Tag Archives: Facebook

Aug8

Follow your heart or do what is right?

Posted on August 8, 2012 by the magnificent something

I usually write my posts in cafés, on my ipad, with coffee in a paper cup and a cheeky slice of cheesecake on the side. But not this one; this one is different.

I am at home, listening to a Joyful Noise by Gossip, drinking a cup of lukewarm liquorice tea out of a chipped pale yellow mug. I have my laptop on my lap, my feet dangling from my window, stepping on a blue and pink sky.

I got some DMs on Twitter and a message on Facebook about my ‘cryptic’ last few posts. What happened in Greece? What did I mean in Red and Gray? Is everything ok?

So here I am, with all the answers. Today has been a challenging day, and I feel like sharing.

Earlier this month, I had to deal with two deaths in my family. Irvin Yalom said that the thought of death is an ‘awakening moment’, as life’s alarm clock. Realizing that we are mortal wakes us up; and losing two people in the space of 2 weeks is a rather loud wake up call.

I don’t know how I cope with the thought of death. My grandmother died 4 years ago, and it is something I don’t think I have processed completely. I don’t remember why i didn’t go to her funeral; distance, coursework, denial. One day I was walking, and I saw someone that looked like her; I turned the corner, buried my face in my hands and cried for 20 minutes. I am dreading the moment I get a call about my other grandmother. I think I dread the thought of death, its consequences to others, the finality of it, the normality of it.

I had to go to Greece for the funerals, hence the being Greek post. I cried in both funerals. On the plane home, I was reading gossip magazines and eating Maltesers. Life seems so surreal sometimes.

So, I came back to London. I swapped my T-shirt and flipflops for a coat and an umbrella, walked down streets taking pictures of corner shops and having icecream in the rain.

I am working part time, and doing a part time internship in a magazine as well. So, in one of my internship days, I was preparing a file, when I heard a ringing sound. An alarm bell that I had been ignoring for some time. An awakening moment that stayed dormant as I kept pressing the snooze button. So, I decided to listen to the sound, wake up, open my eyes and see what is out there. What do I want to be spending my time on? And I knew.

Through a truly lovely person, I found an opportunity in one of my favorite magazines as an intern. In addition to that, I found some freelance work to an amazing up-and-coming fashion brand. Cue anxiety. This was becoming real. Do I quit my job to pursue a full time internship and freelance work? Leave what is certain for a possibility? Do I dive in or keep floating?

There was a moment in me, where I had to choose: do I follow my heart, or do I do what is right? I spent five days thinking about it. My head felt like a televised political debate: on the left, my carefree do-what-you-like self was urging me to leave as fast as I can, start pursuing my goals at this moment-seize the day! On the right, my suited-and-booted self was looking at me in disbelief, in awe of how immature I was being, leaving a certain job to chase a dream. The television set was running all day, and I found myself going through the motions, smiling mechanically as I was contemplating who would win the elections. What would my choice be? On the fifth day I woke up, and I knew.

I quit. I walked in my part-time, steady job, and I quit. I made a decision, and trust me it was really hard. In the end, I followed my heart, and did what was right; what was right for me.

But quitting suddenly and in an unfortunate time causes ripples, and sometimes this might blur the image underneath. Since then, and for a variety of reasons (mostly personal), these ripples have been intensified, and it has been progressively harder to move on. Today was one of these day. I still have two days left at this job; I feel like I already left, like I am not a part of it anymore- maybe because it stopped being a part of me. And in its place something else, excitement mixed with another feeling -fear?

I have this internal fear of moving on. What will happen if I don’t get a permanent job after the three month internship? What will happen if I suck at it? What will happen if the freelance work stops? What happens when you are within touching distance of your dream and it feels too good to be true?

I am taking a chance. I am diving head first; and it feels right. I need to do it, because I can not keep wondering, asking myself when my dreams will take form. Dreams don’t come true by themselves, you have to work hard, pursue and persevere.

And that I will.

It is now dark, and my tea is cold. I hop into the living room, and turn up the volume on my iPod dock. Beth Ditto says she is in The Right Direction; and so am I.

Thank you for being a part of my journey,

Jul10

RetroARTive: Edward Burtynsky’s ‘Oil’ at the Photographers’ Gallery

Posted on July 10, 2012 by the magnificent something

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Photography fascinates me. From Susan Sontag’s theoretical debates of reconstructing vs reproducing reality through a lens, to the trivial worries of what is the best angle or most flattering light for a Facebook profile picture; photography has always taken centre stage in my life.

I don’t have a lot of pictures from my childhood. Most of them were lost through moving, or lending them to others. Maybe this is the reason why I always treasured pictures. When I was younger, I wanted to capture an event; now, I aim to capture moments.

It seems that photography creates. It creates versions of the world, little slices of the everyday, big chunks of societal issues. It can be a pathway to self-awareness and understanding. It can be the mirror for the places and angles you can not reach, and the way to realise that life comes in different dimensions. It is like when you show a young child a picture of them; from the original disbelief, and the initial judgement (do they like who they see), to the conditioning (pose this way) and the external validation it comes with it (you look so sweet in this picture).

The same can be said for other types of portraits. Have you even seen a picture of your city and thought, wow, this looks great. They must have photoshopped it to death! Well, what if they haven’t? What if they are just seeing it through different eyes, unfamiliar eyes, eyes that see things through different filters?

