Category Archives: Londoner

Nov19

A Family at Wartime

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I don’t like war movies. The closest I have been to watching a full movie about wartime is the Sound of Music, and even in that, I hated the part where Rolfe turned out to be a Nazi, trampled over Liesl’s heart, and almost robbed the Von Trap family of their freedom.

You see, I dread the thought of a war, and not in the war is bad-peace is good-let’s all sit in front of a campfire holding hands and sing cumbaya kind of way. I find it dreadful because I think that it is the perfect setting for the worst kind of human nature to break free. Yes, the tactical moves, and fights, and war casualties are awful enough, but what makes my skin crawl are accounts of ‘normal’ people doing despicable acts during these times.
From medical trials on prisoners to making furniture out of human skin, and from countless tales of betrayal to the dehumanising nature of power, wartime comes to show you that the worst kind of crimes can be committed outside of the battlefield.
This is why I found the Imperial War Museum’s ‘a Family at Wartime’ so heartwarming. The exhibition, fantastically curated in the far left corner of the ground floor, is a metaphor for all the good that shines through the human evil. Each family member stands for different ways that people in Britain (and I assume throughout the world) made the best out of the worst, made life liveable and saw the everyday as another day that their heart kept beating.

The exhibition is centred on the Allpress family who lived in Stockwell, where every member played a minuscule, yet important role in the war, having to cope with rationing, evacuation, war work and events such as the London Blitz and VE Day that shaped everyday life and the story of a nation.

The exhibition features a model house of the Allpress family home, a family tree diagram, photos and interviews, as well as recreations of the era billboards, settings, iconic propaganda posters and films.

Visitors can also get in a replica of an Anderson shelter, scan the airwaves for radio shows from the archives, and see a range of interactive exhibits that we’re really popular with the little ones (yes, and me…).

However, the show stopper has to be the corridor that leads to the exit. On your left, a map of the area with marks on the bombing sites, explains the different levels of destruction that these metal cones of death caused. On the right wall, you will find paintings from the wartime, that literally paint a picture of overcoming terror by unity.

A few steps down and I am in the specially constructed gift shop, and I want to buy everything. The whole space is reminiscent of a home from that time, with vintage games, cushions, and cookbooks from the war.

I leave the museum with a bag of sweets. As I sit on the park bench outside, I open the bag, munch down a couple of jellies, and gaze at the giant cannons in the middle of the courtyard. I wonder if we learned. I wonder if we ever will.

Love,

G

Nov9

Girl in Front of a Boy

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The woman next to me stops on her tracks. She looks through her watery eyes, stares at the shop assistant behind the counter, and starts:
‘I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her‘ she says with an audible pain in her voice. The shop assistant smiles politely, and then grabs a pile of books and makes her way to the back of the store. She looks used to this expression of unrequited love. The woman next to me giggles, and turns to her friend to see if she got the whole thing on her phone; a thumbs up and a loud giggle later, and a man with a yellow sweater has taken her place, reciting the same monologue with the same pained expression.
You see, I am inside the Notting Hill bookshop, standing very near to the spot that Julia Roberts made her final plea to Hugh Grant. As I see a sea of tourists taking pictures, I approach the sales assistant, who seems unfazed from the commotion.
We start talking about the movie, and she tells me that the shop is not the actual place where the movie was shot. I think she must have registered the surprise in my eyes, so she adds that it is indeed the inspiration for the bookshop in the movie.
Apparently, the set designer drew the set of the travel bookshop based on this one. She also tells me at the actual location was the Kurt Geiger shop two corners down the street, even though it is unrecognisable now.
I thank her, and I keep browsing; the bookshop has a really good selection, and a charm that explains why it was the inception behind some of the most central points of the movie.
So, I pass the young girl that is now reciting the monologue in Spanish, and make my way to the Kurt Geiger shop. It is indeed unrecognisable. But just a breath away is the infamous Portobello Market, so I make my way down the stalls and take in all the views that can be seen on the first scene of the movie.
Spending the day as a tourist in your own city; spending the night seeing the Hollywood version of the places you just were. Popcorn, duvet, couch, and a finger pointing at the screen: I was there today!

Love,

G

Sep20

For the Love of Books

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This is not the post I intended to write today; but then again, I did not expect today to go as it did.

