down by the water front

Mini Break....how the other half live?

 

Mini break

 

 

Just got back from the hairdressers and all the better for it – it has been a well iffy year work wise and a trip to the hairdressers is one of my 'last to go' staples (no really; make-up, clothes all can take a back seat – but my hair makes me feel good –it is very fine and I am ‘of a certain age’ where it does not recognise the fact it should apparently be in its prime) so for me to have a cut and colour is my very very best treat to beat.

 

It had been ..er... summer last time I could afford to go, so as soon as things started to pick up a couple of weeks ago – apart from the relief of being able to pay bills my hair was numero uno. Booking late they could only do mid week after Christmas – so off I trotted for what seemed like a rare and really appreciated treat.

 

I was on time, but there is always a bit of give and take on that one not least on my part. So while waiting for Neville (really sweet guy from Malta - ahhh these hairdressers and their names) to finish colouring the woman nearest me – I couldn’t help overhearing (I was not earwigging!) as her friend who was sitting with her explained  what sounded like her horrific nuptial mess that was ending in divorce – I will add a few bits but basically it wasn’t so much about the ‘personal’ details which she was quite happy to share – but more about her take on this;  he had married her and then after weeks of trying not to be seen in public with her, told her he was bisexual and wanted out. So enough on that but there was something about the delivery of all this information, I was struck by her apparent ease in talking about it (not the gay thing if that was what he was saying) but the ease in talking so ‘openly’ about such a traumatic event.  Then the conversation turned to the fact her Chanel bag was being reproduced by a chainstore in practically the same detail, and the fact she had also spent £500 on Agent Provocateur undies and Jimmy Choo’s for no avail. And so the conversation veered from her ex to Dubai shopping, London shopping and trips to Claridges and on to how she had moved out and started renting a flat in London and out of all the areas in London he chose to rent on the same road – with his gay friends. Well enough detail already.

 

Then my turn came!... complete with special extra tricky bit of colour on one section of hair. The woman and her nuptial-less friend were moved next to me, and she said ‘ohh there is nowhere for me to sit’ – nope that’s right the chairs were taken either side.  Now I hadn’t been out over Christmas so I did wonder whether I had become a bit ‘sensitive to my personal space’ ie; having the settee to myself for too long because when she stood by my chair and carried on with her increasingly fascinating and baffling conversation I felt a teeny bit crowded. Then I noticed Neville having a bit of difficulty reaching round to that tricky bit of colouring – he got an assistant over and started making those hair-dressy gestures like standing back to make space – but she didn’t notice – she even looked over ‘us’ and started commenting on the weather outside. I decided I was probably jealous of her ability and ease to buy agent provocateur and stuff, and put my observation down to that and her apparently admirably balanced approach in dealing with romantic trauma with such mater-of-factness, no wonder my nerves and confidence had been worn away over the years – I was too sensitive.

 

Then the two were moved back to original chair whereupon miss nuptial  brought out an M&S snack thingy – one of those with mini cakes  and lots of tiny treats which they started to nibble on while she answered calls from her sister in London (none of us could have ignored it – she even had her phone on so you could here the other person speak) who was informing her that ‘he’ had taken ‘it’ (whatever that was) to court – it was then that I really couldn’t believe her ease of reaction to what she was  hearing and  instructing her sister in what she should do – ‘yes you phone the court you know the right questions to ask’.  Hats off I thought, if that was me I would be having kittens – with a) court usually meaning costing seriously-ouch-money and b) just the fact ’court’ urgggghhh!. But something seemed surreal like it was a script from a play – only played by some sort of emotionally detached method actor.

 

Miss nuptial was then separated from her friend as she started to have her hair coloured. Neville flitted between clients and then moved her to the heat lamp – he noticed she had left her bag and picked it up and took it to her chair, then he noticed the remains of the mini snack fest and asked her if she wanted them – she replied ‘no I’ve finished’ – and Neville cleared the remaining cakes and crumbs away asking if it was ok to throw all of it –‘yes’ she said – nothing more nothing less. It was then I thought I had definitely stayed in too long over Christmas and should trust my instincts more. Really! Some people!.

Christmas Door Mat

Oh You Pretty Things.....

