Category Archives: Somewhere

The Magnificent Places

Dec6

Dark Knight or Dark Art? Andy Hope’s 1930 Comic Visions

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I am standing under a giant billboard for the Dark Knight DVD release. The poster is faded, and bits of it are torn. Everyone I know has seen it. I gaze up, my lips parting momentarily from my paper coffee cup. I cock my head to the left, a grimace spreading on my face, and I already feel critical.
You see, I have a special relationship with comic books. Childhood memories of summer holidays always smelt like sunscreen, sea salt, and paper. Dark ink on cheap pages, small speech bubbles and one-liners, fast action without action. In these pages, characters were living more in a square box than others have lived in their entire lives.
I remember coming out of the sea, running towards my towel (held on the sand by four large rocks, one on each corner), digging in the beach bag and bringing the latest comic book under me. The tips of my hair would drip on the page, making the ink run, the story coming to life. I remember quiet afternoons, when everyone had a quiet siesta; everyone but me and the crickets: I read, they sang. Of course, then I was too young to know how to read; but that did not matter. I knew that something important was happening in those pages, and that filled me with a thrill that I can still feel on my fingertips.

I grew up watching He-Man and She-Ra, reading Duck Tales, hunting for the latest issue of Xmen, Superman, and even Aquaman books. I think that the fond memories I have of these novels might be why I am so aware of the recent comic book-to-screen flood. Different Spidermen, Supermen, X-Men, Avengers, and well, Batmen are jumping in their Lycra (or leather) bodysuits, and fly (on a jet or with a cape) over the city skyline and to the top of the Box Office.
Some stay true to the original; some deviate. For me, the value is not necessarily on how loyal they remain to the actual story of the comic book; it is about the comic book feel that they carry with them on the big screen.
This reminded me of the adopted the name Andy Hope 1930 as he considered the year vital to the main elements of his work: the rise of the comic book to a mass medium and the abandonment of suprematism and Russian Constructivism.
Hope 1930 is known for his iconography, combining comic books, science fiction, mythology, history, pop culture, and literature in his work with bold use of brush strokes and colours. In the Medley Tour exhibition, he tried his own superhero talent, attempting to manipulate time:throughout the exhibition he revisits his past work, and identifies the path of his technique, deconstructing his work and working backwards in order to move forwards.
He uses familiar themes like the black masks from his depiction of Robin Dostoyevsky; the woman’s hairstyles from his paintings of Hollywood starlets; and the dark shapes that accompany the majority of his past work, to trace his journey through his work.
He also built an actual batcave inside the exhibition, referencing the classic Bruce Wayne hideaway, constructed with a playfulness that reminded me of my childhood view of the comic book world.
I look at the poster again. Anne Hathaway as Catwoman. I sigh. It starts raining, and as I begin walking again, I decide to clear my head from preconceptions, and go and watch the movie with an open mind.
To the Batmobile!

Love,

G

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

Nov13

The Semi-Naked Truth of John Palatinus: People from the Village

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I have always been fascinated with the distinction between artistic, erotic, and pornographic. The fine lines between the forms (if there are any lines at all) are tested by a lot of artists, some times to provoke, other times to test, and in some instances, well, just because it happened.

I remember the first time I saw a picture of a naked man. I was in that stage between not too young and not old enough, and its source was so unexpected that I remember surprise overtaking every other single feeling.
It was in a magazine. I remember going to the newsstand, and seeing the corner of a cover hidden behind a pile of other magazines on the top shelf. Now, you have to believe me, I really did not know why these magazines were on the top shelf, why they were covered in plastic, or why parts of them had small stickers blocking parts of the cover picture. I just read ‘great competition’ on the cover, and as I was going through the stage of collecting everything, I grabbed it, went to the counter, and even though I thought it was strange that the cashier asked me twice if I knew what I was buying, I accepted his offer for a black bag and went home.

I remember going in the living room, taking the magazine out of the bag and out of its plastic case, and opening it. The feature it was in started with a guy wearing a flannel shirt, black trousers and boots. His hair was curly and his face long. It seemed like every shot magically took one piece of clothing off him, so, when I turned the page, there he was, naked. I had never seen a picture of a naked man before. It was so strange. He was so …different. His penis was the strangest, weirdest thing I had seen up until that moment; don’t get me wrong, growing up in Greece meant getting your fair share of nude sculptures in museums, naked lithographs in history books and if participating in sports, locker rooms with other naked men. But the fact that this was on a magazine made this experience totally different. It was not meant to be artistic; it was intended to be erotic-even though it ended being pornographic.

