Feb25

I am in Costa Coffee, in the heart of Oxford Street. I have my nose buried in my notebook, hand scribbling lines of letters and symbols. My pen is hovering above the page for a second, and then heads back down.
Suddenly the air in the room feels different; heavier. I look up, and trail the gazes of the staff and customers. They all seem to focus on a walking target. A homeless woman just made her way in the store. The team look at each other, silently deciding who will escort her out; the customers clasped their pockets, ensured their bags were closed, and hid their phones from her view. She kept walking, until she was stopped and asked to leave. She looked up, turned around, and disappeared in the street. The song playing on the speakers was John Lennon‘s imagine, and for a second, while the rest of the room was silent, it was deafeningly loud.

Two nights ago, I was walking down Regent Street, lost in reliving a very busy day. I was wearing 4 layers of clothing, and still the cold found its way to touch my skin, kissing my bones with its icy lips. I was so wrapped around my own issues, I almost tripped on someone’s leg on the floor. I turned around to apologise, and saw this young man, wearing a dirty shirt and a hoodie, siting inside a sleeping bag. On his lap he had a book and a McDonalds burger. His eyes were closed, his hands unclasping from their bond, finishing praying before eating his meal. Behind him the models of the GAP window were standing still, looking out at a life they were not living. I took a few more steps, stopped, and took a deep breath in from my nose. I was going back to a warm house, a loving partner and a hot meal. I thought back at the problems that engulfed me minutes ago, and felt a small pang of shame.

It is amazing to observe how others react around homeless people; how we react around homeless people. The shake of the head when asked for money; the refusal to look straight in the eye; being busy trying to look busy. I read an article recently discussing homeless people during the Olympics, and how it is not good for the city’s image. It went on to explore suggestions, one of them to move them temporarily in other cities, as if they were furniture one moves for a dinner party. Throughout the article, they were discussed as props, inconveniences and trouble. Words that filled a paragraph on a page.

They are people. Human beings. They are made from the same skin and flesh and bones and feelings that make you and me humans.

I am not asking the big questions; debating whether or not to give them money if they ask; wonder what brought them to this state; preach about what to do. These are issues bigger than me, and I could never claim to fully understand or be able to answer them.

I am only saying that being human involves behaving in a humane way. Acknowledge someone’s presence, physically and universally. Be in touch with our own biases, and judge if we want to overcome them or not. I know I do.

Love,

Feb18

A Charmed Life: Miracles and Charms at the Wellcome Trust

Posted on February 18, 2012 by themagnificentsomething

I am in a wooden box. I am wearing an aviator hat and cocktail glasses, both clashing with my bright yellow life vest. I look straight ahead, and the flash goes off 4 times. Then, the velvet curtain is drawn back, I get out, and re-enter the world of superstition, prayer and everything in between.

Of course I am talking about the Pilgrimage event at the Wellcome Collection, the place where science and art met and fell in love. Greeted at the door by a woman made of clay, stricken with fear; a little further ahead, a man is frozen in time amidst a step on the ceiling. He is upside down; or maybe we are.

The event started at 18:00, and people were swarming inside, queuing for the booth, wondering around the magnificent Miracles and Charms exhibition. After getting my pilgrimage passport, I made my way to the photo booth, and a few snapshots later I was in the gallery.

The exhibition is divided into two themes: the first one is the ‘Infinitas Gracias’, with over 100 votive painting across the room, and artefacts from two sanctuaries close to the mining communities of the Bajío region: the city of Guanajuato and the town of Real de Catorce.

In its entrance, there is a mural of all the paintings, and it is striking to see their reversed evolution: initially drawn by professionals, they were gradually done from the family or person asking the favour, enriching the painting with a raw emotion, with a unique mixture of practicality (a request) and aesthetics (the visual appeal for the divine recipient). The space continues with more devotional artefacts, news reports, photographs, films and interviews, going much further than purely exploring the depth of the votive tradition in Mexico. It transcends that; when you are standing in front of the wall of the Señor de Villaseca church, with all the drawings and pictures and stories of the people of Mineval de Cata’ trusting their lives to their God, it is quite humbling.

