Archives for the month of: February, 2014

After visiting the Live Art Agency I got chatting to Katy Baird who works there, very nice she was too. It turns out we both worked at the same Butlins and the same Burger King. Wow. So anyway I went along to her show in the Chelsea Theatre in Worlds End (amazing estate, amazing name). After a wee cup of tea and a hangover muffin we entered the auditorium? a dark room… Weirdly Monika, needed to borrow my camera to film something which by a miraculous hand of fate was the same thing I was going to that evening. Katy Baird’s Work Shy what’s the chances? Anyway. It was right good. The honesty, the delivery, the humour and the kind of rubbishy singing. Also the outfit changes in front of anyone. She clearly doesnae give a fuck which is what I liked about Her performance. The part were she hang tomorrow a la Bugsy Mallone, really made my night. Dressed in full Burger King outfit and drowned in spotlight, with one of the disgusting mops we had to use back there. Out experiences of BK differed greatly – I hated everyone, the smell and the fact you only got one meal a day – rude. She got gunged! A tradition In which when someone leaves the company they get old food and fusty ketchup thrown over their face. It’s a form of showing affection when you leave. If they hate you you don’t get gunged. I like Butlins though – I cleaned the caravans there. I digress. I think the total honestly in Katy’s delivery is something to be admired, she didn’t shy away from difficult times. I felt some similarities between Happy as Larry, Couldnae be Happier a kind of humorous retelling of a past difficulty. You need to laugh about these things. Anyway, I seem to have steered away from this honest look at anxiety and depression related to drugs, which is mostly because I prefer to focus on positive aspects around me. I enjoy making positive art that is humorous and kind of entertaining. I do not however intend to disregard serious issues relating to the discussions at hand. Entertainment comes in many different form and I feel that my work has definitely progressed since last year. A lack of video tears does not necessarily mean a lack if serious critical thought, I just means I take less Mephedrone than I used to.


Currently it am working very hard on the organisation of an exhibition in Dalston. With my colleagues Jo and Katie we’re curating over 30 artists, producing a zine and holding events everyday for a week. My role has been largely design based ie posters, flyers, zine etc. today is curation day and we are organising the hanging of the work before implementation on Saturday. Today I intend on finishing the zine, which also acts as a catalogue for the show. I also then must work in the Hayward gallery for 20 hours and edit 700 videos and organise an installation, I also need to draft a dissertation. I’ve totally got it under control. Today is the most beautiful day of the year yet and everything is going to be perfect. Or at least all right.


Peering through my time specs to see – myself; sketching, gazing out a window, clapping Mr Fred the Alsatian and drinking tea while a mental woman makes pies in the kitchen. Oh it’s my first year at uni. What a quaint little time. As I look upon this sketchbook I see a note about Arran Gregory an artist who work is featured in a music video what I liked and that. I probably remarked at the time that I liked his drawing ’cause they were dead good and stuff and drew an unrelated sketch of tree next to it.
Watched the video again, and am now quite astonished at the mirror sculptures – angular, stylised graphicy looking statues of wolves etc made from precision cut shards of mirror. This caught my attention now as I’ve recently worked with mirror and am intrigued by what it can do to space and the object around it, and light. I love light I do. This got me thinking about places to take my mirror related fixation – and there I had it, an epiphany of the highest order. Cover a TV in tiny mirror tile squares. Wow. I’m surprised that I have not yet done it to be quite honest. It is now my highest priority.Unrelated but very nice

It’s funny how one is inspired by things without realising it. On reflection into what I have seen recently and how it may have affected my work, Helio Oiticica has had quite a large influence it would seem. On looking further into his artness it is clear that he’s well sound. I saw his work in TATE Liverpool one fine day. I bumped into a mans face as he was leaving a secretly hidden tv room. He was embarrassed mortally which made it all the more Hilary. Hilary Clinton. A version of the one I saw ‘tropicana’ was first displayed in Whitechapel Gallery in the 60s. Comprising of a sandy gravel floor, some palm tree type foliage, two majestic parrots keeping each other company and some little cubbyholes. You could hear some vague TV noise coming from the hidden spots – on investigation the TVs are displaying some word BBC news broadcast which I dated as; from pure ages ago. I really enjoyed the sort of tiny micro-installation within the quite large installation. Looking at photos from the earlier incarnation in the 1960s there’s clearly less of an impetus from Mr Health and Safety and Ms Animal Welfare, as there’s lots of chicken wire pokey bits and the lone parrot is encased in a tiny shroud of the metal net curtainage. It looked less clinical, more ambient in a dingy sort of way. Peter parrots well being is obv more important than artisticness.

It seems there’s cushions and swings and all sorts if shit going on in the Whitechapel times. This is also something I’m planning for my own work. On reflection it seems I’ve totally ripped him off and stole all the elements of his great artistic endeavors, unwittingly so it ok. Didnae mean it….