I am a big believer in the wrong turn; the accidental; the unexpected.  Diversions can take you straight to the point; wandering around might show you a new destination. Allowing yourself to be surprised might be the first of a series of events that will enrich your life in ways you never expected.

And now I am standing here, surrounded by mountains of paper with streets made of letters, paved with black and blue ink. The day started with the sun and a to do list, and ended with the stars and a pile of books.

Now, let me explain: I am not entirely sure I always liked books; I remember as a kid when guests came to my party, spotting a book-shaped gift meant a wave of disappointment. Then, books meant school, and teachers, and grades. Books were the manuals for TV and films, instead of a form of entertainment.

But as an IKEA couch remains an object of mystery without the 4 sheets of instructions that come with it, so is life incomplete without the pages of a book. Reading for the first time passages that made me laugh, cry, or realize how similar, different, and unique each person is, are moments that I will always carry with me.

So, I became a bookworm; I always carry at least one book with me. I know that some people are very precious with their books, but I cannot say I am. I crack the back, write, draw, underline, spill coffee, drop tea, and all forms of actions that would make other book lovers gasps. In my books you will find dried flowers from days out, sand from days at the beach, and dried pages from reading in the rain.

So, today I decided to cheer up a friend by making a small photo set of 10 ways to be happy using books. I chose 10 books, put them in an eco bag from Tesco, grabbed my iPhone and walked out of the house.

In between pictures, I flipped through the books, and slowly the intervals got longer. I was reminded of all the parts that made me fall in love with the characters in the pages; I remembered why I love Ali Smith’s work so much, and why every single page, every singe sentence, every single word that escapes from her mind is a work of genius.

I fell down the myriad of complex issues that are discussed in Alice in Wonderland, lived life in the bright colours of Andy Warhol and blew the candles of Truman Capote’s birthday cake.

I saw beauty through the rose-tinted glasses of fairy tales and the realistic eye of Zadie Smith, wrote my notes on a scandal and took a picture of a the theory of taking pictures.

And then I got lost in the words that explored the city I was reading these words in. I got lost in the moment, in the page. The day became more than a project; it became a collection of moments, of words, of feelings, of memories, of smells, of sounds, of the books I read, how they became part of me.

Time for the next page.

Love,

G

Sep16

The Magnificent Something for Time Out London

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I had to make a list; then shorten it; then add to it; then shorten it again; sigh, huff, puff, frown, add a few more and look at it again. This is going to be impossible.

When Time Out London asked me to do a piece with my Top 5 Secret Spots in London, I felt a strange mixture of panic and happiness. I was at work, so I could not fully express either, so I just combined both: my feet did a happy dance under my desk while my chest was trying to control an incoming hyperventilation.

Pen, paper, and a few pages afterwards I was back at square one. What is a spot? What is secret in London? I opened every London app, website, map, newsletter and contact list I had. Secret spots; spots that are secret; spots with secrets inside. I started making lists of places that even though they were new, and relatively unknown, they did not really represent me. I don’t want to make a list just to list places; I want to make a list of places that are important to me. A spot that is secret; a spot with a secret inside.

And then it hit me. My secret spots are not going to be secret because they are not known; they were going to be secret because they contain a secret. They will be personal. They will be my secrets. I took a gulp from my (now cold) latte, bit the lid off the pen, and started writing the list again.

I chose the Cuming Museum because I really think that it is a collection of magnificent somethings; of objects that regardless of monetary worth, we’re valuable to the Cuming family. They meant something to them, so they mean something to me.

Hobbs is the only place that I can say I fully trust with my volatile reactions when it comes to haircuts (plus, the pulled pork sandwich really helps).

Homemade brought back memories of breakfast before work, good coffee, and bacon with Maple syrup pancakes. It had to be in.

The ‘There are no Prostitutes’ sign was not in my initial list. However, when I was trying to find another spot (I think people do not realise the extent of my lack of orientation), I bumped into it, and remembered how much it made me laugh when I first saw it; it was my first year in London, and for some strange reason, it added a little bit of magic in my view of this wonderfully weird city.

And finally Gay’s the Word is so close to my heart, and I genuinely believe that it keeps inside the best kept secret in London: Jim Macsweeney and Uli Lenart have to be discovered from anyone that enjoys an intelligent discussion, a good book and a hearty laugh.

