On ink

I can't really believe I am doing this. This means it is actually over. I feel sick. I am terified. I am sitting in a public library  (the need to write or blog without the internet at home is making me feel desperate) and I am struggling to breath. It is this bit of ink in my skin that means everything. It made you a part
of me. I am ignoring the blood. That isn't quite so visible but now it is going to be all over. I felt like I had to keep trying because of this bit of ink. A birth mark connecting me to you. I hope this is enough. I hope this is right. I have no choice but to destroy this bit of ink and be born again. A constant reminder. A reminder of all the memories but moist of all the curse that it wouldn;t work. That you that me would never change. We didn't for each other. We got killed my ink. The memories before. the memories after. The happiness. The anger. The loathing. The pain. The jelousy. The fear. The lack of trust. The escapism. The joy. The ecstasy. Everything in ink wiped clean.
Without ink I am free?
The panic I am feeling right now is suffocating. My eyes hurt. My head aches.
This is withdrawel. Cold turkey. The ink has to be the light.

The Vorticists - Manifesto for a modern world.

"Victorian vampire, the london cloud sucks the towns heart." Blast 1

Jacob Einsten -  Rock Drill

Henri - Gaudier - Bruska : Front (head)

Back : Penis

Jacob Einstein

"Think of a whirlpool...At the heart of the whirlpool is a great silent place where all the energy is concentrated. And there, at the point of concentration, is the Vorticist." Wyndham Lewis

The Tate Britain is a refreshing change from the wonders of the Modern and it never (all though far less frequently visited) fails to disappoint. I rushed at the last minute to "The Vorticists - manifesto for a modern world" exhibition...which finished yesterday.. despite the fact that I had been meaning to see it for as long as it has been in existence. 

   Just like The Miro I absolutely loved everything about the show. The curation was (thank god) intelligent and interesting. The wording fluid and the display stunning. The Tate seems to be getting better at understanding it's audience and inspiring awe in the viewer. The work was shocking but beautiful and I found a fragility in The Vorticists work as it so apparently took on the world it was scared of. Obviously the connection with writing was a point of interest and inspiration for me. Poetry is key.. however as with the Miro. I feel inspired to make art again. Thank you. 

  Even though I of course do not take the Vorticist view seriously its rhetoric makes me smile.

"BLESS the solitude of LAUGHTER.

BLESS the separating, ungregarious

BRITISH GRIN."

then again.. maybe I am just to fleeting or influenced.. lets hope it sticks!

Kiefer - at The White Cube

This time last year I was locked in a secret warehouse in Hackney wearing a boiler suit, rubber gloves and a face mask - rolling out sheets of lead and stripping paper. 

It was a load of fun really but all in the aid of Anselm Kiefer's latest works. There we were working away like slaves whilst the artist rested himself in America. It is funny how some artists choose to work.

Anyway as it turns out the exhibition we were working for is now on at The White Cube in Hoxton Square.  I missed the private view so dragged Tim along yesterday to see how the work turned out. It isn't all of it... Not our work but it was really good to finally see the artists latest vision. 

I personally think it is beautiful and the metal work really interesting.

It is exciting being part of that kind of process.

THE WAVES OF THE SEA AND LOVE

is an eclectic mix of works but obviously linked. 

His work is calming and nostalgic. 

Like the sea

I am not going to write a critic... you should go and see for yourself. 

Anyway a few pictures :

scream

sick

Richey Edwards and why (whatever the reason) this picture is disgusting...

A desperate act like this, however real, is made for the public; to shock and to cause distress, to gain attention and contrive the poor little me image. I am not saying self harm isn't real or that Richey Edwards didn't have a very real problem. A mentally stable person wouldn't do this, let alone do this for the public to see. I am all to aware of self harm. As an eleven  year old in an eating disorder clinic I was thrown into a distressing world where desperate people would slit there hands, necks, stomachs, thighs with anything they could find. I all too really saw with my very own eyes a friend slash chunks of flesh out of her arms "chunks"! and be rushed to hospital. I have felt the pain myself.. all through my teenage years witnessed and felt real real pain. It HURTS.
 The problem is sick people normalise there sickness or even become semi proud of there differences. In a sick world your drastic actions become something to lust after. Not just this it is a way of dealing with the "pain" the self obsessed fucking pain but it is sick it is ill. I have read about Richey he was no fake but the whole world becomes some sort of glamourised cult sick blood bath.
And I have been there... you can't help it but it is some sort of attention seeking thing, not conscious but so fucking sick. Sick for everyone else.
I feel his suffering. I get it. Yet...
I choose to distance myself. I spent my teenage years dealing with my own real problems and encountering my own real worlds. Pro- ana and pro- harm is something I am all too aware of. The destruction, the pure endless, glamorous destruction. I WANT to fit in. I WANT to be something. I AM SICK. THIS IS ME. THIS IS ME. THIS IS SO FUCKING ME THIS FUCKING TORTURED SOUL AND IT IS MY ONLY WAY OUT. I CUT MYSELF LIKE THIS. IT FEELS BETTER. IT FEELS SO FUCKING GOOD. I WANT TO DIE. LOOK AT MY BONES. LOOK AT MY BONES. DON'T LOOK AT MY BONES. IT IS ME. I WANT TO DISAPPEAR. THIS IS ME. I DON'T WANT TO BE ME. I HAVE THIS PROBLEM. IT IS MY LIFE. I AM SICK.
I had enough of it. I chose life. I chose to stop destroying myself. Chose to stop noticing my problems and get on with life. Deal with it.
The problem I have is the cult obsession. The cult leader ship and it is everywhere and it makes me sick. How dare people who don;t understand make judgements or think they no because they don't. How dare people shove this in my face as if it is going to make some sort of difference because it is not. Destruction isn't beautiful or tortured it is all so contrived and all so fake and I am not taking it.
Take it away. Take all this disgusting stuff away. It is there. But GOD don't be so self pitying and selfish and so fucking fucking selfish because you have no idea what you are doing.

