Of course, I would not expect anything less from Hauser & Wirth. Best known for representing over 40 artists and the estates of some powerhouses in the world of art, the H&W galleries are known for taking calculated risks. And I have to say that their latest exhibition with 4 pieces by Ron Mueck is one of them.

In 1997, Ron Mueck‘s Dead Dad caused ripples of shock into the art crowd during Charles Saatchi’s Sensations exhibitions. He presented a miniature version of his dead father’s cadaver, that was both haunting and beautiful at the same time, raising strong emotive reactions from the audiences that came close to it, and the critics that reviewed it. Since then, Mueck went on to exhibit his work in many cities and countries, skipping London every single time; until now.

So, for the first time in over a decade, Mueck’s hyperrealist creations are taking central spot in the capital, inside the Savile Row Gallery rooms.

The exhibition starts with Drift, a small scale sculpture of a modern day middle-aged man that is chilling on a floating mattress, swim suit, glasses and tan on. He is casually extending his arms to his sides, as if he is hoping to touch something, or someone. He is floating alone, and even though his state appears relaxed, he is oozing loneliness.

In the room next door, Still Life is suspended from the ceiling. A man-sized chicken, with bound feet and plucked feathers is hanging upside down. The detail is breathtaking, and even though I knew it was not real, I was reluctant to go really close to it, and surprised it did not smell of dead poultry.

Opposite to it I found my favourite piece of the exhibition. In Woman with Sticks, Mueck explores some of my favourite themes in art and literature: folklore, femininity, beauty, fairytales and gender. A middle-aged naked woman is wielding under the weight of an impossibly large bundle of sticks. The work touches on the expectations and near unrealistic tasks that come along the way for women in legends and real life. What is interesting though is that even though other artists that have explored the subject have often used the typical feminine archetype of the female heroine, Mueck deviates from the norm of beauty as power, and chooses to portray his subject with a realistic attitude. Tired, imperfect skin, overweight, and naked, the sticks digging into her naked flesh as she is trying to hold them together, the goal ending up hurting her. Doing, instead of thinking. It is impossible to look at the piece without feeling something for the woman, without stirring an emotion from within; pity, disgust, aversion, sympathy.

The final piece is Youth, a depiction of a young black boy lifting his blood-stained shirt to inspect a cut on his torso. The piece had been compared to Christian depictions of St Thomas inspecting the wounds of Christ to ensure he was indeed hurt. Mueck uses the same vehicle to portray the invincible self-view of youth, to demonstrate that death is a concept that evolves with age to include the person that is thinking of it. The boy looks puzzled, as if it is registering the wound, but is not registering it on his body. Is he mortal? Are we mortal?

However, Mueck’s work has sparked the classic art dilemma: is it art or is it craft? Is he an artist, or a puppeteer? is there anything artistic in the mixed media that he presents, or is it just the result of flawless technique.

Is it a piece of art, a piece of work, or a work of art?

Well, I am afraid that for me, there is, and shouldn’t be a clear-cut definition. By claiming that something is not art, one implies a knowledge of what is art, making the concept finite, with neat borders that can not be crossed. Painting by numbers and numbers of paint. Different pieces and different artists touch different emotions in different people. I have been in exhibitions where a person is exclaiming ‘how is this art?’ when her friend next to her was moved to tears.

So, in this case I will not make a decision if this is art or not; that is for you to decide. My personal view is that this is a show that if you have the chance to see, then see it. Pop inside, explore the rooms, and see how the work makes you feel. I found it powerful, and a bit sad; i found Woman with Sticks extremely interesting, and very touching; the exhibition had an underlining commentary, that even though it was obvious in its messages, it delivered them loud and clear. Is this art? Only time will tell.

Love,

G

Famous for its eclectic exhibitions and clever use of space, the Serpentine Gallery is like a small oasis in the middle of Hyde Park. It has a truly rich array of events, a great architecture and education schedule, and a bookshop that is responsible for a sharp decrease in my bank account.