You can read the full post here. Below you can find some more pictures from the spots that could not fit in the Time Out blog, but thought I would show you anyway.

I did not want to just make a list of secret spots; I wanted to share places, people and things that need to be discovered.

I really hope that you enjoy it.

Love,

G

Sep12

full stop

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I woke up, got up, had a bowl of Corn Flakes with Banana Milk, washed the bowl, had a shower, towel dried my hair, wore a flannel shirt, underwear, shorts, socks, trainers, grabbed my wallet, took my keys, opened the door, closed it from the other side, locked the lock, went down the stairs, out of the building, out of the pathway, into the street, into the sun, left foot then right then repeat, look ahead, take a picture, then another, and another, take one every 5 minutes, take a picture when the subject appears, when the subject disappears, when the subject is in the frame or when it is out of it, when the subject is in front of the lens or behind it, take a picture of the world as I see it this morning, as my lens sees it this morning, uninterrupted, for my 15 minute walk to the park, for the 900 seconds it took me to walk to the entrance, and then some more until I reach the bench, sit down, take my phone out, write this post, attach the pictures, press the button on the touchscreen, make the button change shape and shade, make this thought an action, this action a post, this post a part of my blog, this blog a part of my life, my life in words and pictures and HTML code and comments and likes and thumbs up and words and letters and exclamation points and all this with the button that does not exist on the touchscreen that responds to the warmth of my finger, and as I will press it, I will look for the change, this change,

Love,

G

Aug27

Another London at Tate Britain

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London is one of the most colourful places to live in. Even if you are in the centre of the city, surrounded by the grey buildings, the navy-blue suits, and the metallic frames that hold everything together, you will be able to spot a bright yellow frame sticking out, a red dress rushing down the tube escalators, or a purple hair framed face reading the Evening Standard in a crowded bus.
London is a colourful city not for the geography, but for the people in it. Londoners are intense marks on the city canvas; multicoloured dots, straight lines, and forceful brush strokes, every Londoner is a reflection of light, a shade of colour.

This is why I am now standing in the middle of the exhibition, eyes wide open with surprise, lips parted, as if I am about to say something; nothing comes out.
You see, I have just entered the Another London Exhibition in Tate Britain, where more than 40 photographers captured life in the Capital on film. The only thing is the film is black and white, a form I absolutely adore, but did not expect to see in this space. And it is not just one or two pictures; the whole exhibition is a monochrome sea of city life.

However, from the second shot, I realise why. The pictures have the common quality of a frozen moment in time, a single second taken from the everyday. They portray London as the dynamic metropolis it is, richly varied and full of contrast, seen through a different angle.

Each photographer seemed to have a very different relationship with London; from fleeting visits as a tourist, or a journalist, to the unique view of a refugee or a permanent resident, each lens documents a different story. The diversity of the people behind the camera results in a depiction as diverse as the city itself, a jigsaw that seems puzzling unless you are part of it.

I have to say that my favourite was the seventh room, where British subcultures started being documented. Neil Kenlock‘s looks at immigrant Britain, Karren Knorr and Oliver Richon‘s get immersed in Punk Culture, Leonard Freed looks at Jewish Communities, and Marketa Luscacova, Mario de Biasi and Al Vanderberg look at the styles of Londoners.

Marfine Franck‘s look at older people is very touching, as is Lutz Diller‘s social documentation. Indeed, there are moments where the class system is captured, like Robert Frank, Irving Penn, and Wolfgang Suchitzky, capturing the lives of the poor and the affluent on the same strip of film.

Then, you have the alternative images. Dorothy Bohm provides an eerie imagery with her pictures of London after the bombing in the war, that comes close to the mystical images of Sergio Larrain. Ernst Haas produces pictures that are deliberately out of focus, Hannes Killian tries to capture movement, and Herbert List develops his own photographic language (photographia metalifisica), looking at dream states with double exposures, portraying a surrealistic view of a familiar city.

The poster of the exhibition is a picture by Bruce Davidson, of a girl holding a kitten on the sidewalk of a busy street, both looking lost, both found by each other. It is interesting to see how Davidson says that he has made several attempts to track down the mystery girl, all unsuccessful.