Then you move almost seamlessly to the Charmed Life exhibition. Felicity Powell selected 400 amulets from Henry Wellcome‘s collection, to literally be the centre of the circle that she draws with 10 pieces of her own art. The amulets, ranging from simple coins to carved shells, dead animals and elaborately fashioned notes, live in harmony with her wax drawings on mirrors, films (including an MRI scan), haunting images that seem familiar yet definitely strange.
It is fascinating to think that the exhibition is effectively a collection within a collection; Felicity Powell is showing Edward Lovett‘s life collection, and creates a mystery around the objects and the man. A banker by profession and obsessive folklorist by nature, Lovett is a man that embodies paradox: a Chief Cashier at the Royal Bank of Scotland collecting nails, teeth and mole feet; marginal figure in the academic circles, popular in the curatorial ones; dismissive of the magic that the amulets held while making one for his soldier son against the danger of the World War I. Maybe the objects held a different meaning to him; maybe he was intrigued by the testament to how desperately humans need to feel that they have a small part in controlling life, health, fate, divine powers. How they try to please their God with shapes made of paint and water. Try to ward off evil with possessions that have nothing more attached to them but an intention.

I decided against taking pictures of the paintings, or the wall, or the space; the reason is simple: I felt like I was evading someone’s privacy. The objects were not mere items. They were stories.
You can not just see them as images, pictures, dried ink on paper because of the meaning attached to them; the purpose; the pain; the hope; the longing. The feelings of the person leaving the picture on the original location. That longing for things to change, for something to happen, for life to happen, things to come back to normal whatever that was. The longing. That breathless longing, that feels like your heart is racing out of your chest, as if you are in a car that is moving too fast and someone just hit the breaks. You see, it nice to see these objects as artefacts. Become anthropologists for the day, and examine that weird and wonderful species that paints pictures, or carries lucky coins in their pockets and have two hands and two feet and one heart and one brain. Let’s examine them. Like monkeys in while lab coats examining other monkeys. I observe, therefor I am different. Well, I am not.

There was a moment that I found the content of the exhibition overwhelming. It was as if the energy, hope and despair that the owners bestowed on the items is still floating above them, a cloud of unmet expectations and short-lived compromises.

These items are the silent witnesses to the deepest fears, passions and hopes of the people that once relied on them. Heart-warming, heart-breaking and absolutely fascinating.

A must see.

Love,

Feb14

A Letter of Love

Posted on February 14, 2012 by themagnificentsomething

A Letter of Love

Today I am not wearing matching socks. One is red; the other purple. I am sitting in the middle of London, in the arctic conditions of the park bench, under 4 layers of clothing. I am having a watery version of oolong tea, and crunching on some wafers. My gaze is fixed on the shop window across me, its heart laid bare in the middle of the window, the date of death/birth spread across it with red numbers: 14/02/2012.

I have already bought the card and gift for my partner. I wrapped them in my signature way, with more Sellotape than paper, and enough swear words in the process to make a sailor blush.

However, in my bag there are two cards; one for my partner; the other one for you.

You see, 6 months ago, I was sitting on a park bench, just like I am now, aware of a storm inside me, behind my chest, on the back of my eyes, looking for a release. I had so many ideas, so much suppressed creativity, so much space occupied by dreams. I went in my favourite Costa Cafe, and sat on the table facing the window. I felt incomplete, and was looking for something. That something; that magnificent something. The blog was born, I uploaded the first post, and exhaled a breath I had not realised I was holding in.

Since then, I have met some amazing people that have read my ramblings, that have commented and liked and followed and reblogged and retweeted and embraced and loved and hated and agreed and argued and contributed and opened my eyes and held my hand and made me stronger and left me wiser and put a smile on my lips and a tear in my eyes and have touched my life in ways I can not begin to describe.