I kept repeating to myself ‘eyes on the prize’, so upon entering, I made my way straight through to the exhibition. Inside, you can not help but feel that you are in a Charlie Kauffman movie; you are stuck inside the mind of an artist, exploring his memories in the corridors, his feelings in the well lit room, his fears in the dark ones. The exhibition, a selection of Hans-Peter Feldmann’s body of work, takes over the main gallery space, and is hosting some of his most famous pieces next to brand new work.

Satirical, often humorous, poignantly dreamy and always humane, his work is an observational masterpiece. He maintains the child-like fascination of presenting the everyday as unique, and the trivial as extraordinary. Feldmann strives to see the world in different ways, from different angles and different eyes; from the picture of a woman waving goodbye, attached to a mechanical device that simulates the movement, to a giant poster of bookcases filled with books that will never be read. His work includes flower pots propped on the wall, two plastic sculptures of fluorescent Greek figures and chiaroscuro portraits of dignified cross-eyed sitters and Victorian ladies with clown noses.

You can find raw beauty in between the humorous exhibits. In Sparrow Play, a little girl is touching the cut out silhouette of someone that was there but is no more, something only she could see at that moment in time, invisible to us, no other trace but the shadow that was left on the black and white pavement. You can find social comments, from the use of photography as a commercial avenue, to the commercialised needs that shape our daily lives. He seems to be testing the boundaries of art, graphic design, concept and creation with every single work he exhibits.

I also loved the way Feldmann seemed to be cataloguing and compartmentalising events, like All the Clothes of a Woman, where he has taken portraits of the clothing found in a woman’s wardrobe; the same with the Contents of a Woman’s Bag. His observational work includes a cluster of pictures of car radios playing good music, a photographic catalogue of a pound of strawberries, and a group of pictures of lips. These collections of moments have a rather subtle but profound effect, creating the illusion of a familiar viewing, when you have never seen or experienced what is depicted.

There is however a show stopping moment; entering the dark world of Shadow Play, the first thing you see is a long table, with a collection of strange everyday items arranged on the table. However, it is not the items themselves that are strange; it is the way they are placed, how they are out of place, out of context, creating a new context, creating a different reality. The objects are moving, aided by a number of electrical devices, and lit by lamps that are housed in metal tins. And then your eye follows the light through the objects to the wall. And you can not help but gasp. On the wall, a new scene is created, a choreography of shadows shows a world that is not there, but is there nonetheless. It is beautiful. You sit down, and you stare at it, and you feel that you are witnessing a moment of pure beauty, a moment that reminds you how simple things, light and shadow, can mix and make magic.
On the way out, I visit the shop, and buy the exhibition catalogue. With a lighter heart and bank account, I step out, in the rain, and look to my left; then to my right. I am not sure which way I am supposed to go; but you know what? I feel like exploring.

Love,

G

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

Getting in the Hayward Gallery definitely looks harder than it really is. Littered with construction work and greeted with a queue that would make anyone gasp, it seems a bit of hard work. Trust me, it is worth it. And I should know, I was in a really foul mood this morning. I spent the day watching reruns of Scrubs, listening to Velvet Underground and drinking apple and ginger tea next to the window, watching the weather being as miserable as I was. I reached for the latest copy of Time Out, and saw that this is the last week for the Deller/ Shringley exhibition. Crap. I wanted to see this for ages. Well, I still had some time, maybe I could do it Thursday, before work, or- No; no; no. I would do it now. After changing music (Yeah Yeah Yeahs) and gulping down my tea, I had a shower, stood in front of my closet for a good 3 minutes, and then I was off.
I had a plan. I would pop in, wonder around the exhibitions for 30 minutes, then their amazing gallery shop for another 30 minutes, and then take the bus to the British Library for a stale scone and a guilty pleasure read. But, when I was greeted at the corner by a massive queue, I knew that the plans would have to change. I initially did my infamous undecided choreography (3 steps forward, stop, think I better leave, turn, 2 steps forward, stop, think I better stay) long enough that the queue had almost doubled since I came. I decided to join in, brave the rain, and see how it goes. If I am not in by the next 15 minutes, I will just go. However, 5 minutes later, I was inside, had my ticket, and was moving in the gallery space. The gallery assistants are not only lovely and helpful, they are also super fast, effectively cutting down the waiting time to the bare minimum. I thanked them, got the programs, and walked in.

