British Artist Nick Hersey explores ideas and concepts relating to consumerism, youth culture, contemporary art and the modern condition.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
I can't help it
He was not unusual in himself of course. True he did not fit the
regular demographic for this particular incarnation of the project, as
he was younger than the average participant- he was perhaps a few years
younger than me- but he certainly was not the first person of general
intellect to drift into the unit. His jaunty goatee and only recently
unkempt hair lent the impression of a creative, or liberal, or somesuch
type, and his fairly well disguised midlands accent seemed the natural
auditory accompaniment to this demeanor.
He flapped a B5 envelope in his other hand, between thumb and index finger, as he mused on what might be the best way to pin down the amorphous idea that was clearly crystalising quite nicely in his mind. It had always been a refreshing interaction when a passer by would encounter, digest, understand and then participate in the installation without needing prodding or goading by me. Most would, at some point, need confirmation that what they were doin was right- was permitted, or expected of them. It is part of the creature that we have become, to need assurance or security in the fact that we are doing it as expected, by the rules, to form. There is indeed a term for the 'fear of freedom' - but it escapes me now. Our envelope flapper needed no introduction or encouragement, no shepherding or cues. He got it right away... he knew exacty what he had to do- he just needed to get it, well, just right. It was almost as if, in fact, this whole exercise had happened upon him at just the right moment- that if circumstance had been different, and he had not wandered into this operation, he might have spent the next forty minutes looking for some equivalent vehicle that could alleviate him of this burning idea. After some rather embarrassed smiled exchanges, some chin rubbing and, I think, a little finger wagging to his unseen conscience or mental spirit, he finally filled with the confidence that he had got it right.
He humped his rucksack higher onto the one shoulder that carried it, so that it should not slump awkwardly as he leaned forward to write, and he placed the paper on the desk and quickly scribbled the words onto it. After a brief pause, looking at them on the page, to check that they were, in fact, a fairly accurate representation in written form of the conceptual miasma that had taken so long to condense, he nodded to himself (or his unseen conscience once again) and slid the paper across the desk to me, a look of satisfaction on his face that just about resisted becoming an expression of smugness.
I looked at the phrase that he had written, and turned it over once or twice in my head, making sure that the concept that had been so lovingly wrapped in words and then written on paper, would be as diligently recreated by my own cognitive processes. I smiled politely as I had trained myself to after so many diverse contributions. It had become a polite ritual to acknowledge vulgarity, racism, stupidity or perceived wit with equal measure as a way of thanks for at least bothering to participate in the project. Genius and Hideous were treated with zen-like equal measure in this house.
In themselves, the words were a commendable effort, but especially so in the context of the project. The phrase would have stood in its own right had it simmered to the surface of his consciousness of its own accord, without being teased out under the duress of participating in the project, but it seemed even more vigorous when considered as a manufactured response stimulated by the unit. I had come to expect a yield of perhaps one or two real crackers for every two days spent within the installation, and the statistics had not deviated from form on this day. The better responses were not the very best I had ever seen, but they had that immediacy, resonance and sparkle that I knew would translate fairly effortlessly into something visual. This one, however, was a stand-out winner. They had a weight or gravity because of the person from which they had come, rather than in spite of him. The words read 'I know I shouldn't do it, but I have to'.
Their power was augmented substantially a moment later, when the young man paused on his way out of the unit and turned to me, envelope once again flickering between thumb and finger... 'is there a post office very near to here?'.
He flapped a B5 envelope in his other hand, between thumb and index finger, as he mused on what might be the best way to pin down the amorphous idea that was clearly crystalising quite nicely in his mind. It had always been a refreshing interaction when a passer by would encounter, digest, understand and then participate in the installation without needing prodding or goading by me. Most would, at some point, need confirmation that what they were doin was right- was permitted, or expected of them. It is part of the creature that we have become, to need assurance or security in the fact that we are doing it as expected, by the rules, to form. There is indeed a term for the 'fear of freedom' - but it escapes me now. Our envelope flapper needed no introduction or encouragement, no shepherding or cues. He got it right away... he knew exacty what he had to do- he just needed to get it, well, just right. It was almost as if, in fact, this whole exercise had happened upon him at just the right moment- that if circumstance had been different, and he had not wandered into this operation, he might have spent the next forty minutes looking for some equivalent vehicle that could alleviate him of this burning idea. After some rather embarrassed smiled exchanges, some chin rubbing and, I think, a little finger wagging to his unseen conscience or mental spirit, he finally filled with the confidence that he had got it right.