To all of these people, I am writing this Valentine’s card. As a sign of deep love. Thank you so much for taking the time out of your life to focus on your screen long enough to read what I write. Thank you.

I hope you are all having a nice day; I hope you will get out there, choose a card and write some words of love; type small whispers of appreciation to a person that changed your life; smile to someone on the way to the bus stop.

Love is too big to fit in just one day; celebrate it everyday. Celebrate the everyday.

Love you all,

Feb8

Shake Until your Heart Breaks: Expectations of Little Boots’ Sophomore Album

Posted on February 8, 2012 by themagnificentsomething

Shake Until your Heart Breaks: Expectations of Little Boots’ Sophomore Album

Open eyes; stretch toes; deep inhale; and you are awake.

I landed on the sofa with a chocolate croissant and an accai berry tea on my hands. The living room was flooded with light, so I decided that the TV screen would remain black today. I took Mrs Dalloway out of my bag, turned on the radio on it’s lowest volume, and started reading about Clarissa’s day around London.

At some point, the song on the background woke me up from my literary hibernation; it sounded awfully familiar. It took me a couple of seconds, and then a smile formed on my face as I put the book down and turned the volume up, going on a rather cringable singing/dancing frenzy.

l first saw Victoria Christina Hesketh in her living room, camera positioned in an awkward angle, comfortable clothing, brown hair, sparkly eyes, apologetic introduction to her small YouTube crowd. Moments later, I was hitting replay. Within a few months, she uploaded covers of artists like Madonna, MGMT, and Hot Chip. Christina became Little Boots, and her electro pop magic became the soundtrack of 2008 with her first album, Hands.

An amazingly talented musician, Little Boots is known for the creative use of instruments, from synthesisers and keyboards, to laser harps and stylophones. However, she became infamous when she started using a tenori-on, one of the most impressive ways to create live electronic music, composing the song in front of the viewers in minutes.

It is almost certain that you have heard her music somewhere: in a movie (Jennifer’s body), TV series (Vampire Diaries, Skins, Dollhouse, Melrose Place) or a commercial (Victoria’s Secret). Within months of releasing her EP, Little Boots was catapulted in the music stratosphere, and critics could not stop talking about her.

She was named the BBC Sound of 2009 winner (beating Florence and the Machine) and was nominated for a Critics’ Choice awards at the 2009 BRITs. She also was one of the Esquire “Brilliant Brits 2009” as well as a Rolling Stone Magazine ’2009 artist to watch‘.

Hands did not follow strictly on the EPs footsteps, and a lot of fans felt that she was trying to cover all the trends of the time, both in music and in image. My own concern was that Little Boots was risking losing her identity; the girl next door moved in a mansion, too big and polished; the brown hair was bleached, the bare face was painted, and the comfortable clothes were replaced by eccentric attires. Little Boots was wearing someone else’s shoes, and they did not seem to fit. Nevertheless, the album was absolutely amazing, and was stuck on the top of my most played list for months.

Now she is back, and she is here to stay; on the 24th of October 2011, Little Boots released her latest mixtape, brilliantly named Shake till your Heart Breaks to announce her new DJing tour. The tape included her new song Shake, that she later released on iTunes and on a collector’s edition 11′ record. The new album is due out later this year, and it is said to be influenced by the works of , J.G. Ballard, Sylvia Plath and Edgar Allan Poe, stating that it will be equally magical as Hands, but rawer and darker at the same time. Exciting.

The song finished and I was too excited to go back to reading. I unearthed my old iPod, got dressed, put my headphones on, and hit play the moment my feet touched the street. Revisiting Hands will have to do until I get my own hands on the new album. It is such a beautiful morning, and I have the perfect soundtrack.