Now, the Hayward Gallery is a really special place for me. It has hosted some of the most inspiring exhibitions I have ever seen, and introduced me to amazing talents and their work. It was there that I first saw the patchworks of Tracey Emin, or stood under a chandelier of knickers by Pippilotti. It is a truly amazing space, and I can not recommend it enough. However, I have to admit that I was unsure if their new exhibitions would hold up to the expectations that the precious ones have created.

Well, they definitely did. I first walked in to the Jeremy Deller exhibition, only to be started for a second. You see, the door actually leads inside a room; more specifically, his room, or a recreation of his room, that held the Open Bedroom exhibition 20 years ago. In a time where artists were holding open studio exhibitions, Deller was living with his parents, and that was the only space he could use. Originally seen by no more than 20 people, the space contains the room and the bathroom, with excerpts from Pensees, his artists book, taped on the four yellow walls, like civilised forms of graffiti, actually originating from graffiti found in the Men’s lavatories of the former British Library. The juxtaposition is so intriguing and thought provoking, that it is impossible not to forget that you are in a gallery space and not in someone’s actual bathroom. It is almost as if you are visiting someone’s house, and at a visit to their WC, you can not help but open their medicine cabinet. The whole exhibit has this kind of voyeristic feeling to it, like exploring the space and mind of someone close to you, without their actual consent.
Passing from the uses of Literacy (an open invitation to Manic Street Preachers fans to reinterpret and demonstrate the band’s contribution to art, and intellectual music), Jerusalem, and the impressively constructed Beyond the White Walls, one can find Valerie’s Snack Bar (where you can pop in for a quick cuppa), the amazing Acid Brass (where a traditional Brass Band plays Acid House) with it’s lateral counterpart History of the World (covering an entire wall with a simple but ingenious chart). You can see Exodus, a truly beautiful and strangely hypnotic 3D film that was the climax of his Turner Prize winning film Memory Bucket; American Travels; My Failures (with a number of unrealised projects); and Many Ways to Hurt you – the Life and Times of Andrian Street (the journey of a young man that dreamt of becoming a professional wrestler instead of following in the mining tradition of his town).
However, the two most powerful exhibits are just a wall away. The Battle of Orgreave – an injury to one is an injury to all covers a room with the still raw history of the miner’s strike and the implications it had on the social landscape. There is a timeline (that is impossible to read without getting goosebumps), videos (police training for riots control), and an hour long film (including a restaging of the event with more that 1000 participants) on the confrontation that took place near the Orgreave coking plant in South Yorkshire, something that he had witnessed through his television screen and marked him as a scene of war, instead of a labour dispute. This lead to The Battle of Orgreave, and his ‘The English Civil War Part II’.
The second exhibit that really touched me was the It Is What It Is. That part of the gallery is turned to a discussion forum, with a burned-out corpse of a bombed car in the middle of the room (dubbed ‘the conversation piece from hell’) that brought death and havoc on the 5th of May, 2007 in Central Baghdad. I can not describe the sadness that you feel by looking at what remained from the car, the violence that is carved on every inch of the lifeless object. The forum centres around members of the public and expert witnesses, people from both sides and people from no side. Regardless of the political position, the room holds such a heavy moment that you feel like the air was drained from it. It is quite powerful, and quite poignant.
Deller’s work creates some very powerful emotions, deep and raw, sometimes painful. So it felt slightly strange walking in the Shringley exhibition. As surprised as I was to enter in Deller’s room, I was equally dumbfounded when I was greeted by a headless ostrich. You see, Shringley endeavours to create equally strong reactions to his work; but of a different kind. He is aiming for ‘laughter, intrigued confusion, and disquiet’; and I can assure you, he is getting all three. His work gives birth to more questions than answers: where did the ostrich’s head go? Who is wearing these giant boots? Who deformed this ladder? And why is there a little stick man locked outside in the roof terrace?
His work seems often surreal and paradoxical, with a door painted on a wall, or a ball full of 5 year’s worth of toe nails, or even a headless drummer banging on his drums even after death (as a headless chicken would). His work is full of cheeky winks to other artists, from the hand that tirelessly turns on and off the Light Switch (a reference to Martin Creed‘s Turner Prize winning Work 227: the Lights Go On and Off); to Sleep (referencing Warhol‘s Sleep, one of my favourite experimental films), with an animation of a man experiencing sleep for 8 minutes, instead of the 8 hours.
Shringley is also brushing on the subject of death in many of his pieces, notably on the Gravestone (with a shopping list on it), or the Jack Russell Terrier that is holding a sign exclaiming its death.
It is truly fascinating to see people’s reactions to the pieces. A girl in front of me had tears strolling down her eyes when she was sitting in front of the (admittedly hilarious) drawings room. A man was laughing in increasing bursts in front of a 30 second animation on a loop, his laughter intensifying every time the loop started again. A group of older visitors were standing in front of the Stick Figures having Sex in the Hood of a Car, smiling knowingly when a group of teenagers was wondering if this was art. Two girls (and 3 guys) jumping when they spotted the Dead Rat in the corner of the room.