And to me, this is the magic of London. The fleeting moment. The here today, gone tomorrow nature of the city. The meaning that a picture holds, as it is a shot of something that will not be the same tomorrow. The ephemera caught on a screen, light translated to digits, fingerprints of a visitor that came and left. When I go to exhibitions, I don’t want to take a picture of the work; I want to capture the visitor with the work. I want to observe that moment when the image on the wall becomes a part of the person standing in front of it. A memory to be kept or discarded. A moment.

Inge Morath said that

‘[when I came to London] the world around me seemed to be filled with things that wanted to be photographed. I had finally discovered my own way to express what interested or obsessed me in a way with which I could live.’

And to me, this is London, this is art, this is photography. This is the everyday.

Love,

G

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Aug24

Around London in 6 colours

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My feet are killing me. I am sitting cross-legged on the floor of my apartment, iPad on my lap, mug of echinea tea on my side, and I stretch my hands in front of me. I can not stop smiling.

In the past two days I walked all over London, took pictures of familiar places in unfamiliar angles, spoke to strangers, got lost, found bits of the city I thought I knew, and bits of myself that I did not know.

I can not really say I lived the Olympics in its fullest. I did not have enough free time to volunteer, or enough money to get tickets. I worked in retail, which means that my mornings were spent in a crowded tube, face stuck in between the armpits of a City banker and a person with a purple and red uniform and a lanyard with their smiling picture. I was working close to the Olympic Park, and I passed the same giant foam fingers, amplifiers, and crammed bridge everyday.

So, now freshly in between positions, and feeling better from a cold, I was on the App store, when I saw the London Official App. Without thinking about it, I downloaded it, and within minutes I was absent-mindedly browsing it, when I stumbled on the Discovery part of the Trails section. I cocked my head to the left as I was scrolling down the six trails, feeling a strange kind of excitement. A frown and a deep breath later, I decided that I would complete them; all of them. I took my notebook out, made a plan, typed it on my iPhone, set the details, and then -and then, nothing.

You see, I always have an internal fear of giving up; of letting go. I am afraid that I will be tempted to not follow through, and even though experience has shown me that this is not true, that fear always kept creeping up. I remember two years ago, I was in Greenman festival, when my friends decided that it would be a great idea to climb the mountain that was facing the festival camp site. Now, we climbed it, got attacked from a herd of cows, landed in a pile of fresh shit, tore our clothes, and documented the whole process on film. Once we reached the top, we painted our faces, looked down at the crowds, and smiled to each other. Throughout the whole process though, there was this voice inside me saying this is too tiring, what if something happened, why not stop now, why continue, why are you doing this? I then thought that my perseverance to reach the top of the mountain came from the presence of others, from the reassurance that comes from a common goal, a common purpose.

Yesterday, I was having a bowl of corn flakes on the couch, watching reruns of Ugly Betty and trying to command my face to a state of awake, when my eyes caught of my bag on the floor. I could see the corner of my notebook, and without really thinking about it, I took it out, and flipped it open. I looked at the last page; at the plan. I stared at it for a while, aware of Betty Suarez talking in the background about making the best of life. I pursed my lips, got up, got in the shower, put my trainers on, my notebook back in my bag, and locked the door behind me. I knew I would complete the 6 trails, and take pictures of all 84 of the Olympic Mascot statues around London. Now, when I was outside, I heard a rather familiar voice; why are you doing this? this can be too tiring, -and for nothing! why not stop now, and just go to a coffee shop, have a latte and write? I have to admit, I found this really tempting. I was passing from my closest Costa, when I heard my body sigh, felt my legs slowing down, my gaze directed to the door; and then I continued. I moved forwards, passed it, and replied to that voice: I will complete it. I will find them. I will finish what I started.

I took the Red Trail map out, and made my way towards the first location. Now, it is crucial to remember that I have no real sense of direction. I usually rely on the ability of friends, the kindness of strangers, and the GPS on my iPhone to find my destination; but not this time. For some strange reason, I was determined to find them all with my printed maps, and my non-existent direction skills. I walked forwards and turned backwards, made circles, huffed and puffed, and not before long, I caught sight of a colourful blob in the middle of the sidewalk. I can not explain the feeling I had when I found the first one. It was a small, completely childish, absolutely pure form of delight. I took my iPhone out, and snapped a pic on Instagram. I walked from Westminster Bridge, passed from the crowds marvelling at the London Eye, and walked down Southbank with a daft smile on my face. What I initially found challenging was the focus that this exercise required. You see, I always think about other things when I walk down the street. I think of how my week went, how my week will go, I add things in my never-ending to do list, fret about the future, or in this case, worry about finding the next location. Well, try doing that and keeping an eye for something on the street. Let me tell you, it is not easy. After passing a few, and going in circles to find them, I realised early on that I would have to really clear my head, and focus on the task in had: finding life-sized Olympic Mascot statues in the streets of London. And sure enough, the process became easier. I passed Lambeth Bridge, and found myself in Victoria Tower Gardens. I was amazed at how relaxing this whole process was. Before I knew it, I snapped my last Wenlock.