Love,

Feb5

First London Snow

Posted on February 5, 2012 by themagnificentsomething

First London Snow

I am sitting on my couch under a mountain of blankets with a family-sized mug of ginger and apple tea. The man on the screen is selling the best piece of jewellery he has seen in his long career, the channel stuck on a telemarketing studio covered in salmon pink and blue.

I can see from the window the snow covering the streets of London like a blanket, people running cautiously, walking slowly, holding hands and exhaling hot clouds of air.

It is the first snow of the year. I saw it from a heart-shaped smudge in the misty windows of the bus home, walked through it with my eyes closed, deep inhales of the crisp night air. Opened my eyes and saw footprints on a carpet of crystallised water. Smiled. Went home. Kettle, blanket, remote control.

Have a lovely night.

Love,

Feb2

Getting Personal: the Aftermath of Being Attacked – LGBT History Month

Posted on February 2, 2012 by themagnificentsomething

Getting Personal: the Aftermath of Being Attacked – LGBT History Month

I have been staring at the screen for the last 5 minutes. I wrote the text, proofed it, and the only thing that is standing between thinking and doing is one click at the publish button.

It started yesterday, when I was talking with a friend about the LGBT History Month. He was telling me that we everyone has a cross to bear, and that he did not understand why we should be having a whole month for the LGBT crowd; and then I told him what I am about to tell you. I felt as vulnerable sharing it then as I am feeling now, but if it helps at least one person, in any way possible, I genuinely think it will be worth it.

Everyone has a cross to bear. This is mine.

When I was 17, I woke up in a hospital. My mouth was parched, my head sore, and my eyes unable to focus. I felt the weight of the sheets, comforting and sickening at the same time, and swallowed hard. Next to me, my best friend was sitting looking bored stiff.

I asked him what happened; he looked at me quizzically, weighing in his head what response he should give someone lying on a bed with a bruised face and no memory of the many times he asked the same question in the space of the same day; he began by telling me that I had already asked him several times, he answered me several times, and after I dozed off, I would wake up to ask him again. When I started promising that I would remember, he finished my sentence with the exact same words I told him all the previous times. Nevertheless, he sighed, and started telling me.

I was visiting him, as he was just settling in a different city for university. On the day that I was scheduled to leave, I offered to run some errands. When I returned home, I had a massive bruise running from my forehead down to my chin. I told him I was ok. We sat down, and I looked at him blankly, before asking him if he just put that vase on the table; he reminded me that I put it there before leaving. I nodded, stood still, and formed a puzzled expression on my face. Minutes later, I asked him: ‘oh, did you just put this vase on the table’?

He called our friends, and they told him he needed to take me to a hospital. He called my father, who jumped on the first plane, and we hopped in a taxi. Of course, I did not remember all this; I still don’t. But I remember him telling me. And I then fell asleep.

When I woke up, my father was sitting at the corner of the room. His worried face was focused at me. I looked at him, and he smiled. I smiled back. I knew I was keeping a secret locked in my head, and for some reason, I felt that it should remain there.

We then went to a cafe before catching a flight back home. It was spacious, with large windows allowing the light to flood the room, fall on people’s faces and expose their identities. I sat there, watching my dad and best friend trying to talk as if nothing happened. I noticed that the room was getting quieter by the minute, time slowing down as a thought slid though me like a knife: he could be here. Whoever hit me could be here, in this room, and I would not know it. I would not recognise him. He could be the waiter, or the guy with his daughter, or someone passing outside. I blinked hard, and bit my lips. Time came back to normal, and my father was asking for the cheque.

The truth about that day escaped me for many years. I once dreamt that I was back on that street, panic ringing in my throat, when I noticed two men coming towards me from the opposite sidewalk. I woke up gasping for air and touched my forehead. I lied back down, and stood still as my heart was racing.

Throughout college, I took an active interest in psychology, and especially the study of homophobia. I did research, run experiments, and published work on the subject. I was particularly interested in the line between verbal and physical bullying, the split second that separates the swear word from the knuckles thrusting into flesh. I never knew why, until I came to London.