 

 

Christmas door mat

 

I have had a bit of a frayed year (like many) and noticed that my door mat was looking and behaving like the epitome of the last few months. Well things started to turn for the better a couple of weeks ago and I looked at my ragged door mat that had come adrift from its base and thought - we are going to have a treat – my present to myself and my front door this Christmas – a new door mat.

 

It was then that I decided I was going to find a door mat that looked – well – a bit better than you usual sisal tufts. And I found it – a gorgeously pretty (yes doormats can be that too!) colourful flowery mat – ok ok its Orla Keily and its got flowers and everything  – I ordered it from Heals on t’internet – being so far ensconced ‘up north’ that these types of pretty treats never seem to venture beyond certain shops and certain cities unless you’re lucky or there is a far sighted buyer in Manchester, Leeds or wherever.

 

So along it came all Christmassy in its box and wrapping – I opened it with glee and threw the tatty one out ( I know recycling and all - but it was symbolic and wildly therapeutic ). Then I had to keep opening the front door in the face of a gale force blast of icy air to dwell on its prettiness. A neighbour came round and jokingly said I wonder how long it’ll last before it gets nicked (its true we have all had things taken round here – if it looks like it will sell and isn’t nailed down....). I just said oh well you know I really like it – and besides I can’t live like that – to which she agreed, so we carried on looking – it really is that nice honest!.

 

 

But the thought of pretty things and them not being able to ‘be seen’ because of theft or fear of theft and of looking extravagant? (I don’t personally get that but I’ve never been into gold taps or door knockers for that matter  cos I’m not convinced they’re pretty but I have had pot plants? a Barbeque and an – I thought pretty – bike nicked ). It is a fact though some pretty things cost money others don’t . Beauty comes in many shapes and forms and creative and artistic styles also – I remember looking around Shad Thames in the mid nineties and seeing a stark contrast in two galleries there – one housed paintings of a past tutor of mine an artist from Sheffield, they were stark black and white abstracted (or rather 'not literal images') - grim claustrophobic looking things really - of the coal mines, but they had a presence that somehow spelt beauty. And another gallery in the same block that had bronze sculptures – the sort of which you couldn’t pick fault with; perfect body forms and shapes beautifully executed – but somehow didn’t say anything other than lightweight nice to me, both had London price tags on. I just thought if both pieces were placed on the side of a road and left to their own devices which would be lifted first? – I’d place a bet on the bronze, not just for its metal value but ‘the all round acceptableness’ of it.

 

One time I ventured into a gallery on Cork street – I say ventured – you had to be virtually psychic to guess it was there– a fairy innocuous door off the street with intercom entrance, opened only if you were practically on first name terms with the owner – which if it had been off Wardour street 20-30 years ago could have easily passed as ‘one of those entrances’. If it wasn’t for the fact I was an upfront art student I don’t think they would have let me in. Once up the stairs and in I looked around trying to make sense of the works on display. A particular work caught my eye - a very striking snowy white textured abstract piece which definitely resonated around the room. This was also being viewed by a couple – who by their clothes looked like they were more likely from Chelsea than Catford, they did lots of ’strokey imaginary beard’ motions while one of the gallery staff recited the most ambiguous arty speak I have ever heard (and I have heard quite a bit – fraternising with artists like I do) no in fairness they tend to know what they are trying to say but it comes out in an ‘arty bollocks speak’ way – this was, as far as I could tell, just ambiguous, but still I am sure the weight of the gallery’s kudos would’ve amounted to a hefty cheque being paid.

 

I guess pretty and beauty have always had an element of emperor’s new clothes – if an object of perceived beauty becomes highly endorsed by patronage, which is usually a monolithic source, then it becomes of worth or even priceless – doors are opened and room is made to keep it held in a metaphorical glass case of protection to be seen by those who would revere it.

Public art and galleries do precisely the opposite and on a more limited budget – so the really really really revered things of beauty in this world are never going do that gig – they couldn’t afford the insurance. But these institutions and councils find works none the less, of their own beauty and put them on public display for debate and (sometimes ridicule), and on balance I think public art institutions and arts councils play a vastly underrated role not only because they enable viewing to everyone – um even... the Queen, but not least because they display to the public – who is never shy of calling ‘the emperor’s got no clothes on!’ giving a whole new perspective and value of its beauty.