My natural instinct was to rush to the next location. I mean, I had five more trails to do, so I. Better get moving; and yet, moments later, I was sitting on a bench, looking at Southbank from the other side. I took my notebook out and looked at the list. Half today, and half tomorrow.

For the Pink Trail I walked to Charing Cross, found the Novel Wenlock next to the Oscar Wilde statue, and made my way up to Leicester Square. I spent a good 20 minutes trying to the Spotlight Mandenville, but surprising myself with a steely unwillingness to give up. When I found it, I felt a strange sence of achievement. I did not give up. I did not convince myself that the statue was moved, stolen, abducted from aliens. I persevered. I made my way to Covent Garden with a smile, passed from some of my favourite shops, got two new notebooks from Magma, and then walked down towards Embankment. I had never been in the Victoria Embankment Gardens, so I was surprised by the amount of people that were lounging on the grass, soaking up the sun and giving me funny looks when I was circling the same spot numerous time, with a map on my hand looking lost. When I took a picture of the last Mandeville, I returned to the gardens, and sat down to regroup; 30 minutes later, I was still there.

I later started the Purple trail. I found the first one (Red Bus Wenlock) drowned in a crowd of passers by, tourists, and hurried Londoners. I followed the path up to Mayfair, passed the big Waterstones (and resisted the urge to get inside), and went all the way up to Bond Street, where I encountered my first real issue. After 15 minutes of trying to find the Tyger Tyger Wenlock, I was frowning at my app, not sure what on earth happened. Where was he? Should I give up? Well, if I can not find one, what is the point? I will not complete it. Let’s give up now, and save my feet a world of ache. And then I noticed my grip getting stronger, my jaw tightening, and my eyes spotting the next one. So what if one mysteriously disappeared? The rest are there. Something can be thought out perfectly, or it can be actually done. Time to crack on, I thought, and as I was about to move on, a voice woke me up from my own pep-talk: ‘Oh, if you are looking for the Tyger Tyger one, that is a mistake in the map. It is actually part of the Pink trail’. I turned, and this (very tall) man in a West End attire was smiling down at me. Needless to say that I had to restrain myself from hugging him, thanked him, and walked down St Molton Street. By the time I reached Regent Street, I was feeling hungry, thirsty, and elated. I looked at my Instagram, and my jaw dropped. The three trails got 8000 likes so far, and some very positive feedback; I was really surprised. The rest of the evening involved a hot shower, warm food and a really early night. After all, I still had three trails left for the next morning.

Today I woke up and felt every muscle in my legs complaining. One Tree Hill was on E4, and Payton had to make a decision; so did I. Should I start from the longest trail, or from the hardest? One might assume that it would be the same trail, but no. You see, the Green Trail is a bit more than half of the Blue trail, but is in was in Regents Park; an actual park. No streets, no maps, just directions. The horror.

An hour later, I was walking in Regents Park with a look of terror on my face. But then, something happened: I saw a family having the same look at their face; and then another. The Green trail was different, as it was almost a group thing. People would stop you to ask you where that Rose Garden Mandeville is, and would give you info on that ever-elusive location of the Rainbow Mandeville. By the end, people would show you their pictures, and you discussed where they came from, and how unusually hot London is at this time of the year. I jumped in the tube, and got out in London Bridge for the Blue Trail.

I walked down to the City Hall to find the Skyline Wenlock. I walked down towards Southwark Cathedral and the Golden Hinde, and reached the Globe Theatre and Tate Modern before passing the Millennium Bridge. I then spotted my favourite one, the St Paul’s Mandeville sitting beneath St Paul’s Cathedral. I passed from Cheapside, moved to Bank and reached Monument. Believe it or not, I have never been to the London Tower, and I was really surprised at how lovely it was. I made a mental note to come back, took a picture of the Ravens Wenlock, and walked up to Aldgate to start the Yellow trail.