He humped his rucksack higher onto the one shoulder that carried it, so that it should not slump awkwardly as he leaned forward to write, and he placed the paper on the desk and quickly scribbled the words onto it. After a brief pause, looking at them on the page, to check that they were, in fact, a fairly accurate representation in written form of the conceptual miasma that had taken so long to condense, he nodded to himself (or his unseen conscience once again) and slid the paper across the desk to me, a look of satisfaction on his face that just about resisted becoming an expression of smugness.
I looked at the phrase that he had written, and turned it over once or twice in my head, making sure that the concept that had been so lovingly wrapped in words and then written on paper, would be as diligently recreated by my own cognitive processes. I smiled politely as I had trained myself to after so many diverse contributions. It had become a polite ritual to acknowledge vulgarity, racism, stupidity or perceived wit with equal measure as a way of thanks for at least bothering to participate in the project. Genius and Hideous were treated with zen-like equal measure in this house.
In themselves, the words were a commendable effort, but especially so in the context of the project. The phrase would have stood in its own right had it simmered to the surface of his consciousness of its own accord, without being teased out under the duress of participating in the project, but it seemed even more vigorous when considered as a manufactured response stimulated by the unit. I had come to expect a yield of perhaps one or two real crackers for every two days spent within the installation, and the statistics had not deviated from form on this day. The better responses were not the very best I had ever seen, but they had that immediacy, resonance and sparkle that I knew would translate fairly effortlessly into something visual. This one, however, was a stand-out winner. They had a weight or gravity because of the person from which they had come, rather than in spite of him. The words read 'I know I shouldn't do it, but I have to'.
Their power was augmented substantially a moment later, when the young man paused on his way out of the unit and turned to me, envelope once again flickering between thumb and finger... 'is there a post office very near to here?'.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Truth, Credit and other Opiates
...because our experience of the modern world has been thinned by truth, credit and other opiates that have numbed our experiences and ensured that opinion, emotion and intellect are now available to us by proxy, through palatable, bite-sized, sweetened, condensed snapshots of reality that maintain the illusion of freedom, democracy and independence but beneath which the status quo of rampant proletariat consumerism (bread proles) and minority capitalist dictatorship
Friday, January 13, 2012
I am graf
with all the focus on and fashion for street art/graf/bank(sy) me off while I pay you 3mil.. its easy to forget that actually we're all part of that shit- well, by we I mean the old crew from the roller disco, the kids we saw up MASH every sat'diy in carnaby, the wankers from the bus stop at school who beat us up cos we scratched out their tags... we have grown up and forgotten, a bit, that its all part of the same thing. Most became graphic designers or environmental scientists, some became bankers... but we all share that heritage. Whether it was taking a break from playing roller hockey to tag up post office vans, or craCKING OUT THE spray cans at someones parent's party, it was as natural to us as tweeting is to this lot.
Brighton's sad loss of the kissing copper's is a hilarious example of the way in which people are re-writing history to suit the common current zeitgeist. STUMP or SER or GOLDIE or REVS coulsd ll have been in that place, had we been middle class enough to be blessed with vision of the world ibto which we could have injected ourselves. As it is, we stand proud of our heritage, reminisce of glorious days of old in the car parks of lewisham or Brockwell park, and giggle at the media frenzy over what many of us spent our childhoods running from security guards and community police officers for.
Brighton's sad loss of the kissing copper's is a hilarious example of the way in which people are re-writing history to suit the common current zeitgeist. STUMP or SER or GOLDIE or REVS coulsd ll have been in that place, had we been middle class enough to be blessed with vision of the world ibto which we could have injected ourselves. As it is, we stand proud of our heritage, reminisce of glorious days of old in the car parks of lewisham or Brockwell park, and giggle at the media frenzy over what many of us spent our childhoods running from security guards and community police officers for.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Moderation
More notes from soltude, fresh air and dog-walking. Following the latest expedition, I have concluded for the moment that 'moderation' could be the only possible solution to the conundrum of how to cope with reality. Following on from the unbearable weight of the argument that every discussion has a bell curve of opinion, with extremes of cynicism at either end, the idea that moderate views are the only possible sensible conclusion perhaps seems obvious. But from this I considered moderation as a workable solution to the economic proposal to 'make less money without compensation', which clearly has no chance of succeeding, no matter what the overriding socio-political environment- communist or capitalist.
