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.