Wandering

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

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.

As Karl Marx famously said...

"X-Factor is the opiate of the masses"

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

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.

dirty banker

I'll have this whole awful cartoon thing out of my system soon, please bear with me...

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"

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.

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!

 

"Portal" (2011) ©Nick Hersey

How to re-write your own history in 5 minutes

I have 5 minutes until the kettle boils. It's 6:40 ish, and my sinuses are grating like sandpaper. Lying awake at 4:23, I turned over a few things in my head- the usual... reflecting on the strange dream that preceded my awakening (it featured antique leather boots for women) and the task of rewriting my entire mythology in the context of youth culture and consumerism, as it was originally written back in 2005, but which I decided to abandon in favour of positivity and community spirit. I was relieved to be able to get back to sleep for once. Usually I just lie there until 6:25, when I drop off 5 minutes before the alarm goes off. Nobody is interested by positivity- as Tolkien said it makes for good times but lousy storytelling. Thus I am returning to something meatier, that people might actually notice. Radio 4 have made an entire career out of doom-saying.

Precision injection dinner party

 

These images were captured at a location that Ivan and I found today. It is a disused industrial facility that once plied a trade in precision injection moulding. While the ideas surrounding the possible uses that we may put the space to are vague, the excitement and inspiration that the space has provided is encouraging. Possibly a dinner party.

Feeling thungry or Hirsty? Hirst on the go

Damian Hirst's shop on London's New Bond Street

Haven't got time to pop into a gallery to buy contemporary art? Need that special something but only 30 mins for lunch break? Here's the solution: ultimate statement in valueless art-cum-consumerist trash, Damian Hirst ephemera and spin-crap-pop for the masses. OOOH me first!

Afghanistan bullet holes

Was lucky enough to see the opening of piers' new show at Aubin gallery- a lovely little space in Shoreditch that was revamped for the show. I believe the gallery has only been there a couple of years, but it seems to be surviving, like the rest of the area, with a kind of trendy momentum that supersedes recessions... I guess all the visiting trend-hunters need coffee and beer, and if you have restaurants and night clubs then your area can thrive. Certainly doesn't have artists studio's and design companies like it used to - but that's gentrification for you :)

Of particular note was this new piece- 'a painting of a chinese puzzle ball' - though piers wouldnt tell me how it was done! It consists of 6 heavily carved concentric spheres, originally mastered in Ivory by oriental master craftsmen.

The little school girl

Autumn has brought with it the inimitable heavy leaden skies the pre-empt wet cold winters. Their density is almost insufferable, their grey mass almost tangible over head. There is, as a result, a claustrophobic feeling to these cool early mornings. The sun barely makes an appearance and usually spends the brightest part of the morning veiled behind the greyness, issuing forth little more than a milky white circular silhouette assuming that we are lucky enough to see her at all. On one such morning, as I drove the regular morning commute, I was arrested by the vision of a small girl walking by herself at the side of the road. Her school uniform was well presented and more or less complete to a standard the school rarely had the pleasure of from the majority of its students. Her hair, nut brown and tied in a neat ponytail, looked shiny but modestly kept. She wore an expression of something between serenity and studious concentration as she unscrewed the cap from a small pink plastic milk bottle. Her satchel, strap across one shoulder, matched not only her hair colour but her eye colour too. I remember being struck by their roundness and their vulnerability- as if they had never been troubled by even the slightest unsavoury vision nor the blandest tedium of mass communication- their was an undeniable innocence to their gaze. Indeed her whole aspect issued a wholesome glow of just-rightness that somehow didn't seem Goldilocks-sickly or affected. Her being seemed impossibly wedged between the heaviness of the sky and the burdens of modern society, able to support both immense pressures of both without visibly bending or stressing at all. My gaze followed her as she walked in her simple way a few yards- I felt like I had been watching her for hours yet it could only have been a few short seconds as my car passed her stretch of pavement. She uncapped the milkshake and took the delicate swig of a mystic princess, with a deliberate yet gentle action that was the essence of economy. I was transfixed. As soon as her image had left my peripheral vision my eyes immediately leapt to the rear view mirror to confirm that she was not some small mirage. My focus readjusted to the small reversed image in the mirror just in time to see her tilt her head slightly away from the cap of the little bottle, and spew an enormous jet of pink liquid all over the pavement, where it formed an unnaturally large puddle of pinkness that persisted for a long time in my rear view mirror.