 

 

That is why my door mat stays put – I like it – I think it is pretty and anyone passing my front door can make their own mind up – just please don’t nick it.

Pop Will Eat Itself

 

Every little helps...

 

 

Enfant Terrible was a word used to describe people like Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin during their rise into the public consciousness. For centuries there have been people in the arts ‘making waves’ or shocking the establishment, and these type of tag-names help reinforce the effect. There is, though a lot of distance between someone like Damien Hirst and the tortuous life of Dostoyevsky. Maybe that is because we live in more ‘stable’ times – the threat of the establishment smothering the life out of anything that purports to go against the grain is less likely now – isn’t it.

 

Isn’t it? or is it? as Robert McCrum aptly put the other day there is a deal of difference between being ‘disloyal’ and ‘complicity’. Shazia Mirza was also banging on about the amount of petty hate that’s flying around these days -  like the venom spouted toward Jedward, Tiger Woods, Jordan and various people who have very little real effect on our lives, and certainly not worthy of the vitriol given to that of Hitler, say, or Pol Pot. It seems that for most of us the minutiae of detail we seem to absorb on a daily basis deserves the same amount of hurrumphed response of a Victor Meldrew clone in full swing.

 

And the arts are no less affected; the last time I recall the arts having a really momentous avant-garde moment (apart from Mr Rushdie’s singular attempt and as opposed to active ’disloyal’ people protests like that for the Poll Tax/Criminal Justice Bill etc). At the last count saying something ‘incompliant’ was in the days of punk – and even that was really about making your own crap music in your bedroom – but you know – in general up till then apart from blues, or rock and roll type stuff, for main stream popular music the affordability and ‘knowhow’ was the reserve of a few.

 

When I heard of Sam Taylor Woods new film ‘Nowhere Boy’ (I couldn’t miss it really being in lieu of its release) I winced thinking about the press responses to ‘an artist doing a film’ and not just that ‘an artist doing a film about a treasured icon’.

The usual knee jerk reaction to most artists encroaching on different territory is ‘go back to what you do best’ etc etc., ‘jack of all trades master of none’. True, there is something very relevant about being a master at what you do best. But Sam Taylor-Wood is a visual artist, she has done many short films, photographic pieces, and emotional visual forays into unchartered territory – not necessarily in a shocking way either. No the wince factor for me came when I saw she had done what looked like an emotionally heavy look at the early life of John Lennon - and why not, indeed  she got the backing of Yoko Ono to use the song ‘Mother’ after she had seen a special screening of the film. But the iconic nature of John Lennon and how he touched many in some way by his life if not his death, I’d hazard a guess that if you didn’t like his music or even the public persona and were over 9 you would at least respect the talent and genius.

 

So it didn’t surprise me when sifting through some of the early comments about this film that aside from the usual arty spats between critics, there was an element within the press who were somewhat disgruntled that she had chosen to show him as anything other than a perfect example of how a budding rock/pop star should behave. Sacrilege sprung to mind as I read one review, well all I could think of was the response to Steve MQueen’s foray into feature film a couple of years ago (he too a visual artist) with ‘Hunger’ about IRA hunger striker Bobby Sands. A barrel of laughs it was never going to be and indeed Nowhere Boy does not have to have the precursor to be the ‘happy go lucky art school cheeky boy made good’ subsequently being shot down, thus delivering us with a ‘righteous tear fest’. Life isn’t like that but for some reason going against the grain by ‘telling it like it is’ albeit an interpretation, is nothing short of defamation - of what though? the rose tinted idea? – Robert McCrum talked of artists today being fearful of risk - vulnerable to propaganda and being prisoners of conventional wisdom. This is a sobering and true sentiment – as is Tom Paine’s ‘we must guard even our enemies against injustice’.

 

So if I hear the baying crowd rallying around some petty injustice of idyll whether it is a Middle England preserve or whatever – Sam’s film will remind me that 'disloyalty' and risk are part of the wider issue of Not being compliant – so that, without wanting to sound too dramatic, the Dostoevsky’s of the future do not have to suffer the same fate again.