I weaved my way through Bishopsgate to Liverpool Street, browsed at the Leadenhall and Spitafield Markets, and stopped at Brick Lane to add to my collection of graffiti pictures. In the end, I sat down at the Music Cafe nearby, and browsed through my Instagram account. All 82 Wenlocks and Mandevilles were there, looking back at me. I felt an overpowering sense of achievement. I did this. I went all over London and took pictures of this slice of time, of this moment in the London history, of a fleeting landscape (the statues will stay there until the 06/09/2012).

My feet are still hurting, and I need a refill of my tea. Now, let me see what is up in tomorrow’s schedule.

love,

G ; ;

Aug19

We Climbed a Hill

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We climbed a hill yesterday. It was dark, and we did not have a flash light. I did not have the right shoes, so my socks and feet got drenched. I did not wear the right clothes, so I felt the moisture creep from the ground in my body as I sat down on the grass. I was tipsy from the cheap wine, and full from the nice food. I was drenched and cold and tipsy and full and most of all I was content.
It was a friend’s birthday, so we met her near Primrose Hill, went in a gastropub, drank and ate, talked and laughed, analysed Flat Land and Fifty Shades of Grey, and had these moments where everything slows down and you realise how lucky you are to be walking on this earth at this point in time with these people. This moment where you feel grateful for everything you have and for everything you don’t, fuel for striving to get it, reminder of where you are in your life’s timeline.

We sang Happy Birthday of the top of our lungs, she made a wish and blew the candles, and divided the individual desert in bite sized pieces and it was the best desert I had all week.
When we walked towards the hill the streets were quiet; we were not. I was looking at my shoes, how I made them move, how they made me move. I looked up and saw that we arrived at the hill. Now up we go.

On the top, the breeze passed through us, and we sat down with our plastic cups half full of Pims and lemonade. The London skyline was so breathtaking, that I had to adjust my eyes, to adjust my mood, to open up and take it all in. The buildings lit the sky, the London eye was spinning, the Shard was solemn and the BT Tower watched us as we tried to decide which one was our favourite.

I lied down, placed my head on the knees of my friend, and allowed my body to fully relax, my muscles to surrender, my eyes closing with the weight of the day and the security of good company; and just like that, I fell asleep, on the top of a hill in a corner of a town that does not sleep.

Love,

G

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May10

All I Ever Wanted Was The World

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I first heard Marina and the Diamonds 2 years ago. It was 2 months after I decided to stop my Doctorate, and turn it into an MSc. That meant that within the few seconds that it took to finish the sentence ‘I can not do this anymore’, my life was already upside down. I was not a student anymore. I would not be staying in student halls, or get any financial help. I had to grow up. I had to find a house. And a job. I had to pack my room, and find a moving van. I had to find boxes. God, how much stuff did I have? Where can I find boxes? Where will I stay? What will I do? Who am I?

I decided to stay with my partner and two friends. I found a job in retail, worked from morning to evening, payed tax, ate beans on toast and started perfecting the ‘everything is fine’ smile. People willed their face into a mask of worry, asking me if I felt I made the right choice, giving up on something that was certain to chase something that was not even there. For them, I was like the runner that had a clear path in front of him, but suddenly started running left, towards the dark forrest. For the first time, things were so unclear, and this secretly terrified me.

One night, I was sitting in my room, after a particularly difficult day at work, and I was staring at my computer screen, scrolling down YouTube for new music. And then I see this video, with a girl covered in black paint, looking like she escaped from a demented 80s clip. I had to click on it. The music started, and looked at the screen mesmerised. And then she started singing, and her voice went through me like a sword. I recognised something in it, something in me, a familiar stranger that I never thought I would see again. The song was I am not a Robot, and the artist was Marina and the Diamonds.

Marina’s voice hits you like a truck, strong, forceful, taking the listener over from the inside. It’s like a small explosion, like feeling your ribcage getting smaller or your heart growing larger, and then a warm kind of tension washing over your limbs, and making you feel, making you feel real, making you feel real emotions that you thought you held back, but were there all the time, hidden, waiting like the flood behind the locked door.