If the ruthless efficiency displayed by progress could be slowed by 'moderation'... if we could settle for not having faster processors, or greater productivity, or more efficient usage... if we could just make do for another year or two with the current iteration, I feel that many of the problems facing humanity etc could be dealt with. I type this on a Macbook that is entering its 5th year of usage... the temptation has been on so many occasions to replace it, yet what it lacks in sharp clean lines (dented, paint splattered and dull) it retains in perfect functionality that Mr Jobs, 5 years ago, thought the essence of perfection. This is not ludditism, it is moderation.
Given the 2012 we all have ahead of us, I would say upgrades won't even be an option
If the ruthless efficiency displayed by progress could be slowed by 'moderation'... if we could settle for not having faster processors, or greater productivity, or more efficient usage... if we could just make do for another year or two with the current iteration, I feel that many of the problems facing humanity etc could be dealt with. I type this on a Macbook that is entering its 5th year of usage... the temptation has been on so many occasions to replace it, yet what it lacks in sharp clean lines (dented, paint splattered and dull) it retains in perfect functionality that Mr Jobs, 5 years ago, thought the essence of perfection. This is not ludditism, it is moderation.
Given the 2012 we all have ahead of us, I would say upgrades won't even be an option
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Consume or become an eccentric hermit
I have chosen to have a difficult life. You have opted to conform and to consume.
I have chosen a job that does not pay any money, whose only purpose is to contribute thoughts, objects or images to humanity. Nobody asked me to. It means that I lay awake at nights, once the alcohol has worn off, panicking about how I will pay the bills for the things that I have bought to facilitate my integration into conventional society. These things, like food, heating, clothes, mobile phones, computers etc all help me to behave like a normal citizen. Without them I would be an eccentric hermit living in the woods. You have these things in abundance, according to the hours that you dedicate to your chosen employer. The employers' activities make them money, and filter things for us to buy or use into society.
The pain of everyday life I have to anaesthetise with alcohol or solitude. Having seen through the cracks of reality that have begun to appear in the opiate veils of society, I am trapped by my awareness. It has robbed me of my freedom. I feel for my children sometimes. At better times I pin down the fears of midlife crisis with the thought that my achievement in this world can be measured by the individual thinking or questioning of convention that my offspring are beginning to display. Usually however the guilt and listlessness associated with constant self questioning erode my belief in the chosen path, and I find myself poring over Sainsbury's recruitment pages.
I have chosen a job that does not pay any money, whose only purpose is to contribute thoughts, objects or images to humanity. Nobody asked me to. It means that I lay awake at nights, once the alcohol has worn off, panicking about how I will pay the bills for the things that I have bought to facilitate my integration into conventional society. These things, like food, heating, clothes, mobile phones, computers etc all help me to behave like a normal citizen. Without them I would be an eccentric hermit living in the woods. You have these things in abundance, according to the hours that you dedicate to your chosen employer. The employers' activities make them money, and filter things for us to buy or use into society.
The pain of everyday life I have to anaesthetise with alcohol or solitude. Having seen through the cracks of reality that have begun to appear in the opiate veils of society, I am trapped by my awareness. It has robbed me of my freedom. I feel for my children sometimes. At better times I pin down the fears of midlife crisis with the thought that my achievement in this world can be measured by the individual thinking or questioning of convention that my offspring are beginning to display. Usually however the guilt and listlessness associated with constant self questioning erode my belief in the chosen path, and I find myself poring over Sainsbury's recruitment pages.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
The fact is... selfish
Day at the centre today. Somewhat under the influence of Taxali, have produced this little number for the phrase "The fact is you can't live for everyone else, sometimes be selfish just do what you want"
Friday, December 9, 2011
Revelations and revolutions
My mind was racing whilst cranking out my run this morning. I have had the wind up my arse since yesterday, all excited about the new location we have found, about how economical the timber is with which I am building the new floor in the loft, about the wind leaks I am plugging in our decrepit house like the rotten-caulked hulk from a Joseph Conrad novel. So the brilliant sunshine and crunching frost/hail underfoot only augmented my positive outlook, and ripened my mind for an hour of philosophical and creative exploration. I chewed concepts like delicious venison, blood dripping in rivulets of original thinking... I smiled to myself, even giggled out loud as conceptual obstacles were sliced like tragic blonde damsels on the tracks of my unstoppable train of thought. It was a good run.