As Neil Young sang in the 70’s, Rust Never Sleeps; so however ridiculous and irrelevant the concept of going against the grain may seem today, falling into step with the crowd is still a one-way ticket, not least for creative originality (and god knows how difficult it is to create something absolutely and completely original).

Graham Greene passionately believed in playing devil’s advocate and ’being a piece of grit in the state machinery’. With popular culture now as state of the art if not art masquerading as entertainment, however small the ‘disloyal’ gesture made it will go some way to ensure the imploding nature of complicity doesn’t take hold – every little helps.

All Posh Coat and No Knickers

 

 

 

Make do and mend or waste not want not....

 

 

 

When I was little I had a special bowl that, on visiting my Grandma she would fill with a delicious (seriously! a 6 year old recommending!) stew. At the bottom of the bowl as I finished my dinner the words ‘waste not want not’ would appear.

This childhood memory sprang to mind when I caught a discussion on fashion and its evolution over the last ten years. I picked my ears up on hearing Hussein Chayalan (he of gorgeous clothes) saying that for him and his business the quickening pace of instantly available fashion on the high street had reached such a fever pitch that almost-exact replicas of his work were being produced by people like Zara even before he had got his own designs finished and ready for sale. The sentiment was almost identical to one that I heard Roland Mouret say about 4 years ago at a Fashion Industry talk on Ethical Fashion. Roland’s take was that his (very expensive and hand sewn) garments took a great deal of effort and time to produce and were being reproduced before he had chance to get them out of his (private) shows.

 

 

Quite, the times are changing – when asked for a vision of the future – Hussein’s reply was (and very ethically right) less is more – less of this stuff being regurgitated. I just wondered if it was also a tad convenient. Vivienne Westwood also having a less is more moment last year with her Manifesto -the argument being buy an item of quality and see it last. I love her stuff I really do! but I would need to by some knickers as well as that gorgeous coat that is going to last for 50 years, and incidentally costs 500 smackers (and I am not disputing design or the quality here), maybe we could all do sub-prime coat mortgages instead. Then at least I’d have some knickers on for my dignity when the coat was repossessed.

 

This internet and i phony stuff has set the cat amongst the pigeons and the old order of things, with feathers flying  everywhere, although copying, historically has never been that far away, it’s just happening quicker and is more widespread. Watching Alan Bennett that bastion of tea and biscuits and all things cosy the other night introducing his play A Woman of No Importance..even he referred to poaching the first couple of lines (it’s the way he says it). This copying lark has been around for years, and I believe doing it again differently is how most creative stuff actually works. Just now you have the wannabe-not quite Rolex instead of the slightly improved or altered version. Remember those rip off dodgy videos of the 90’s – the unwatchable ones ...not because of the content, because of the quality?.  Quality will always be in vogue just as is a bargain as opposed to a  rip off. Market stalls are classic places for discerning shoppers (looking under the first layer of fruit and veg to see what you’re really getting). You do tend to get what you pay for.

 

So the old argument goes... copyright...copyright...no plagiarism....or selling as your own.. absolutely! but even the music industry has had mutterings from some sides saying – that when artists work has been lifted lock stock and barrel and redistributed on the internet this should be treated like a free advert. The music cut and paste style (child of the sampling dj’s of the eighties) has also blurred with the pace. It is reflected right across all genres of artistic endeavour in various stages of evolution.

 

But this particular fashion discussion focused on ‘the democratising’ of fashion or preferring  not to be as they were saying, by this rapid drip down effect. Excuse me? Wasn’t it the fashion big houses that constantly researched what was happening on the streets in order to redo it again differently and be trendy only with more expensive baubles (and sometimes hilariously off the mark and totally missing the point in my view). By which token is it ok to lift ideas and then not be allowed to repeat them differently? (I’m talking quality here!). The backing up of Hussein’s sentiment from Paula Reed of Grazia magazine  when she talked about the high street dictating rules and the punter having no sense of personal style any more is plausible if you narrowly look at the It bags and the Paris look alikes. Isn’t this now though? 2009/10? Hello? how patronising is it to assume or use the excuse that the punter no longer knows they’re own style; suggesting the Gok Wan type of TV makeover’s  are responsible for this nanyism – they maybe patronising and cliché  – but I suspect this is Paula Reed's ruse-like pot calling kettle and not a true reflection.

