Ani Difranco

Yes, she is amazing.

Having been completely ignorant and living in Plato's cave, I am now in the real world. I have realised what a true feminist is about, and been amazed by deep lyrics, and sexual freedom. I went, I saw, I was overwhelmed.

I was looking at the lyrics of Promiscuity (below) and realised how much this applies to artist trying to find their way. A lot of what my tutor Bave Deech (lol...) said about, "being wrong is usual more right, than being right" in a seminar yesterday was on the spot. If I am always right then I don' push and never find my boundaries.

Promiscuity.

promiscuity is nothing more than traveling
there’s more than one way to see the world
and some of us like to stick close to home
and some of us are Columbus
what can I say?

nature always gets her way
nature always gets her way

and seeing the world through another’s eyes
is like busting a window in a house of lies
and in the end you make up your own mind

and there’s wide open spaces
and little cornered off places
and check ‘em out
check ‘em out
take your time

how far is too far?
how much is enough?
you gotta test this stuff

i mean how you gonna know
what you need
what you like
till you been around the block
a few times on that bike

i mean how you gonna know
who you are
what you feel
till you feel a few things
that just don’t feel real

and promiscuity is research and development
evolution begs embellishment
and baby you’re a star

and you got two invisible eyes on society
and when society gets cruel
make like you’re nature’s tool
which you are

and nature always gets her way
nature always gets her way

and monogamy is that carnival trophy you earn
when you throw that ball into that urn
it’s somewhat dumb luck, somewhat learned
and you just know when it’s your turn

and honesty is the hardest part
yeah honesty is the highest art
and honestly i myself just started
and eureka i’m less broken hearted

i mean how you gonna know
what you need
what you like
till you been around the block
a few times on that bike

i mean how you gonna know
who you are
what you feel
till you feel a few things
that just don’t feel real

And so I rip my heart out and eat it...

Not entirely sure what is going on with my work, but I made a rather odd painting of a woman eating her heart. Disturbing. Thus, I am faily certain I might be depressed. I feel lost in my own head. I feel a creeping feeling going through me telling me I am not good enough at the things I am doing, telling me I need help, telling me I am too lost to function. So what now?

Well, it has actually got me producing more art, so maybe it is not that bad a thing after-all? There is definitely a beneficial side to being lost in your own head. It is not surprising considering I am on a new course, in my first year, attempting to find my path. And after a lovely chat with a lecturer about why she does art, why she decided to stay in this field and how she lives, I feel quite a bit better. Asuggested reading list by her with a book whose title starts with, "Why artists are poor..." might not be ever so encouraging in pursuing a bohemian life, yet at least it is realistic.

Having discovered the musical called 'Rent' makes me appreciate life more. Their song La Vie Boheme, which is a toast to the life of a poor artist, in particular. This compilation of some parts of the song, where they list everything that this bohemian life compromises of is inspirational, or very sadening, not really too sure which:

To days of inspiration,

Playing hookey, making something

Out of nothing, the need

To express-

To communicate,

To going against the grain,

Going insane,

Going mad

To loving tension, no pension

To more than one dimension,

To starving for attention,

Hating convention, hating pretension,

Not to mention of course,

Hating dear old mom and dad

To riding your bike

Midday past the three piece suits-

To fruits- To no absolutes-

To Absolut- To choice-

To the Village Voice-

To any passing fad

To being an us- For once-

Instead of a them-

Wine and beer!

To hand-crafted beers made in local breweries

To yoga, to yogurt, to rice and beans and cheese

To leather, to dildos, To curry Vindaloo

To Huevos Rancheros and Maya Angelou

Emotion, devotion, to causing a commotion,

Creation, Vacation

Mucho masturbation

Compassion, to fashion, to passion

When it's new

To Sontag

To Sondheim

To anything taboo

Ginsberg, Dylan, Cunningham and Cage

Lenny Bruce

Langston Hughes

To the stage!

To Uta

To Buddha

Pablo Neruda, too

Why Dorothy and Toto went over the rainbow

To blow off Auntie Em

La Vie Boheme

Sisters?

Brothers!

Bisexuals, trisexuals, Homo Sapiens,

Carcinogens, hallucinogens, men,

Pee Wee Herman

German wine, turpentine, Gertrude Stein

Antonioni, Bertolucci, Kurosawa

Carmina Burana

To apathy, to entropy, to empathy, ecstasy

Vaclav Havel- The Sex Pistols, 8BC

To no shame- Never playing the fame game

To marijuana

To sodomy

It's between God and me

To S & M

La Vie Boheme!

Either way it is interesting. It made me realise that I am most probably already living the bohemian life. Without the AIDS, which in itself is encouraging. My life span expectancy is not 10 years, or 20 with HAART medication. I have the full 80 or so years to live, hopefully. I might be struggling on HOW to live my life, at least I am not struggling TO live. It could all be a lot worse.

We're off to see the Tutor, the wonderful Tutor of Art!

Back to college. The noise of the cafeteria crowd busily mussing over their lunches and concepts. The pitter and patter of rather large (both in volume and size) feet trotting up and down the corridors, stairs and walkways:- everyone of them busy, everyone of them looking for things, everyone of them a possible competitive future force on the arts market.