Her voice is embellished with pain and deepness, the kind of detachment that comes from looking inwards, from being half there or completely and intensely immerse. Her voice carries the quality of the Greek Laiki Phoni, which roughly translates as everyday people’s voice. If I had to close my eyes and imagine her as an ancient Greek character, I would have thought Cassandra. Her voice is the mixture of knowledge and resignation. She knows that something terrible is happening, but will not try to change her fate. She will live to remember her mistakes, unable to stop herself from making them.

Her first album, the Family Jewels is one of my favourite albums of all times. It touches subjects that are so raw and rough, unattractive traits of attractive people, the need to belong and the resentment for the consequences. Destroying your soul in the quest to be the best; the loneliness that comes with it; the knowledge that you will never be satisfied. Songs like Obsessions, Hollywood, Numb, Hermit the Frog, were all masterpieces in their own right, with completely unusual sounds, and lyrics that reached bone-deep.

A lot has been written about the time that passed between the two albums. Social Media posts brought speculations about Marina’s feelings, thoughts, emotions, career and wellbeing. However, I was never certain why this was such a hot topic. Everyone wants to be successful and be recognised for their work. The extent of that recognition has different ranges for different individuals. Marina was singing for that need, for that trait that she observed in others and herself. So, why were her concerned critics surprised escapes me. Regardless, she addressed them, and moved on to the release of Electra Heart.

Electra Heart is decidedly a different sound. With the vehicle of a persona, Marina explores familiar topics in unfamiliar ways. In my head, the record is broken in two parts:
The first half is full with fast beats (Bubblegum Bitch), catchy tunes (Homewrecker, Power and Control), hearty melancholy (Lies, Starring Role, Living Dead,) and can’t get this song out of my head verses (Primadonna has been the background to my thoughts for the past two weeks). However, it is not necessarily in line with the Family Jewels. It sounds super polished and studied, containing all the secrets of commercial success in the space of 3 minutes. This is not a bad thing, it is actually quite clever. Because these are the songs that will bring the attention to the record, where people can be exposed to the second half.

The second part is closer to The Jewels record. Teen Idle echoes Obsessions and Numb, dripping with a heart-breaking tangible teen angst that hits all the right notes in an effortless and natural way. I challenge you to listen to Valley of the Dolls without hitting the replay button, or not engage in an absent minded dance to the infectious rhythms of Sex Yeah and Lonely Hearts Club; and most importantly, you will not be able to ignore the goosebumps from listening to Buy the Stars, one of my favourite Marina songs so far.

I would genuinely suggest downloading Electra Heart, and if you don’t have the Family Jewels, then make sure you hear it too. Marina has been on the background of many important moments in my life, and this made her really special to me. Her music helped me at times that silence wouldn’t, and her lyrics helped me understand parts of myself that I couldn’t, or didn’t want to understand.

I will leave you with one of my favourite part of Electra Heart:

All my life I’ve been so lonely/ All in the name of being holy/ Still, you’d like to think you own me; You keep buying stars/ You could buy up all the stars/ But it wouldn’t change who you are/You’re still living life in the dark/ It’s just who you are/ It’s just who you are
You bought a star in the sky tonight/ And in your man-made dark/ The light inside you died/it’s just who you are.

Love,

G

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Apr30

Gilbert and George: the LDN pictures

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The weather seems as undecided as I feel today. Clouds of rain are separated from bursts of sunshine with an invisible thread, that I seem to be pulling every time I decide to walk outside.
I am now sitting in a table in the middle of a really crowded Starbucks. I got a skinny latte and a blueberry muffin, and spent the first 10 minutes absent-mindedly taking it apart as I was focusing on the large window; focusing on what was behind it, who was behind it. Everyone slowing their pace when the sun came out; speeding up when the first signs of rain appeared; dancing awkwardly around pools of water on the street. A choreography that kept me hypnotised, a performance that no doubt would be taking place in every London street.

Thinking of the city makes me shiver. Londoners are a different breed, living in a different rhythm, with different rules. Highly competitive, extremely creative, moments appearing like fireworks; sudden bursts of light, and if you don’t know where to look, by the time you turn your head, they are gone.

