Global crisis in a nutshell

John Ruskin Collection, Sheffield

 

Something about the set up of this bizarre diorama/installed exhibit really grabbed me. I think it may have been the banal inclusion of a beautiful period leathertop writing desk as part of the exhibition decor... as if the bland and inert semi circular mock-desk that housed a few bizarre relics (a slab of polished geological interest, a description on foam board, a desk-top stand holding nothing in particular) had elevated itself to prominence by proxy of the fine antique furniture. Its equally bland counterpart, a higher module that sat behind it but of smaller dimension, proudly displayed a bust of Ruskin (I suppose- wasn't interested enough to quantify the importance of it) but being isolated from any feature furniture itself looked merely like a poorly cast Ikea sideboard. The Ruskin bust could arguably have been left on top of it by accident- probably while curators deliberated on whether it should sit atop the leather topped feature piece, or would be perhaps better served in contrast to the formica surface of the display sideboard... anyway, by the time the hypothetical discussion was resolved, the installers had moved on anfd forgotten to place Mr Ruskin anywhere interesting, so he sat patiently atop the ikea feature, perhaps awaiting a higher calling at some later stage. The pine trees in the background seem nothing more than a surreal twist on an already bizarre accident. I would not be surprised to see the whole thing recreated to the letter by Fischli and Weiss in some biennal not long from now.

Kid Acne, Sheffield

 

There's a lot not to like about Kid Acne's work, if you're a cynic like me. Too polished, a lack of puritan graf roots, too graphic-design-student, too commercial... all wild and unfounded allegations that I have made against him and many other urban success stories without foundation and not without simmering jealousy. 

Having stumbled upon this mini retrospective at the winter garden in his hometown, I was expecting little, but discovered lots. The works on display actually diplayed an honesty, a diligence and a dedication to pure drawing that was both refreshing and alarming: this is not bog standard MTV/bandwagon/mobilecommunications advertising lapdog, this has a sincerity. The display of many many sketchbooks- not just the 'im a sketchbook but really he spent 3 days on me' crap that's blogged cockily, but genuine drawing, exploring, re-working to find an idea- was testament to the kid's craftsmanship. Sometimes it was indeed a bit clichéd, a bit slick- but one got the impression it was fairly genuine. 

The exhibition sadly waned towards the end, with the artist evidently beginning to believe his own hype- the installation of 6ft fibreglass catoon-o-ghosts around a wiegiboard as part of some new direction into ironic recasting of 80's fantasy was clumsy and a bit too earnest. Icing on the sugar coated cream that wasn't necessary. The work is just fine as it is- raw, simple, obvious and of  a high quality- no need to gild the lily.

All in all it was a pleasing little exhibition- a great insight into a working process of one of the mainstream success stories of crossover graf.

The fact isn't not without its faults...

The fact isn't any good

The Fact Isn't, as of sunday

World Collapsed

My wife made a very astute observation the other day whilst getting dressed. She proposed that the global economic meltdown was in fact the latest manifestation of sentient terror control ie governmental methods to keep the proletariat in fear. With eco-globowarmic tragedy a disporven myth and 9/11 reduced just a sentimental memorial t-shirt, those in power have ramped up the psychological warfare and introduced a banking crisis as the latest mechanism with which to beat freedom into submission. How would we ever actually know if Greece was bankrupt or if our local library really did need to close? Austerity measures have most likely made governments realise that people will actually tolerate a hell of a lot of sanctions in the name of 'saving the economy', which in itself is fucking ironic. You want to save your beloved consumerist society? Forgo the ability to consume and feed your family and instead put petrol on the dinner table, without it poor daddy will not be able to get to work and earn too little to actually clothe you in anything other than sweatmark or asda-world-gone-mad. Dark days, if you believe them. 

Justin Beiber reworked as Minotaur

Justin Beiber, the Minotaur.

Ass. Probably. Copyright:me, as if anyone wants to copy this shite.

The Fact Is...

"one day pigeons will take over the world"

I remind myself of Jamie Hewlett much to my own chagrin. The fact that there is an 'earth' reflected in the eye neither works nor is obvious. Just cliched. However, you may like it.

The Fact Is...

...we should all share more.

Gouache on Sanderson hand printed vintage wall paper. Framed.

The Fact Is... we are all going the wrong way.

Place a bid at the FACEBOOK gallery

http://www.thefactis.co.uk/  get on the bus...

Wirksworth

A little bit Puppet show and Spinal Tap, but the event is finally under way. Nailed the fucking hanging in record time thanks to my own special debbie macgee, and she patiently doled out nails, hammers and artwork exactly when needed to get the job done in time. Unfortunately, we discovered that the space for our exhibits was also to be shared by a makeshift cafe. A FUCKING CAFE. Ah well, will subvert in earnest tomorrow...

Mosely Folk Festival

It's been a long time since I graced the shores of beautiful suburban Mosely, just outside Birmingham. I had the pleasure of revisiting on account of the Folk Festival arranged by a couple of kind hearted entrepreneurs who seem intent on the outdated model of a quality event with great music at its heart. Perhaps most inspiring of them all were The Bees, who's awesome diverse wares (funk/ska tinged rock?) I have not been party to until this event. Apparently they, like ocean colour scene, are Mosely locals.
Late on Sunday, after packing the car and setting ourselves down in a tent once used for lost children, we settled down to the final act of the night, the legendary Billy Bragg. As the drizzle swept through the park near the lake, some festival goers pushed their sleeping children away in push chairs, while others made them endure the elements a little longer just to witness the People's Poet do his thing. Remarkably refreshing, amusing, and a better singer than my memory serves me, Billy Bragg was a joy to watch. Best of all, his interval monologues whose topics ranged from Mick Hucknall's crass confessions to the perils of cynicism, contained just enough political ire to make them relevant, without sounding preachy or naive. Like a fine wine he has matured well.

Notting Hill Carnival