Pieces of the event were slowly coming together. I remembered dropping off the DVDs at the rental store; picking up my tickets to fly back home; talking on the phone to my friend as I was walking home. My memory stopped when I turned the corner to the street I was hurt. Then everything cuts sharply to black.

One night, I was out with a good friend. One drink led to another bottle, and soon we were talking about everything from our sordid past. And as I was telling her about this event, for a moment I stopped being in the pub; I was back in the street. My eyes were scanning the street, and I saw myself lying down, facing the pavement. And then life moved backwards, and I got up, and a man’s hand moved away from my face, and him and his friend moved away from me, walking backwards. I took a sharp inhale, and I was back in the pub, in uncontrollable tears. I remembered.

I was walking down the street when two men were walking towards me in the opposite sidewalk. I can still not remember their faces or shapes, but I am assuming that they must have been attractive, as I was looking at them. They changed their direction and came towards me. They asked me why I was looking at them, wanted to know if I was a fag, and moments later were hitting me to the ground.

My friend took me to her house, where I slept on her bed. In the morning, my cheeks were covered with dried tears, my eyes were blank, and my mouth was half open, ready to say something, not sure what it was.

I still have no detailed recollection of what happened that day. I will probably never know. What I do know though is that I can not ignore homophobia when I see it; I know that mocking someone and physically attacking them is not far away when you are with like-minded friends, caught in the macho moment in time. It is easy to feel superior by pointing the thing you consider inferior to the other. It is much harder to feel safe in your sexuality, and accept others.

This is why we should be having an LGBT History Month. It first started in the US, in October of 1994, and moved to the UK in 2005. since then, It relies on the individual and collective effort for change, both on a national and local level. From uncovering the sexualities of major historical figures, like Florence Nightingale, William Shakespeare and Leonardo da Vinci, to presenting the achievements and lives of current LGBT icons (with the recently popular J. Edgar and Alan Turing), it bring the LGBT identity out of the shadows.
This serves a really important purpose: show that gay people are not caricatures in the background of a 90 minute episode; are not an exotic addition to your daily life; are not ‘the other’.

You can find the full schedule of the London Events here.

Let’s change the world, one prejudice at a time.

Love,

Jan29

Yumchaa: Chai Latte Escapes in the Middle of the City

Posted on January 29, 2012 by themagnificentsomething

Yumchaa: Chai Latte Escapes in the Middle of the City

Before I begin a book, I go to the last page (avoiding the text there at all cause), and look at the number of pages. Then I turn to the first page, and pencil it down. I stare at the numbers for a while, following the curves of my illegible hand writing, and then turn the page.

I always want to know where I am in a story: in a good book, it reminds you to take your time and savour the experience; in a bad book, it gives you hope that its liberating end is fast approaching.

I was reading Hotel World by Ali Smith. Reading anything penned from Ali Smith is a journey to be experienced, every word a step, every page a masterpiece. I absolutely adore all of her work, and can not wait to dig into her new novel ‘There But For The’ (however, as I have promised, I am putting Ms Dalloway next in my reading list!).

I knew I had to chose an environment that would match the overwhelming beauty of the book, and stealing a few moments from work, I knew exactly where I was heading.

I can not describe the sense of calmness that comes with walking into a Yumchaa tea shop. It is almost as if the door has a filter, stopping the outside world from coming in with you, allowing you to breath in the amazing blend of the teas, stacked on the wall behind the counter.

Yumchaa manages to make you feel warm inside, and this is not only from the magnificent selection of tea it serves. Bathed in neutral tones and equipped with an eclectic mix of quirky seating, (some more comfortable than others), it provides the perfect time out from the world, and the perfect excuse for a quick catch up with a good friend, or in this case, a good book.

Sitting on the sofa under the skylight in Camden, or soaking the gold tones from the vintage lamps in the lower ground floor in Soho, having tea in any Yumchaa is really an experience to savour.