One of these firework moments for me was when I first saw a Gilbert and George piece. I was walking in Tate Modern, lost in my world, notebook in one hand, camera on the other. I passed the door to the hall where it was hanging, and stopped; turned around; and just stood there. Moments later, I found myself standing in front of it hypnotised. I did not know exactly why; I still don’t. But it had this Gilbert and George quality of waking a very strong emotion inside you, behind your heart, a feeling of unease and excitement blending in the same exhale. I left without taking a picture of it, just with its title scribbled in my notebook: Red Morning Trouble.

A few months ago, I did a piece on HIV AIDS day awareness. As I was writing it, I was trying to think of the image that I would use for my posts. I stood in front of the screen, closed my eyes,and saw the picture. I grabbed my jacket and my iPhone, took the first bus and rushed through the maze of modern art, to stand in front of it and take a shot.

Last week, in one of these rare moments that I had the time to sit on the sofa, with a hot cup of echinea tea, I was leafing through Time Out London, scanning through the art listings, when I saw it. White Cube. Gilbert & George: London Pictures. Jacket, iPhone, first bus.

I first have to address the White Cube space. The first look upon arrival forces you to stop on your tracks, if not take a step back. Looking like it materialised out of thin air in the middle of the busiest point in London, it appears to be a part of a David Lynch movie. Minimal, sharp, slick, and immensely impressive, there could not be a better space to house the exhibition. I walked in, greeted by a lovely gallery assistant, and walked in the space.

Gilbert and George are pioneers in what they do. They were present in the birth of experimental art, art film, and conceptual art. They are universally known for their large scale structural pieces, placing pictures in symmetrical frames, and constructing a larger picture out of many, smaller ones. They use primarily black and white tones, embellishing the backgrounds with red and yellow, and the foreground with neon (or sometimes pale) prints of the artists themselves in various different poses.

Their work in the White Cube follows on the same path. However, when I stepped on the ground level of the gallery, I felt a tingling sensation. This work was similar, but different altogether. I sat on the wooden bench in the middle of the room, and looked at the space in front of me, next to me, behind me. I knew there was something thumping on the back of my mind, but I could not really understand it. And then I went to the lower ground of the gallery, a vast space filled with more London pictures. I was overwhelmed. The work had the kind of raw power that I felt when I saw their first piece, but this one was completely different. And then I knew why it had this effect on me.

I have a background in psychology, and more specifically, research. I love quantitative and qualitative designs, theorising and disproving, analysing and explaining. I love that we feel that we can truly understand, or predict human behaviour. I love the complexity and simplicity of the human psyche, and the glimpses you get by trying to analyse it. And while I was sitting in front of the work, I felt that Gilbert and George tried to do just that; offer an insight in the different aspects of their subject’s mind. Their subject? London.

For almost 6 years, Gilbert and George painstakingly gathered exactly 3,712 newspaper posters (the ones seen next to your local newsagent, used to give you a small but enticing snippet so that you buy the whole paper), and then grouped the titles in subjects, that then fell under categories. This meant that the size, title, and even subject was defined from the category itself (for example, with alphabetical or numerical classifications) -instead of the artists making am aesthetic decision. By doing that, their art making transcends ‘art making’, and provides a depiction of a reported reality: a gloomy, violent, impulsive, sorrowful, but always hopeful London. London, and the artists themselves, are the backdrops in portraits of humanity, taxonomy, and the never ending effort to classify, and understand the human factor.

However, there is another truly interesting bit for the psychology/linguistics nerds. Gilbert and George do not only look at the phrases and words behind the main news, but the content and classifications that are implied under them. For example, they visit the concept of gay and/vs straight, often classifying subjects under one or the other. The reason why this fascinated me is that this underlines the divisive and often irrelevant use of the adjective ‘gay’ as an intended insightful description of an act or person (something that lately has been debated about social issues like adoption, or marriage).

The exhibition runs simultaneously in the 3 White Cube galleries ( Bermondsey, Hoxton Square and Mason’s Yard), and is housing all 292 of the London Pictures. However, if you can not make the trip to the galleries, there is an amazing catalogue documenting all of them, accompanied with an essay by Michael Bracewell that was published by Hurtwood Press.

I left the exhibition feeling lighter. I just felt like I read someone else’s love letter for a person I love too. And it is the kind of all-round love, the love of the good, the bad, the ugly, and the unimaginably beautiful.

Love,

G

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