Shringley evokes strong emotions, but they are the ones that are usually not associated with art. His work is a cross between conceptual, graphic and humorous, and I can genuinely say that it is simultaneously amusing and thought-provocative on so many levels.

However, the exhibitions finish at the end of this week, so if I were you, I would put my shoes on, turn the screen off, and walk, run, or cycle to the Hayward as fast as I could. If however you can not see it, Hayward Press has printed two catalogs that are sold in their online shop that will provide you with all the wonderful strangeness that falls under the Shringley/ Deller exhibitions.

I am off now. But I will see you later,

Love,

G

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

Love,

G

3 minutes and a bare sofa later, we were bored. We decided to arrange the pillows into a small house. We used them as walls, and went inside, closing the entrance with the last pillow. There, in the dark, we stood still for a second that lasted hours, laughed with secrets that were shielded from the outside world and believed that life could continue hidden inside these fabric walls forever. We achieved the contentment of living a lifetime in a single moment, of being able to forget that life exists outside the confines of a structure, that times moves on even if you don’t.

That was the feeling I had when I stepped into the Little Joe Clubhouse. Hosted in the Rich Mix (one of the most creative social enterprises in East London) café gallery, the clubhouse was a construct to behold: a specially commissioned structural installation, it managed to serve as hideout and a visual playground at the same time, the structure holding the outside world at distance, evoking a feeling of safety; of peace.

The creators of Little Joe, the most interesting Queer & Film culture magazine, worked day and night to create an absolutely amazing program of rare films that were shown as a part of Fringe!, East London‘s Alternative Film Festival. The crowd could just sit back and enjoy the film, engage in discussions with familiar strangers, or just sit still and feel the creativity buzzing through the space and the people.

The clubhouse was taking most of the space, with a really interesting library on the side, covering all things queer, and a fantastic mini shop (ranging from previous issues and the iconic Little Joe badges, to the special limited edition publication, with contributions from prominent artists, filmmakers and writers) making it the central point of the Fringe! Film Festival.