I got so lost in the book that my chai latte got cold and the people around me were replaced by a new set of faces. I gulped it down, put my coat on, and run down the chilly street. The sun is out. It is such a beautiful day.

Love,

Jan22

Lost in the Food Garden Cafe: Culinary Escape on the Top Floor of Selfridges

Posted on January 22, 2012 by themagnificentsomething

Lost in the Food Garden Cafe: Culinary Escape on the Top Floor of Selfridges

All I can see is yellow. In a rather grey London day, the only colour that stands from the crowds comes in square shapes, holds something probably expensive and definitely luxurious, and is the brightest shade of canary. Yes, the famous Selfridges bag forces me to remember number 231 in the Time Out 1000 things to do in London list: eat your way around Selfridges; and cursing the pains of investigative blogging, so I did!

Pushing the revolving doors, i escaped the seriously busy Oxford Street to enter an equally busy shopping heaven. Last time I was in Selfridges I covered the Museum of Everything exhibition (one your favourite magnificent posts), so I was eager to see if it would live up to my expectations for a second time. I hurriedly made my way through a crowded beauty hall, to the the escalators, thinking of the variety of options housed in the store.

Now if you are looking for a full-blown meal, you can try the lavish HIX restaurant (ground floor), or the contemporary French bistro Aubaine (2nd floor). You can get warm (and drunk) with one of the 20 cocktails from Gordons (1st floor), or by playing at the ‘wine juke box’ at The Wonder Bar. If you want to have your cake and eat it, then you have to try Dolly’s at the basement floor for a rather lovely (if a bit noisy) tea and cupcakes. I however decided to get something on-the-go, and where better than the Food Garden Cafe (4rth floor) to do that?

Greeted from a lovely hostess and with a tray in hand, I was absolutely spoiled for choice:
from the kebabs and curries of Tiffin Bites (Indian and Middle Eastern specialities), to the dim sum and stir fries of Ekachai (Thai and Chinese specialities); and from the signature American-style burgers at Frankies, to the classic British grub.
You can get your healthy treat at the Energy Kitchen (and for the little ones at the Annabel Karmel), and you unhealthy ones at the Crepes and Jacket Potatoes stall. You then compliment your meal with a hot or cold beverage, get the necessary cutlery and pay at the tills.

As there is nothing better than a hot soup on a cold day like today, I made mine a leak and potato one, and got a side of salted pretzels and a vitamin water (I was very proud of myself for being moderately healthy, new years resolutions still intact). I found a seat, and as I was about to dig in, I felt this amazing sense of calm. I know it sounds strange, but right in the middle of the busiest shopping street, on the top floor of the busiest shopping department store, you can feel like you are escaping the world for these few necessary moments of recharging.

After thoroughly enjoying my meal, I gave in to the temptation and went to my favourite floors.

So, if you are walking down Oxford Street and are in need of some good quality, fast served food, then Selfridges is your destination!

Love,

Jan20

Under the trees of Cleaver Square

Posted on January 20, 2012 by themagnificentsomething

Under the trees of Cleaver Square

Cleaver Square is a paradox. Sandwiched between two busy streets, it provides a sense of eerie calm rarely seen outside of a Hitchcock movie. Shielded from the outside world with perfectly aligned houses and shaded by tall trees, the square is a regular host to boules games, providing the perfect soundtrack for a peaceful afternoon: the sound of the metal balls hitting the ground; the air rushing through the leaves; the sound of hurried footsteps on the gravel. Just sit on a bench, and observe.

Observe how it can become a social hub, hosting fantastic street parties (like the one for the royal wedding -last picture-); or celebrating the Cleaver Square Fete, a block celebration with live music, great food, and smiley neighbours.

Take a look at the art crowd in between classes from the nearby City and Guilds Art School, talking about life, death, art, and the daily drama that comes with being a tortured artist.

Sit still and see how it is adapting to the world all the time, with a carpet of leaves in the autumn, a snowy pavement in the winter, and a cool shade in the summer.