In all seriousness, I have great respect for Oiticica. I find it wonderful that without realising he has impacted my work from just allowing myself to enjoy his work – it stayed with me. My subconscious has mixed up what I’ve seen and vomited some great ideas out in the middle of the night. Trees, birds, plants, cushion but with camp and lights and shiny trash greatness. And dancing and ket. Art affects us greatly – clearly, which is a beautiful phenomenon to behold.

Thais stage production has an amazing ability to keep one interested and what’s more is it is continuously humorous – without dialogue. It’s their use of repetition – mimicking for humour. I can see similarities within my work in Happy as Larry, Couldnae be Happier in this regard. Phew, I’ve used a legitimate comedic device. They reenact scenes they other actor beforehand acted. The seemingly unrelated twee 80s American music gives another layer of humour, and some emotion. It’s the changes:differences in what is expected to what actually occurs that adds the lolz. This is already standard knowledge among comedians et cetera, but it’s a revelation to me. Well not really but something to think about – a device I now hold. Such cute.

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in our society it’s currently easier to shift a criminal record than any old psychiatric diagnosis that may have been attached to our names during our lives

Bobby Baker

Airport. Bottle of Gin. Many, many alcohol. Such drastically hungover. Glass of wine. Art. “Be responsible”.

Art, art, art.

Then Ryan Trecartin’s works in the Venice Biennial happens. Wow such amazing. On reading the brochure before entering the expansive arto-drome that is the Arsenale. Before entering, outside a bistro we sat, I exclaimed to the group “I know him, that’ll be good”, humoured into submission by my third cry. We discussed our anticipation, like excited schoolies on a trip, which is actually an entirely accurate description. My alcohol-exhausted brain nodded in pretense of involvement to the conversation at hand. Well lubricated with hair of the dog wine, we entered the artisphere, an obscure stretch of space, the interval between bistros, inhabited by a catastrophe of conventional cunts and non-cunts, the slick collectors in their chicest blacks, the anorak adorning holidayers, the bunch a drunks from London. Mooching through the most wonderful region of intense art; a barrage of buoyant beauty, an abundance of intricate eccentricities, unnerving synthetic soundscapes leaking from moving image displays – we secretly nibbled on a pilfered bread-roll and were in awe, anger and apathy. Things which prescribed more than a perfunctory look were those that played on perceptions, peculiarities that permeate about the head and intrigue one’s tiny rat-mind. We irreverently giggled demanding looks of destain from the advanced elites of art. Our childish laughter in a forbidding crypt.

A man’s art, from Brazil. More of a man’s collection of artifacts he professed to be worthy of salvation before the end of time, the return of Christ. Firstly drawn by his positioning of; things, trinkets, object d’art, bit of old shite he found in a gutter, displayed in shrine-like monuments – I then read the artwork description. The realisation that these objects, displayed so meticulously, were of such complete import to this man that he desired them to be saved from eternal hell-fire, was a beautiful moment. At first, they were a whimsical accumulation of nonsense bits stuck to a trolley and a bunch of £1 scary, plastic dolls nails to a plank. Once this man’s lifework was revealed a tear was drawn to my left peeper, obviously due to all the fluorescent light and my drastic hangover, ahem. A moment to treasure – treasures lie beneath superficial exteriors. I am concerned however that this man, may have not intended his delivery for deliverance to be gawked at my tourists in an art gallery. Maybe he would have loved it. They, his artifacts, are now of import to many and have been saved from a more immediate eternal destruction.

Then a tall woman who was supposed to look human sized from distance but didn’t happened. She was a force of fierce fashion in her power suit from ‘Fall ’91’ Charles Ray. Such fashion, v fiercex.

As the feeling of an obesely drastic night prior worsened. I found refuge in an unlikely realm. Ryan Trecartin’s four part installation room. I perched atop a foam breeze block and clamped on my foam clad headphones, I was in. I knew what to expect, an absurdity of bombarding voices screeching and chanting in overtly American-Tv-rama sort of way. The works sort of mock and comply with the falsities of reality TV. To many I watch who approached the works recoiled instantly at hearing the drug addled mania of their bizarre speeches. I however stayed there for three hours. I perchances upon a girl who snoozed in a darkened corner – I wished I was a brassneck like her. Perhaps the people who most likely to enjoy the surroudings were those who had gone to excess the prior night – finding solace in the everlasting gibberish sprouted from the over madeup trannies on the screen – maybe it just reminded me of East London.

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I’ll tell you a secret. There were props everywhere in Trecartin’s videodrome – they all related to the films on screen – a sort of immersion tactic I suspect. In one film many young ladies are vying for the title of Jenny “I’m going to be the next Jenny!” et cetera. They wore jumpers. As I watched, sat next to me was one of these jumpers. Also next to me was my bag. End of story. I’m his biggest fan before and after this experience. Now I can prove it – with my ultra cool jumper…..


HUNT Jenny