July 24, 2008

The Pontoon Art exhibition in Oxford seems to be slipping away. Less than two weeks to go and there is little progress. I can’t find any enthusiasm for any ‘art’ project at all. I did manage to send some images to a project run by Luke Drodz, who seems to have an unstoppable level of energy. At least he gets things done. (http://www.myfirstbillboard.blogspot.com/)


I seem to be in a hole of some kind. I don’t have the drive or energy to make new work, other than the odd doodle, which is making me feel really down, which stops me making new work. I just want to work, but can’t. I think I have it all there, ready. I can draw, write and so on. I can think of things. I am happy to self-publish, self-curate, document, and fuck to any gallery and so on. I would be happy in that life; you make work, you show work. I have scribbled notes. I have stuff to do. I have the studio now. Of course, the school holidays mean that I will be treading water to some extent. I knew that.


I want to write but can’t be arsed. It is like jumping around from clump of earth to another clump, without ever walking a continuous journey. My art life, that is. All powers of description and so on are leaving me too. Little pies to stick my finger in, nothing else. Of course, some of that is fun, you need a bit of a distraction, a side project and so on. I thrive on it though, there is nothing else. I want to be too busy to bother with all these other projects.


I don’t know who I am. MTS appears to be so slight now as to almost not exist. PEEP! is stagnant, twitching. How can I write about context when my context seems to be a vacuum? I think I am capable but not brilliant. Grumpy, nothing more. There is no depth or even any humour anymore. Just moaning. I am bored of it all. I should possibly be more careful as although I am writing in WORD, the end result will appear on-line, for all to see. Perhaps I should only ever be ‘up’ when I write. Fuck it.


The trailer idea seems to have collapsed as the one I intended to use is beyond use. Maybe I shouldn’t even put ideas on here, someone with more dynamism and energy will do it first. Oh no! I don’t care. There is nothing new or original. Recycling. Boring. Bored. Bollocks.


Trying to read William Faulkner ‘As I Lay Dying’. I think I am searching for a ‘format’ to which I can add words of my own. As with the Will Self ‘The Book of Dave’, my other book on the go. Not going very far, can’t seem to focus on either. So blows away my own theory. Ideally, I think I would like to make work and store it in a room, let the room grow and layer it and leave it at that. Seeing ‘art’ on the net and watching how people grow ever more reliant on virtual communities and contact makes me feel sad. I don’t know why. Reputation seems to be everything, a visible presence.


549 words


July 24, 2008

I want to find a hilly location somewhere in the North and erect a hundred foot stone carved angle grinder, complete with cord and plug, running down the hillside. I’m not fussy about which stone, so long as the object was made with an angle grinder, or several I suppose. It needs to be standing on the end, angle grinding bit aloft, handle parallel to the ground.


I’m bored with the idea of asking permission. You don’t get it, not often enough. People don’t like stuff; don’t want the hassle, the legal or insurance implications. There are not enough people willing to cut you some slack. Even in deprived shitholes, once the epicentre of the ‘fuck it’ attitude, places where people had fun and did whatever, there is little risk. We are neutered. Docile lumps. Mounds of mediocrity, festering in pools of apathy with a side salad of fear.


Money, money, money; the bottom line in everything. The BBC 24 news channel takes the money angle on virtually every story. As if nothing else matters. We are trapped in a prison of our own making and for what purpose? To divide people, to alienate some, to keep us controlled. I don’t have an answer. Well, PEEP! Ignore the money aspect, make your own thing, do it your way. Done for doing’s sake.


Chaka Khan, Chaka Khan.


Life isn’t that precious is it? I mean, people die an early death, especially at their own hands, drink or drugs or whatever and people see it as such a waste but perhaps, consider this; they had done enough, seen enough to realise that people are pretty fucked up and that nothing will fundamentally change, no matter what the effort. They made a choice that society doesn’t like because in doing so, it points to the greater failing; the cracks that are routinely papered over. Get pissed, have fun.


315 words


July 11, 2008

I am being seduced by adverts from the past. I never understood the point of YouTube until now. I can search for my entire childhood and see it again, now, instantly, on demand. I don’t need to live in the present at all. I was there, albeit a young lad. Maybe it wasn’t as glamorous and wonderful as it seems through the misty haze of time and a generous amount of whisky. Not that life is shit now, just different.


I am fed up with the course. I don’t really wish to dwell on it. The structure is poor, the support is negligible and there is a real feeling of ‘why bother?’ most weeks. I did this week and the BB environment was down. It really appears to be the case that you could ‘attend class’ half a dozen times to keep an eye on the written work that you have to do, and still come away with an MA. I wanted more than a bit of paper but it seems to be reduced to just that now.


I am trying to focus on the studio and the work I want to do. I am tired of hitting my head against the wall, as of now, I am me. This is it. I am no longer going to chase and persuade. None of this even makes sense to me. Projects are slipping. Time is a factor, and money. Focus on one thing. On what? I think you have to define the worth of the project but on what terms? Ease. On how ‘punk’ it is? I think that there is largely very little point in trying to engage with the public or other artists. They don’t know much about anything beyond the fringes of their bank statement. I know I sound old and bitter but fuck it. Of course, some people are real. It is hard not to be drawn into the illusion. I am trying really hard to avoid the conclusion that abandoning ‘art’ is the way forward.


340 words