What I found really striking is the you blink and you miss it quality of this experience; the films are not commercially available, ranging from digitised versions of underground masterpieces to 16mm projections of rare gems. It was not only the structure that was fleeting; it was also the feeling it produced, the ephemeral pleasure that hides a pang of sadness in the knowledge that it is finite. Thankfully, Little Joe is full of events, with one of the best Film Clubs in town, as well as a selection of their back issues in their online store; Rich Mix has a variety of new events; and we will have to wait for next year’s Fringe! for more exciting films.

As far as my first ‘clubhouse’ experience, by the time that his parents came back in the room, all the pillows were back on the couch, and we were on the floor laughing, kicking the air, tears coming out. I can not remember what was so funny; just that we were laughing. I do not talk to him anymore.

Love,

G

I am in the small park next to the War Museum, in the middle of a crowd that is out to soak up the London sun. I am listening to Jamie Woon, the sound blending with the words of couples nearby. The day smells like sunscreen and beer, and I find myself lying down on my jacket, taking my sunglasses off and resting my head on my bag; I have everything I need next me: a copy of the Guardian; a Magner’s pear cider, and The Question Book.

I have been meaning to start the question book all week. I sharpened my pencil, tested my pen, opened and closed the book, leafed through the pages and read random questions, keeping it short enough so that I won’t start thinking of the answers.

You see, I am not the kind of person that can claim to truly know himself (and if you point a person that can claim that for themselves, I will be very sceptical). If you ask me about my work, I will be able to tell you the most efficient ways to do it, the latest trends, the best results and how to get them. If you ask me about modern culture, art or societal issues, I will hold an interesting conversation, and get immersed in our talk. But ask me my top 5 favourite films, and you will see me getting immersed in deep thinking, a look of wondering washing down my face.

I am a listener; people seem to feel comfortable enough to relay information about themselves, and seem interested in hearing what how I think their issues could be resolved. However, I recently realised that I can talk to a colleague for 30 minutes, and leave knowing their life history, but with them knowing nothing. I am also a worrier; I spend my bus journeys biting my bottom lip, thinking of discussions, job hunts, daydreaming about projects, and checking things off my mental to-do lists. Like so many of my friends, I too find myself sometime stopping on my tracks, frown for a second and wonder if I turned the heating off, because as I was doing it, I was thinking of something else, my mind registering the worries instead of the physical action.

The Question Book by Mikael Krogerus and Roman Tschappeler though brings the focus back to you; and in my case, me. With questions like what’s always on your to do list, and why? or what is the best decision you have made? it sweeps the carpet off your feet, replacing it with polished wooden floors, and you find yourself centre stage, with a big spotlight pointed at you. You are the centre of attention.

Maybe this is the reason I delayed opening that first page. Because even though I am thinking of my issues and problems, sometimes I forget to think of myself as a person, instead of a carrier of thoughts.

So, maybe it is this realisation or maybe it is the Bulmer’s, but as I feel the sun on my face, I open my eyes, reach for my bag behind my head and grab the book and a pencil. I bring them in front of me, blocking the sun momentarily as my eyes adjust, and I see my chest rising. I let the breath out, rest the pencil in-between my lips, and open the book.

What makes you happy right now? Taking a step forward.

Love,

G

You see, I first read about Madonna‘s new album in the last issue of Attitude, where Matthew Todd did a song-by-song review piece. It seemed promising. I then read the pieces that Mincey Strider wrote with an amazing level of dedication, from the playlist and the changes it endured, to the video release of Girl Gone Wild, Madonna’s second single.

Directed by fashion geniuses Mert Alas and Marcus Piggott, the B&W video sees Madonna nodding to her big gay following, and feature super models Sean O’pry, Jon Kortajarena, Simon Nessman, and Rob Evans, along with Kazaky, the gender-bending Ukranian group, that gives a masterclass on how to work a stiletto heel (when I first saw the video, their single LOVE came in mind). The video is sexy, raunchy, and genuinely breathtaking. Scenes where the two male models share a bite from one apple, or Sean O’pry posing on his own, could be coming straight out of a fashion shoot.