Having gotten back it seems I am more confused about what my art is about than before. Or perhaps I am simply confusing being a good artist with getting a good grade. Today my awesome tutor, lets call him Bave Deech, said something inspirationally insightful. He said that we have to go through the marking criteria, but that it does not have to impact our art. If it does we will inevitably become institutionalised artists.

Also quite recently, I have lately merged my diary and artist sketchbook together. Previously, I had consciously avoided doing this on several occasions as I was mindful of tutors (and curious friends who might unashamedly grab the book without asking) reading my thoughts. Afterall, who really wants to read the rants about my latest love interest, the pros and cons to confronting a friend about her rather annoying habit of clicking her tongue when she is speaking, and why my mother is or is not the root of my problems. Even I am bored. Besides that, all of this is personal. God forbid that the tutors know about my real life outside the school.

The fact of the matter is, all these things: my therapy, my internal struggles, my resolutions, and the thoughts about everyday life, they all feed my art. Be it directly or otherwise. Which brings me onto my next point.....

To be personal or not to be personal?

I am considering/am in the process of/ have decided to make a project about romantic relationships. I have not decided how to yet do it.

Diaghilev, and the Golden Age of the Ballets Russes, 1909-1929

When I went to see this exhibtion at the V&A nostalgia hit me. Not just for my home, sweet home russia, but also for lost times. The past is a strange thing, especially when you were not part of it. It is like memories that are not yours, ones you look at through glass: your reflections stares back at you and the objects lie in front used, worn, having once been useful, and now part of something idealised and to be admired from affar. And all I wanted to do is to touch, to smell, to feel part of that time. Otherwise what use is it to me? On the other hand, are MY memories anymore useful?

What use will my art have for anyone hanging on their walls? It will tell them stories they might care little about. It will tell them some things about who I was, or the ideas I want to portray, but at the end of the day they will just be paper, canvas, paints and what-not-else. They will just be things noone really cares about. Things one can only hope to understand. Or perhaps I am just talking about myself, and projecting it onto my work.

Edinburgh and Poe.

The other evening I was sitting reading a tad wee bit of Poe and I felt warm inside. Sure his short stories (a book I found lying in the hostel's common room - a rather beautiful 1960's bound editions with exquisite paper almost embroidered gold print ink patterns in the back and front covers). In any case, there I was sitting reading this book, with some hot tea and staring out of the window onto Haymarket station and the silhouette of some church steeples on the distant horizon. Then, like a slow sinking into lovely warm water I felt submerged in this feeling of, "yes, THIS is it. This is happiness. It's in finding a well written entertaining book, on sitting in a safe warm(ish) place, looking out onto a new spectacular city, knowing tomorrow will bring more memories and inspirational love for something." It's peculiar to imagine that Poe's vocabulary choice and flow of sentence structure could be compared to the architecture of Edinburgh, yet at that moment I was sure there was no other author who could be more appropriate to get to know than him in this magical picturesque city.

Priceless Value...?

In a recent conversation with my therapist we were discussing suntan booths and relationships:

" The truth is, I am not sure if I want this relationship with this person. We are friends and this friendship gives me a lot. Yet I feel I have to put up with this person's habits and I use a lot of time that I could be putting to productive art work making," I said.
"Hmmm, it sounds to me like you are having a dilemma of value and price," she replied insightfully as therapists do.
"Price? What am I paying? Value?! The value of what? The person, the time, the enjoyment...? Can you explain further."
And she did.
"Well, the value of something is how much it is worth to you. The parts of it you get that you like. For example, you were talking about the benefits of taking a 3 min session in sun bathing in a booth. It cures winter blues, and for a week your mood is fantastic. Now, the potential price is perhaps certain skin conditions and more seriously other problems associated with this practise. But these are unlikely to occur in consideration of the time you spend in them. Try going for a 30 min session every other day, the the value of tanned skin would be paid for with the price of extensive aging, with possible skin cancer in the future. With perhaps other prices unknown.
So here, in this relationship with your friend, is the time spent together: is it to YOU, worth the price for the value you get out of it?"


Thus, I got down to thinking about value and price of art. For price is also consequences. If I buy an art work and look at it everyday for my whole life, it will influence my practise. That with be the price. If I like this influence it will also be a value.

What interests me, is how do I decide whether the value of making my work, establishing my own practise is worth the price? What do I get from making art, from attending art school, that I would not get from working as a social worker, or as a mechanic or a lawyer? And most importantly what do I pay for all of this?

Is it worth it?

Once upon a time lived a man called Greenberg...

Greenberg. It all began with Greenberg. It seems a long time ago, or perhaps yesterday that term time started and the happy little jolly me entered adult life in the university wonderland. Everything was brighter, bigger and more bountiful. Now Christmas is upon us and Greenberg seems forgotten. But who is he? What did he achieve? And most importantly how did his ideas influence the way we perceive art? 

Perhaps I may yet find a moment after my break in snowy Scotland to let my blog

know. For now I recommend a Chocolassus Sunday at Fortnum & Masons.