 

Susie Bubble had her luddite fashion moment when visiting a Pam Hogg re-launch earlier this year and tried on one of her ultra ultra tight iconic cat suits, which she duly posted a pic on her very very much watched blog, only to be told she couldn’t do it without the permission of Ms Hogg herself and to take the photos down. Well that’s certainly told Susie... and there we all were thinking we might go and buy one.

 

Peter Yorke made an interesting comment about ethical lite issues surrounding the make do and mend ethos/trend which is not that far removed from less is more. Essentially it is a fairly logical and good philosophy – but in reality most people who seem to be able to actively adopt this mindset are what he termed asset rich and cash poor; ie not Frank Gallagher from Shameless nor Yosser ‘gizza job’ ‘I can do that’ Hughes of Boys from the Blackstuff who would be too busy dealing with time consuming things like the DWP or DHSS in Yosser’s case and keeping ahead of some sort of mental survival assault course.

 

No for most getting up to speed is probably a little less to do with sulky protectionism and more engagement with the zeitgeist; that being as long as your creativity is not being out and out copied and called someone else’s work (plagiarised) then stop being so control freakery-precious and hiding behind very real ethical issues as an excuse.



Hello.... Its Mikey here...Mikey Dread

 

 

 

It's for Yoo-hoo!

 

 

 

 

 

Just finished scrolling, tutting, huffing and giggling through my emails this morning when a bizarrely unfamiliar sound jolted me away from the screen – it was my landline. Poor sad little forgotten thing in the corner of the room, I duly dusted the metaphorical – no real – cobwebs from it and answered, knowing it would be one of two people, either my sons grandma or spam. Grandma, despite having a computer and a mobile (for emergencies only- well they're not cheap, pay as you go phones!), prefers this more user friendly mode of communication.

This reminded me of a time only a few years ago – literally about 6 – when I was searching the net for a music cd for a chrissy present and actually came across the website of the artist. A thing not so widespread then, before You Tube and the like’s exponential explosion. So seeing as he had gone to the trouble of creating his website I decided to order direct from him. This being Mikey Dread and the cd in question World War III, his base appeared to be in Florida, I think, and to place the order I had to fill in a contact form.

Done and dusted I got on with things waiting for it to wing its way through the post via his  contact Ernie B. It was only when I got home one evening a few nights later that I noticed a scribbled note marked ‘Mike’ with a number lying nonchalantly by the phone. I asked my son who (14 at the time) had taken the call and he said ‘oh yeah, someone called Mikey phoned and asked you to call him back’, I puzzled for a few minutes and racked my brains for a Mikey I knew, looking at the number realised it was definitely not UK – and asked what did the guy say? ‘Nothing really – just would be good to hear from you’. Now it did actually take a few minutes for the penny to drop, precisely because I was not expecting it. When it finally did I phoned back and heard the dulcet husky tones of no other than Mikey slowly saying ‘hello Mikey here...’ and so the conversation went as to how he liked to personally keep up with people who were interested in his music, I was suitably gobsmacked and excitedly started to talk of all sorts of things that really were probably of no interest to him, but he listened and then slowly said how he was thinking of coming to the UK and that Glastonbury had asked him, although it clashed at the same time with a big Jamaican festival. He ultra-calm, me headless chicken but a cracking phone call just the same!.

Times have moved on and sadly Mikey is no longer with us. My landline is still the sole Bat Phone for Grandma, although now she has taken to letting the answer phone kick in if a return call is made – until she is absolutely sure it is not spam. And it was then, while returning to my mail that a little shiver went through me; only a couple of years ago Gordon Brown started phoning/being in touch with his electorate for personal feedback, what if this is the start of a surreptitious trend?. As the ‘Heat’  is turned down on celebrity shenanigans, with most of us having far more pressing things to attend to like worrying/losing jobs/homes  – or just the whole  emotionally draining uncertainty of this meltdown to give a toss about Tiger Woods et all....Please God no! take this nightmare vision away from me....but maybe the future of spam is not how big your 'watsit' can be (why do I get these?) or Cindi from Russia wanting to get to know me (again??.. yup 20 times in the last month)  ...but something on the lines of... ‘Hello its Number Ten here...my name is Gordon...’ a stalker Paris perhaps? ....Britney's direct messages..anyone? (ok maybe for some saddo’s) but still a scary spam tale too far.