I am not saying that it is essential London viewing; however, if you are in the area, and you need some time alone, or a quick chat with a friend, or to just lose yourself in the presence of strangers, then I would strongly suggest that you pick a bench, take a deep breath, and open your eyes. You will see something very familiar, but altogether different.

Love,

Jan14

The Unilever Series and Tacita Dean’s Film: an analogue marvel at Tate Modern

Posted on January 14, 2012 by themagnificentsomething

The Unilever Series and Tacita Dean’s Film: an analogue marvel at Tate Modern

The floor of the darkened Turbine Hall in Tate Modern is covered with people lying on their coats, resting their heads on their bags, shifting their bodies uncomfortably before getting lost in the 13 metres screen in front of them. For the next 11 minutes, the reflection on their eyes shows flowers, streaming water, escalators, mushrooms, trees, all framed in strange architectural borders. Children play underneath the screen, interacting with the piece as if it was a game: they run away from the falling objects, or try to catch details that capture their attention. The result is captivating; then again, what would you expect from Tacita Dean‘s Film?

Shot in a 35mm fim, Film is the twelfth piece commissioned from the Unilever Series, and the first to include the art of the moving image. Dean’s main tool has been the 16mm film, a dying medium, in which she captures the architectural beauty of the fleeting moment, not focusing on depiction, but rather on visual representation. Best known for her work surrounding Donald Crowhurst‘s tragic maritime ending (with a variety of material, from the Teignmouth Electron book to the Disappearance at Sea Film), she was nominated for the Turner Prize on 2008.

Dean is also an incredible writer, expressing herself with such immediacy and candour that it is impossible not to get lost in her narration (quite similar to W. G. Sebald’s style). In the Tate Modern Shop, you can find a collection of her books, as well as the latest publication Film: The Unilever Series (edited by Nicholas Cullinan) that looks closer the issues embedded in this piece, with contributions from the most important contemporary voices in art and cinema.

The magnificent part of this work is that it genuinely serves as a visual manifesto of the analogue. In a digital world, film is becoming obsolete, and memories are captured in code on memory sticks, instead of light on film. In Film, there is no post production digital trickery, as all the effects are created either in the studio or in the camera: you witness the combination of different forms, films, colours, techniques (including hand-tinted film), glass matte painting, multiple exposures, mirroring and masking, creating layered imagery and breathtaking sequences, making it impossible not to marvel at the human accomplishment of putting all of this together. This is why Dean transforms film into art, as the virtuosic manipulation of a strip of photosensitive material turns into a depiction of beauty.

Pioneers like Ben Rivers (also working in 16mm film) have shown how film can transcend reality and be elevated to art, by real world creativity. Pieces like Stan Brakhage‘s Mothlight are a testament of taking something and turning it into something else.

The sight of film running through a projector, the sound of the wheels turning, the texture and richness of the image are just incomparable. It is almost as if film is not capturing reality, but depicting life. It is very hard to describe how a space is transformed through the lens of a 16mm camera; how the colours seem distant but inviting, the details blurred but imaginative, the image complete yet distinctly mysterious.

So, in the premature funeral of a medium that breathes its last breath, Tacita Dean is singing the most beautiful and haunting gospel, giving it back the life it so fairly deserves.

If you have 11 free minutes, make sure you spend them in the Turbine Hall in Tate Modern. It is worth it.

Love,

The Magnificent Something

The search is on!

A Charmed Life: Miracles and Charms at the Wellcome Trust

A Letter of Love

Shake Until your Heart Breaks: Expectations of Little Boots’ Sophomore Album

First London Snow

Yumchaa: Chai Latte Escapes in the Middle of the City

Lost in the Food Garden Cafe: Culinary Escape on the Top Floor of Selfridges

Under the trees of Cleaver Square

The Unilever Series and Tacita Dean’s Film: an analogue marvel at Tate Modern

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