I will not debate the Lady Gaga similarity with Alejandro, or stealing, copying, and being inspired from styles. There is no parthenogenesis; art evolves, develops and mutates, and if the spectator is trying to determine its origins, he is missing the point.

I am personally bothered from the fact that the clip was banned from YouTube as it contains ‘nudity and dramatised sexual or implied sexual conduct’. I fully understand how it is important to shield minors from scenes of heavy sexual nature, but I fail to understand why it is only important on gay imagery.

There are tons of clips with semi naked girls washing cars, licking lolly pops, wearing pieces of string that double as swimwear, and grind against sleaze balls that have big chains of misspelled adjectives. Why don’t we enforce the ban there?

I recently stumbled upon another banned video. When I logged in and watched it, it was centred around two guys kissing. Nothing more. Just kissing. And it was flagged. I then saw about ten clips of guys making fun of homosexuality, from pretending to have sex with each other (so not gay), to actively talking to the camera about why gay people will burn in hell. I did not have to log in to see these videos. They were not deemed offensive.

All I am saying is that there might be a heteronormative, if not slightly homonegative aspect of YouTube. And yes, right now Girl Gone Wild is bringing it in the forefront; it is said that the main issue is Madonna grinding and gyrating, but how is this different from any of her other clips?

The couple next to me is now talking about The Voice, and the man in the suit has switched to the Financial Times Website. People change. Mediums change. Attitudes change. The question is when.

Love,

G

I am in the Tate Modern Cafe, my frown momentarily broken by a polite smile to the cashier. I am taking my latte and make my way across the room, passing mothers with children and fathers with Blackberries, and find an empty seat next to a couple that will not utter a word to each other for the next thirty minutes.

From all the sights I saw today, the best was not on display. Five men were taking down the giant plinth that Film was projected on. They were standing on a platform, elevated by a crane, the metal rising in braids towards the ceiling. They were deconstructing the giant screen piece by piece, a cheer of excitement filling the Turbine Hall every time one was safely touching the floor. The crowd was clapping. I felt a pang of sadness.

Someone compared the Film project to the monolith in the last scene of 2001: A Space Odyssey, and watching it being deconstructed made me think of that link; of an end; of a memory; of the end of memory.

Art is eternal; film is temporary. Light burning it every time it shines through it, it’s projection the ultimate reason and end. Digital form exists or doesn’t; film deteriorates slowly, having a life of its own, a journey from beginning to end. It is not meant to live forever, but to illuminate a life.

Film does not only capture. It creates. It is not a depiction of reality, but a construction of it. I remember a picture I took in Sweden, when on our way to our room, we passed from an open door. I stopped; craned my head to look in. The residents had left, and it was now being cleaned for the next ones. I quickly sneaked my camera out and took a picture, without having a clue how it will come out. When I developed the film back in London, the print looked as if it belonged in someone else’s roll, in someone else’s life.

Sheets on a hotel, laying still, stuck in the moment they were wrestled off the person’s body, stuck in the second after the friction caused them to form swirls of fabric. There is a bleached blood stain, the edges forming a sun of human cells. A life spent on beds, seats, looking up at the ceiling, outside the window, remembering, constructing, recreating, reproducing, looking for memory where there is none.

You walk up the stairs and you fail to notice the beauty around you, because you are so engrossed in what happened today in the office, at work, at the coffee break, at lunch, on TV, on the screen, everything locked inside your head, invisible verses of a poem that you keep reciting, carved in your memory, already forgotten. The words change but it is always the same.

Film is like memory; events are not reproduced; they are reconstructed. The small speckles of light and dust that travel in front of it become a part of the outcome.

The couple next to me left, and a family with two small girls rushed to take the table. The smallest one sat down in a huff, with a handful of crayons from the Tate shop, and started drawing on her place mat. She drew a purple sun and a tree with green apples. And just like that, the sun rose inside the café, and its rays were purple.

Love,

G