The iPod chugged out LCD, its rhythms and changes of pace meshing sweetly with the terrain beneath my feet and across my cortex. The images I had been wrestling with over the last few days were tossed around and over each other, their new appearance being tested against and overcoming every challenging cliche I threw in their way. This is going well, I thought. At last I arrived at the final crossroads, and drew up as with almost comical timing this came over the headphones. I drew in a lungful of sweet, iced morning air that bit at my intercostal muscles, made my ribs ache. Droplets of meltwater were now beginning to catch the low sunlight that precipitated their arrival from the frost on the bare branches. Stillness pervaded all. Silence, but for the Great Release, accompanied the distilled idea that swam to the front of my mind, and rested gently like a piece of burnt white paper at last coming to earth from the bonfire plume. It sat- confidently, quietly and complete.
Greed and Lust are the same thing.
The iPod chugged out LCD, its rhythms and changes of pace meshing sweetly with the terrain beneath my feet and across my cortex. The images I had been wrestling with over the last few days were tossed around and over each other, their new appearance being tested against and overcoming every challenging cliche I threw in their way. This is going well, I thought. At last I arrived at the final crossroads, and drew up as with almost comical timing this came over the headphones. I drew in a lungful of sweet, iced morning air that bit at my intercostal muscles, made my ribs ache. Droplets of meltwater were now beginning to catch the low sunlight that precipitated their arrival from the frost on the bare branches. Stillness pervaded all. Silence, but for the Great Release, accompanied the distilled idea that swam to the front of my mind, and rested gently like a piece of burnt white paper at last coming to earth from the bonfire plume. It sat- confidently, quietly and complete.
Greed and Lust are the same thing.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Physical Graffiti
I returned to the C––––––– & S––––––––– site today, having spent a few hours during my insomniac early mornings this week reflecting on what we had found at the factory. The ideas that I had were fairly easy to transform from idle reflection into physical reality, I suppose because I was working within the physical constraints already discovered during our first recce of the location. It was quick to do, yet pretty much fulfilled my expectations of what it would actually look like. I could probably photograph it more effectively with tripods, but made use of broken chairs and girder supports in the walls in their absence.
It is always fatal to term an item 'The first in a series..." - especially if you count the amount of piss up's I have actually managed to get off the ground in various breweries I have come across- but the insomniac hours did present me with that notion. The idea is to create installations utilising the raw materials of a given site, or just paint, in a variety of run down or wasteland areas throughout the D––––––– valley. Once a series of 6-10 is complete. their locations will be publicised as an unofficial art trail, which people can dip in and out of as they see fit. As nearly all the locations will be prohibited or restricted, and health and safety nightmares in their own right, the trail will, like the graffiti itself, be an underground activity. Sniff out these artworks- like people used to sniff out baksy's or invader's back in the day- or don't. The artworks do not depend on an audience. I fucking sick of trying to rouse audiences anyway- if it takes off, then it will do so on its own merit. The stuff is out there, you just have to go see it.
Once a few more are complete, I will facebook a page dedicated to the underground trail with full GPS locations and access tips...
Enjoy!
It is always fatal to term an item 'The first in a series..." - especially if you count the amount of piss up's I have actually managed to get off the ground in various breweries I have come across- but the insomniac hours did present me with that notion. The idea is to create installations utilising the raw materials of a given site, or just paint, in a variety of run down or wasteland areas throughout the D––––––– valley. Once a series of 6-10 is complete. their locations will be publicised as an unofficial art trail, which people can dip in and out of as they see fit. As nearly all the locations will be prohibited or restricted, and health and safety nightmares in their own right, the trail will, like the graffiti itself, be an underground activity. Sniff out these artworks- like people used to sniff out baksy's or invader's back in the day- or don't. The artworks do not depend on an audience. I fucking sick of trying to rouse audiences anyway- if it takes off, then it will do so on its own merit. The stuff is out there, you just have to go see it.
Once a few more are complete, I will facebook a page dedicated to the underground trail with full GPS locations and access tips...
Enjoy!
"Portal" (2011) ©Nick Hersey
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