4 stone 7 pounds

I eat too much to die
And not enough to stay alive

I'm sitting in the middle waiting
Cheeks sunken and despaired
Days since I last pissed
So gorgeous sunk to six stone
Lose my only remaining home

See my third rib appear
A week later all my flesh disappears
Stretching taut, cling-film on bone
I'm getting better

Kate and Emma and Kristin know it's fake
Karen says I've reached my target weight
Problem is diet's not a big enough word
I wanna be so skinny that I rot from view

I want to walk in the snow
And not leave a footprint
I want to walk in the snow
And not soil its purity
Stomach collapsed at five
Lift up my skirt my sex is gone

Naked and lovely and 5st. 2

May I bud and never flower
My vision's getting blurred
My hands are trembling stalks
But I can see my ribs and I feel fine
And I can feel my breasts are sinking

Mother trys to choke me with roast beef
And sits savouring her sole Ryvitta
But I can change, my cocoon shedding
That's the way you're built my father said

I want to walk in the snow
And not leave a footprint
I want to walk in the snow
And not soil its purity

Kate and Kristin and Kit Kat
All things I like looking at
Choice is skeletal in everybody's life
I choose my choice, I starve to frenzy
Too weak to fuss, too weak to die

Hunger soon passes and sickness soon tires
Legs bend, stockinged I am Twiggy
And I don't mind the horror that surrounds me
Self-worth scatters, self-esteem's a bore
I long since moved to a higher plateau


Just look at the fat scum who pamper me so
This discipline's so rare so please applaud
Yeh 4st. 7, an epilogue of youth
Such beautiful dignity in self-abuse
I've finally come to understand life
Through staring blankly at my navel 

by Manic Street Preachers

Blood nymph

Blood drips

Sickly scents of sacred sapphire


                                                      Streams.


Her blood drops
                        Diving and dreaming
Beautiful Blindness


An
     END to the suffering
The search for sensation

To be loved

To be loved

To be loved

The purpose to be loved.

                                     The pain dissipated with the scarlet poison as it stains the white
page

Page after page.
A search for some kind of soul
To cling to
                To live.


TRANSCENDENT BLISS

She cries
She screams
BLISS






No feeling.






Ancient ancient dazed marble veins
Bloodless blood
Pureness Cleansed
Pureness Cleansed


Censored Pureness

pretention for a purpose

It might seem like I'm just lusting after a punk aesthetic (which I am ... in the most romantic way) but this is a comment, an unresolved, unfinished comment about the world around me.

I am aware it looks kitsch with the the tackniess of the smashed quitar, red paint, splashed blood and cheeky "comment "...but this is the point. A comment on art. The world of art and YES "What has happened to art school?"

A throw a way remark, a judgement, an ideal, the past and the future but most importantly what it shoes is so what the comment isn't. Instead of judging the institution this is the institution. It becomes the art teacher, the art student, the art critic and art. Art for ARTS sake. Could a painting get more pretentious? A "profound" statement ( I say in jest) framed and sealed in the colour of blood on a prim white canvas... and hung in art school! Would this survive without it's surroundings? no!... the very fact is it can't escape the organisation and instead of rebelling IT IS.

The smashed guitar... creative destruction? ... or carefully placed and pretentious "art" the purpose... not to be rebellious but to comment on the past, the tacky and the informed.

This doesn't make me cool. It makes me the opposite. But the realisation is what takes this work on.

But still I question... what is education? And what is art school

CSM: Lifestyle not an education

courtesy of Jasminne Yip


I have now enrolled for 2010 to start m BA in Fine Art at Cetral Saint Martins!...BRING IT ON!!!

dragged heart