So being in Space Station 65 and standing in front of John Palatinus‘s naked portraits of men is making me think of these distinctions. Male sexual photography was defined, stigmatised, and redefined during the 1950s, and Palatinus was one of the key figures in this era.
During that period, photographers started taking portraits of handsome men with built bodies, that as time passed they started losing items of clothing. The images were printed in magazines like Tomorrow’s Man, or mailed directly to customers in the pretence of admiring the male physique. However, when full-frontal pictures started emerging, the authorities stepped in and arrested various publishers, photographers, and models.

One of these photographers was John Palatinus. When the New York police department and the US Postage Inspectors raided his apartment, they confiscated all of his prints, photographs, original negatives, cameras, lights, and equipments. After a conviction of Conspiracy and a misdemeanour charge, Palatinus was disgraced, out of business, and most importantly robbed out of his whole back work.

Now, you might be reading this and thinking ‘well, what work? This was pornography!’. And that is where the fine line lies. Even though the pictures were sexually charged, they would be described as erotic instead of pornographic. They were admiring the male form instead of cheapening it. Palatinus got rid of the cheesy props and the cheap backdrops, and used white backgrounds, lights and shadow to highlight the topography of the male physique.

Countless of shoots have been informed from Palatinus’s work, and some have actually completely copied his style (giving him credit, of course). This is why archivist and curator of vintage physique photography, Alan Harmon, was extremely surprised when he after speaking with Palatinus, he discovered they not only lived close by, but would embark on a mission to retrieve a lot of his photography from various sources.

A large portion of his work has been recovered, and can be seen on the walls of Space Station 65. From the risqué to the explicit, it is the demure that seem to hide questions about sexuality, arousal, erotica and, well, art.

This made me think of the homoerotically charged imagery of Ambercrombie & Fitch, and the Men’s Health magazines that use simular poses and eventually claim to serve the same purpose: admire the male physique. The classic cover shot with a man looking down at his toned torso with a smile on his face is tinted with a hint of eroticism that can be found in that early male physique photography.

The camera might be digital now, but the light still captures the same questions, the same social mysteries, the same fine lines that make the edges of the pixels.

‘click’

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

Nov7

Other People’s Lives in Almost Every Picture: Erik Kessel’s Found Art

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Two women walk together, hand in hand, down the street. They are twin sisters, the only tell-tale sign their identical clothes. They look quite different, but there is something behind their features that unites them. In the blink of an eye, one of the sisters disappears, never to be seen again, leaving her sibling alone in the photo. Who is taking this picture? Who was taking these pictures all along?

I am at home, on the sofa, hearing the rain pound the windows as I take a sip from my apple and ginger tea. I turn the last page of Erik Kessel‘s In almost Every Picture #4 and I take a deep breath in.

I went to his presentation a couple of weeks ago in the KK Outlet, where he talked about his found art books, pictures of other people’s lives taking over each page. The books are transformed into slow motion flip books, telling a story from beginning to end with a clarity that is heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time. In these terms, Kessel is a storyteller that stands silently in front of you, putting in books pictures that transform them into more than just picture books; it’s not images-it’s lives.

His books have twists of life that are stranger than fiction: the unknown woman that documented time in automated photo booths (Book #6); the restaurant that would take a picture of you bottle-feeding a live pig before you had your dinner (Book #10); the husband that took pictures of his wife fully clothed immersed in water (Book #11); the pet with the mysteriously flat head and the objects it could balance on it (Book #8); the woman that got further away as time and love faded; and finally, the deers that took pictures of themselves (Book #3).

Possibly my favourite ones are books #9, #7 and #2: in #2, we meet the disabled woman that saw the world through a car window and the man who took her pictures; in #9, we see the endless, and progressively more persistent attempts of a family to photograph their tar-black dog; however a truly interesting life journey can be seen in the seventh book, where Ria van Dijk‘s life is documented as every time she hits the bull’s eye in a funfair where a picture is taken. To think that the moment she pulls the trigger of a gun she also clicks the shutter of the camera, her action leading to a string of reactions that captures this moment forever, is truly extraordinary. People around her change; she changes; technology changes; even the capturing method turns from pure analogue to Polaroid, to more modern methods. Yet still, there is this constant presence. This persistence. The person she is as everything around her changes.

Erik Kessel was telling us how he found his found art in boxes in flea markets, and how each stall might hide a different life story. I asked him if someone was to find a box belonging to him in the future, what would that book look like. He thought for a moment, and then said ‘my children; I always take pictures of my children. When they were young, and fell, or had a bloody nose, I would grab my camera and shoot them -and then go for the plaster afterwards’. At that moment, I realised what appealed to me I his work and choices: the observational view of life, the one that is not distinguishing between a beautiful or bad picture, but the one that looks at the story in front of the lens.

