen

'Colour Me Summer'

A Nice Idea Every Day

Manifesto

Manifesto to myself, as copied word for word from my notebook

'Stop being so serious about what you are doing. Play around more. Be like the ridiculous Barry M nail colours you wear that undermine any allusion you have to maturity. Have fun, try and be productive. Also sort out you hair.'

I shall hopefully take this through to second year, especially the bit about the hair. I may write it in lipstick on my mirror. but that's a lot of words and a lot of lipstick. I also foresee the use of a lot of cleaning product that i probably won't own.

Little Thoughts II

Wolverhampton. I spend my time cycling to swimming, picking up habits along the way. Always a glance at my silhouette as I ride past the car dealership's glass casing, the dainty image i wish to project on my seventies bike (you can tell by the rust) being somewhat ruined by the bulbous old school backpack stuffed with my swimming towel. Always standing up on my bike to freewheel down into the subway, always holding my nose when gliding through the urine infused alley and always being bemused that the one stretch of cycle path that Wolverhampton seems to possess, people use as an extension of the bus stop queue. If ever there was a documentation project waiting to happen, this is it. My matchbox pinhole is in progression as we speak, but I am lacking a fiddly bit of plastic that my scavenging the house has failed to yield. Though in the process I found the Rayney 'man drawer'. Coins, old and foreign, batteries of varying shapes and sizes, foreign travel adaptors, marbles and old chapsticks lay at peace in the haggard wood. Sadly none of them were strawberry flavoured otherwise I would have disturbed their dusty hibernation.

I finally did away with the entrusted cellophane that had clung to my Voyeurism catalogue. It was very much worth the sight of what resembled a plastic cloud emanating from my bin.

'A writer knows that to see people, he must remain unseen. The world changes when you stare straight at it: cowards become heroes and heroes puppets. This second world can be studied in the shop window of any provincial photographer: the frozen pupils, the feelings combed back like hair, and that undemanding game which none can resist...

But what's one to do with a camera? A camera is clumsy and crude. It meddles insolently in other people's affairs. The lens scatters the crowd like the barrel of a gun.'

'My Paris' Ehrenburg

Feelings combed back like hair. Individual traits lost. An insolent meddler. I want a camera that is an inconspicuous meddler, though being inconspicuous may undermine the meddling aspect. An inconspicuous eye. Maybe. Who knows.

Reason

For wanting to go brunette. More brunette even.

That and Audrey Tautou.

My pledges

Genna. I will buy a colouring book, felt tip pens and listen to Fela Kuti.

Horton. I will write something good about you soon, I just don't know what but when the time comes it will be special. I shall scan in our birthday goodness though, can't not let the world know about bolty pole.

Myself. I shall be more proactive, not lapse with my blog again and try not being as self involved with a narrative of my life and try and write about art and culture and stuff. I'll try my best. I shall listen to David Bowie and Neil Young because I didn't realise how good they were. I shall not lose or break my hard drive and I will read all of Murakami's books. I shall try and complete my 'things to do list summer 2010'. I shall stop buying dresses. I have enough. I shall read 1984 because it is about time.

Memories

Explosion

Sitting down and actually thinking does have its merits, I even had an excited two minute spurt in my notebook.

These are my favourite pictures from the last month.

We paid £3.99 for a bucket and spade and a retarded ball. It was oval shaped and made us look even worse at football, if that is at all possible.

This looks idyllic. However I was the only one stupid enough to go running through the sludge and so my legs got covered in mud. Also we got surrounded by some very evil seagulls later on when we were eating extortionately priced chips.

I don't even know what this is but I love happy accidents from processing.

We had to walk through a field of corn to get to the train station. I got excited when I thought my feet had tanned but it was in fact dust from the track.

Genna's arse. We spent a good twenty minutes throwing little rocks at this rock to see if it was a big rock. It was. Ellie and Cathy also came back with a jellyfish. I don't like jellyfish (for future reference).

The Shire. This was on our break from our Pride and Prejudice marathon. In fairness I had fallen asleep for at least two of the episodes but the action was so slow that it didn't take too long to catch up. Honestly, eight episodes, six hours and all we got was a kiss and Colin Firth taking off a jacket and getting wet. Come on Mr Darcy, don't be a tease.

Nettles sting through tights. I found out the hard way. I am still not accustomed to country living. However the local supermarket was brilliant, it sold 'The Farmers Guardian', animal feed and ridiculously large jars of spices. The train to Bucknell was one carriage long and you had to make a request stop. There was one very surreal moment when my iPod reverie was somewhat disturbed by a group of at least thirty pensioners descending onto the train in full climbing attire. Lots of poles. I was wearing my nan's cardigan so at least I didn't feel out of place.

Sheep. We met some very friendly sheep. These were not them.

This was an amazing view. What was very annoying was that we forgot to take the kite with us.

DRAWN

DRAWN. An exhibition for local artists at the local arts centre organised by Megan. My first week back at home involved finding glass bottles and jam jars for flowers, buying ribbon, cutting tablecloths, freeloading some cardboard from M&S and then having to carry it around town. Think small person carrying cardboard that is twice the size of her. Spent too much time wrapping prints up with cellophane. The exhibition itself was lovely, it was almost like a reunion of minds, seeing people from foundation and seeing the impact the last year had on their practice. There are definitely some talented folk in the Black Country. Bostin'. There are reasons to come to Wolverhampton, more so than to see Britain's very first set of automatic traffic lights, though that must be tempting?

DRAWN. The night. The equation. Money made equals bottles of wine equals lots of dancing equals Faith asleep on my leg at four in the morning.

Nom

I have to show this.

This is my friend Faith's work. She came to stay with me in London for five days, in the process of which I managed to completely destroy any health kick she had plans for. Her work makes me happy, in the way that I destroy any allusions she has to healthy eating, she looks at disrupting normality, at intervening. I imagine her mind to be like Science of Sleep, filled with stop frame animation ponies galloping across fields, water that is made of cellophane and clouds that are made out of cotton wool. I bet Michel Gondry has some kind of telepathic connection with her.

We had many adventures. Together we rode the wave of graduate shows, Goldsmiths, Central St Martins (Graphic Design), Slade (MA), my tattered notebook taking a hiding from all the scrawled names. We spooned, we decided this wasn't making for a comfortable nights sleep so she got the mattress on the floor. We grimaced our way through Curb your Enthusiasm (I actually had to stop watching it). We went to Tate Modern, to Club Sandwich, from which I started collecting bruises, warehouses in Peckham till four in the morning, we sat on the 343 as it took us through the greener route back to New Cross and arrived back as the sun was rising and the birds were singing. I wore my onesie. We did 'the pineapple'. There were many other things that escape my memory, however my favourite thing we did was saunter down Oxford Street at a ridiculously slow pace and let London pass us by, being unwittingly obstructive. Oh, and of course the great freezer clearout, akin to the greatest ready steady cook episode you ever did see.

Thought in fairness the next night did see a bottle of champagne, fishfingers, waffles and beans and me passing out on Genna's bed whilst we were halfway through the Royal Tenenbaums. I never did finish that.

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It's difficult to know what to say.