Mikey was great bless him, and unexpected, but God forbid this idea gets its trend socks on.



Saatchi’s Art School ..like watching paint dry..on TV

Art and Artists do not all come packaged in a category marked 'Factory' -Warhol – bless, would have turned in his grave.



First the X Factor, then The Apprentice, then Dragons Den and Strictly....then came the ‘creative’ cooking of Masterchef and then a spin off featuring Philip Staark’s Design School with him playing devil’s advocate as ‘teacher’ and now...Ta!! Da!!Charles Saatchi and his School of Art.

I think I see a ‘ratings’ style link here... choose your category, get a group of people who want to perform to win, put them through their paces and Bobs Your Uncle; safe bet viewing figures. OK some of them are entertaining competitions– they work with things like The Apprentice and to a lesser degree even the Philip Staark Design one. But Art?, the school aspect I can understand, it worked with Staark’s, as the viewer was taken on a learning curve about the design process.

But which bright spark decided an art school would make good TV? Charles ‘mega-hype-art-dealer-cum-80’s-Tory-spin-doc’ Saatchi perhaps? maybe not content with seeing his wife's (Nigella Lawson) productive coffers increased through her TV cookery endeavours, book sales, crockery...and...er you get the idea. It’s a tough time and the art market is no different than any other -and Saatchi should know he is an ad man after all.

So Saatchi -isms aside, my lack of understanding stems from the content. This is not about 'how dare they take the sacred cow of art down the X Factor route’; I would be one of the first to encourage non-deadly serious art exposure where ever possible. But this series seems to be taking it down a blind alley, doing no favours to art, the process, or for the artists themselves, albeit being tempted by the very golden carrot of Saatchi's blessing (no, I'm not jealous!) to have his blessing really is like winning the lottery so good luck to them!. No it is the nature of art itself being forced into this narrow model that doesn't resonate.

The artists are ‘chosen’ and then given a few staples of arty-style foundation course tasks like life drawing, along with a ‘design’ driven brief creating site specific public art (no mean feat!)– but this aspect of art is a far more structured  process than one of an artist creating a painting for example. Each of the four programmes really focus on site specific constructs which, from the point of view of ‘interesting’ TV gives it a bit of bite – and in its favour if you’re remotely thinking about art or becoming an artist – this angle definitely gives a light ‘overview’ of that kind of hurdle strewn process.

But for pities sake the TV friendly approach gets all the artists working in pairs so they can have a chat about their work, with one couple having a stroppy fall out in a castle no less! followed by an inevitably tension filled screen as a pile of high wobbly things threatens to keel over. And then there’s That Prize! of Saatchi’s’ very own endorsement complete with a panel of foreboding Big Shots thrown into the mix. Well it works for The Apprentice – but then that isn’t really about business, no more than this is really about creating art. And all this from a programme that is listed under ‘factual’ on the BBC website.

This is where it falls flat on its face for me, by failing or not being able to show the real self disciplined drive of justifying, criticising and believing in your work – essentially on your own –and more usually Without A Prize. Tracey Emin, one of the judges sort of summed it up when she said ‘the art world is very private, very secret’ – it is! exactly that.

All the Fine Art departments I’ve ever come across are usually the quietest, most ghost like places on the campus shattered every now and then with loud banging’s, hammerings and the like from pieces needing a bit of ‘construction’. Most of the time any artist actually there would be sat deep in thought, researching or waiting for paint to dry. No-one, no-one, would have any real clue about the process of another’s piece from its conception until its final enactment. Unless of course you had an in depth art conversation with the artist, which even if you steered clear of the ‘arty bollocks speak’ was still pretty personal and possibly unfathomable (although communicating your work is very much encouraged and definitely helps with liason and public art projects) but in reality most artists consistently fit into that grey area of ‘what makes them do it in the first place’ hence the obscure nature of it.

It is private, it is a personal process and to make a TV series out of it even if you do try and ‘sex it up’ a bit is, well, quite frankly like watching paint dry.