I also wondered about the future of found photography now that analogue is under threat. Will Flickr and Instagram be the flea markets of the future? Are they the flea markets of today? Are they the sources of peeks of other people’s lives, or are they a storytelling tool? Sharing, encountering, observing the familiar, the other.

observing other people’s lives, their thoughts, their emotions, their characters, their truth, their lies, their upbringing, their nature, their nurture, their memories, their perception, their decisions, their heartbreak, their joy, their instincts, their morals, their moments, these moments that belong to them and only them and the world that surrounds them and made them who they are, they made it what it is. Look in the picture. You will see it there.

Love,

G

Nov1

Within Spice Tolerance Levels: Why I like Pho

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I think my palate is the definition of a paradox: my tolerance to spicy food is minimal; with just a bite of anything spicy, my eyes well up, blinking repeatedly as they widen; my breath speeds up, every exhale coming out with a fiery hotness, every inhale begging for the cool air to rush in.

But still, I always find myself ordering the item with the three red chillies sign next to it. I always scan the menu for the spicy options, a momentary amnesia blocking the tears, sweat and sharp inhales that will go with my order. And then my dish comes.

So I think that might explain why three pairs of eyes are searching my face for all of the above signs. I am sitting in front of a big soup bowl, wearing a bib, and even after a big mouthful of my Bun Tom Hue (hot and spicy juicy tiger prawn soup), my eyes are still dry, my breathing normal, my lips forming a smile.

You see, I am inside Pho, one of my favorite Vietnamese restaurants in London. For some reason, they seem to get it perfect every time. Spicy but not painfully so; hot but not scorching; the tastes are not overpowering; they compliment and complete each other, allowing all the different layers to come through in every bite.

What adds to the food is the people in Pho. The team Leader is a combination of a style icon and a service guru, always around to give you the best advice on what and how to eat (you will be surprised how necessary a bib is sometimes).

If you go there, you need to try Goi Cuon Tom (fresh summer rolls with prawns and fresh herbs), Rau Muong Xao Lai (stir fried morning glory with garlic), and Pho Tai Lan (Hanoi style soup with flash fried steak and garlic).

Where was I? Oh, yes; spoon in one hand, chopsticks in the other; back to my tear-free Bun Tom Hue!

Love,

G

Oct28

Here: Unilever Series and Tino Sehgal’s human cloud in Tate Modern

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I am talking to a stranger; she tells me about the cities she nested in, the different houses she stayed in, different people she lived with. She asks me ‘where do I belong?’. Here.

Moments before, I was watching a group of people walking backwards towards the exit. They stopped, started chanting, and the lights on the ceiling followed their rhythm. Then the started running in circles, trying to find an invisible end goal. Here.

I took my coat off, put in on the floor and sat down for a second. I looked at them, I looked at how people reacted to them. The group is wearing normal clothes, and apart from one common characteristic, their worn-out trainers, they could not easily be singled out as part of the collective. You see, I am standing in the middle of the Turbine Hall in Tate Modern, observing Tino Sehgal‘s Unilever Series commission.

Unlike Tacita Dean’s analogue marvel, this piece is the first live work to take over the space, with a human cloud of participants whose movements, sounds, and conversations are the choreographed building blocks of the overall piece.

The work is constructed by the physical and vocal energy of the participants and visitors, and the invisible moments that bind them. The public is fearful, delighted, inquisitive, eager to participate, willing to create obstacles, move together, move away, stand still.
It is interesting to see their reactions, their distanced curiosity, the glances they throw at the group, making sure they don’t get caught looking.

However, it is also interesting to explore the feeling of absolute calmness when you give in to the whole process, when you stop resisting, and sit down, and watch; when you don’t flinch once someone comes to talk to you; once you don’t deal with the experience as a novelty act, but as just an experience that does not have to be defined.

Life does not have to be defined. Some times, it is enough to sit; not to participate, not to shun away. Just sit, and be. Here.

Love,

G

Oct27

The Magnificent Something in Time Out Magazine

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I press my nose on the bus window as I am struggling to see the entrance of the tube; I am trying to spot someone in a red uniform, or to see a red flag with Time Out on it; nothing.
I stick it out and don’t get off in this tube station, and as we are approaching London Bridge, I see the stand at the corner. I press the stop button in a woodpecker mode, and I burst out of the doors and into the street. The stand is empty.
‘Sorry mate‘, the man tells me, and points to the 5 massive empty sacks; ‘all gone‘. My lips part, but no sound comes out.

You see, four days before, I received an email from Time Out, saying that they would like to print my 5 favourite spots in the magazine; and you might think that this was the moment that I played it cool, and distanced, and totally blasé. Well, no, of course I didn’t!

I had been reading Time Out since I first came to London. I would always bite the lid off my red pen, and circle all the exhibitions I wanted to go to, all the events I wanted to attend, all the movies I wanted to see. Yes, in the end I would not do half of my over-ambitious itinerary, but the pages held something much more than just listings: they showed London in all its diverse, rich, real, and magic aspects.

So, when they asked, I could not say yes fast enough; and here I was, looking at the vendor’s worried eyes as I stared at him with disbelief. ‘But…-’ I said, and well, there was not anywhere else this discussion could go.

I hurriedly thanked him for his time, and turned around. I thought to myself that I did not have to have a copy of it; it was there. It was in print. In Time Out. A smile started creeping in the corners of my lips, and I started walking towards Borough.

‘Umm, sorry, I just overheard you -there are a lot of copies still in Monument station, I just passed from there’, a lady told me in a hurry that just about allowed me to squeeze a ‘thank you’ before she was gone.

A power-walk later, and I reached Monument. The Time Out people were packing up, and a small flood of disappointment came back. I approached, asked them with a glimmer of hope, and as I was expecting them to repeat the ‘sorry mate’ routine, they reached for the last bag and take out a couple of copies.

After thanking them (repeatedly), I made my way back to Borough. I got a warm cinnamon roll and a hot cup of coffee, and I sat down in front of a bright pink table. With a huge grin, I started reading it; I did not jump to my piece. I would give this issue the same attention as every Time Out issue I had read.

Sure enough, I reached the page. I run my fingers over the column, and smiled like seeing an old friend. Seeing the blog in print meant so much to me in that moment, that I have to admit that for a second I welled up; but as I said, just for a second, that passed the moment a quick burst of giggles set in.

I sat there, and read and re-read it. It felt great.

Now, where is my red pen?

Love,

G

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Oct25

RetroARTive: a White Hole by Sarah Lucas with Rohan Wealleans

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It seems that I am always a step behind Sarah Lucas. It’s the wet footprints on the wooden floor that let me know that someone was in the house, barefoot, wondering around -then the footsteps end not on in front of a door or a window, but on a brick wall; she either passed through it, or just disappeared into thin air.

I always catch her work at the Situation gallery at the transition stage between old and new. I walk around the room as the new plans are drafted, the new work is coming in, the old work standing still before being moved out of sight, out of display. The air smells of change, of anticipation, of something that is not exhausted yet has to be revived.
The last time I went, I saw her collaboration with Rohan Wealleans. The space was very different from Rose Bush. The artist’s viewpoint of the same subject was very different as well. Lucas hints- Wealleans shows.
The wallpaper was different, as a layer of Wealleans’s pictures covered Lucas’s previous images with vaginas encrusted with patellidae; indeed, the whole room was adorned with hanging patellidae, giving it a truly beautiful, if a bit unsettling, underwater feeling. The references to genitalia, femininity, nature and the sea world were done by joining a social with an aesthetic commentary, making the crude beautiful, in a way that walked the line without stepping on either sides.

I am now outside of the gallery, looking at front door, wondering what is waiting for me inside. Time to follow the wet footsteps.

Love,

G

Oct24

I’ll Be Your Sister: Sculpting Contradictions by Thomas Houseago at Hauser and Wirth

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Taking things out of proportion; magnifying them; exaggerating; why are you focusing so much on this? Don’t you think you are overreacting? Complicating things; simplifying them; it is not that simple; it always was.
It is all a matter of perspective. Experiences seem important to us, because they are most likely our experiences. We obsess because the things that make up our obsessions are things that we are obsessed about.
I sometimes overthink things; I am walking to the bus stop, and I suddenly become aware that I am biting the inside of my bottom lip, I am frowning, my eyes focus on a spot in the horizon that has not formed yet. I am thinking of 50 things at once, and there’s a common connection, a thread running through all of them, hiding under them, a complex concept in a simplified setting.

As I am standing in front of Thomas Houseago’s work at Hauser and Wirth, I can not help but draw all these paralells. You see, Houseago is a sculptor of contradiction. With an elaborate artistic language, his pieces are mysterious yet brutally straightforward. The surfaces have a seemingly unfinished surface that is done in a sophisticated manner.

His monumental figures, relief wall panels and abstract, columnar lamps are scattered around the two gallery spaces, creating a feeling of being in a different world altogether. It is all about perspective.

His works have equal parts of a menacing and a welcoming nature, a type of eerie and ethereal glow that reminded me of a moment in Prometheus, that split second where the world hang at a balance between the Creator and David.

Houseago doesn’t hide what others would regard imperfections; instead, he exposes the structural components. The artist’s movements remain as handprints, trails on the sculpture’s surface, on the giant’s muscles, on the person’s life.

Houseago’s panels look unrefined and fractured to the point of deconstruction, and this is where their beauty lies. The unrefined; the fractured; the importance of the gigantic structure because of the perspective, the exaggeration of what looks simple but is not.

And like Houseago, we are all sculptors of contradictions; sculptors of perspective, sculpting the everyday with what we are given. Events are your material, the day is your sculpture.

Love,

G