So now, on the last day of their inaugural exhibition, I am standing outside of the newly renovated Photographer’s Gallery in London, and I think I am looking at it through rose tinted glasses. The last time I stood out of the gallery was a week before its planned closure. I remember feeling sad; you don’t really want to say goodbye, even though you know it’s temporary. However, I am working quite close to it, so for the past year I have been walking up and down, straight past it, not giving too much attention to all the building work, white cardboards and yellow hats. But now the building is impossible to miss; it demands attention. With 5 new floors, a brand new reception and a cafe visible from the ground floor entrance, it looks tremendously interesting and casually inviting.
I made my way through the reception and jumped in the closing lift, straight up to the 5th floor. When the doors opened, I had to take a deep breath; the gallery is completely transformed. From the floor and the aesthetic, to the curation and feeling of the space. I loved it instantly. I walked out of the lift, and into Oil, the main exhibition by Edward Burtynsky.

Burtynsky’s work is heart-stirring, portraying vast landscapes that have been shaped, one way or another, by oil. He captures the empty lands, placing it next to the suburban cities that were created and defined by oil use. As a side comment, he looks at the impending death of the oil use, as the equation between cost and availability seems to be increasingly impossible to solve.

The exhibition is divided into three categories: Extraction and Refinement; Transporation and Motor Culture; and the End of Oil. What is really striking about all three categories is the truly magnificent clarity of the work, details appearing in a crisp and vivid way. The pictures capture a loneliness that reminded me of Edgar Martin’s work, and rings so many bells that by the end, it resembles a symphony.

It is truly shocking to see the human dependence on oil, a finite source. It is shocking to see the consequences, not through the eyes of a documentarist, or the figures of a statistician, but through the lens of a photographer.

Shuddering, I made my way to the 2nd floor Wolfson Gallery, where the Raqs Media Collective(Jeebesh Bagchi, Monica Narula and Shuddhabrata Sengupta) is exhibits two works: the first, is a silent looped video projection of An Afternoon Unregistered in the Richter Scale, an archival photograph of surveyors mapping stars in Calcutta in 1911, that is transforming in front of the viewer’s eyes by small, subtle alterations. Imagining that the surveyors are hard at work, the small, unnoticeable changes might make them hesitate, or even move their pencil to cause an imperceptible deviation, thus creating a slightly different, and as such, new constellation.
The second piece, titled 36 Planes of Emotions, is a structure of Perspex book-like objects that are bearing the titles of imaginary emotional states, examining the boundaries of language, literature and the meaning attached to words as carriers of emotion.

I go down the stairs and find myself back on the ground floor. I stand in front of The Wall, a part of the new digital project that aims to explore the way that technology is transforming our experience and understanding of photography. The Wall will aim to serve as a platform, and it will host commissioned work, guest curated projects and collaborations involving the public. It currently explores a digital and Internet staple, with Born on 1987: The Animated GIF. The GIF was introduced 25 years ago, and the Photographer’s Gallery asked a variety of photographers, writers and practitioners to create a GIF for the space; the result is a diverse range of short clips that demonstrate how photography can be like a brush and paint; the initial material that will make up the final piece, the result almost invariably different for each artist.

A floor down, and I am in the Photographer’s Gallery store. And gasp. A wall of cameras, from Lomography classics to generic Holgas, and from Stereoscopic pinholes to digital miniatures; it has it all. The higher range ones, along with the vintage polaroids are kept in a cabinet, and fear not, the Gallery stocks film, and plenty of it (including The Impossible Project).

Of course, after a while I drifted to the books and magazine section, and 15 minutes later and £70 lighter, I made my way out of the shop before making any more purchases.

I was now where I began. The ground floor entrance. The reception. And the cafe. I had really fond memories of the cafe in the old Gallery, and feeling quite tired, peckish, and immensely impatient to start reading my newly acquired books, I decided to take a sit. I was relieved to see that they are still making their amazing muffins, and even more relieved to see that even a year later, they tasted as good as I remembered.

Muffin in hand, book on the table, and a decidedly big sigh. It feels like welcoming an old friend back home. Welcome back Photographer’s Gallery; you were missed.

Love,

Apr23

Name Day

Posted on April 23, 2012 by the magnificent something

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When I get up in the morning, I usually turn the TV on, fill the kettle up, and look out of the kitchen window. Invariably, One Tree Hill will be on, and I will allow myself to be sucked in the watery eyes of the characters, with the relief of living someone else’s drama instead of your own. In yesterday’s episode, one of the main characters forgot their own birthday, and everyone around them seemed to have forgotten too. I was sipping on my hot water with lemon, wondering how one could forget such an important day, asking myself how could screenwriters get paid to get away with such far-fetched daily facts.
Today I woke up from a call on my phone, turning around, letting it go to voicemail. Then I received a text. Then another. I opened my eyes, with a frown forming between my brows, wondering what happened so early in the morning. I stood up, walked to the dresser where I charge my phone and looked at the screen. ‘Happy Name Dayyyyy!!‘ it flashed for a second, and then went black. I had forgotten my own name day.
Now, let me explain what a name day is. In Greece, most names correspond to a Saint’s name. In the months, certain Saints have days of celebration, and if a town or village has this Saint as a patron, then there is a big celebration there; accordingly, if you are named after this Saint, it is your celebration as well. You have to treat people with sweets, and in return they give you cards, gifts, and even throw you a party. It’s like a second birthday. And I forgot mine.
For some reason I felt a bit dizzy. I put the phone down, backtracked, and went back to bed. I looked at the ceiling for a couple of minutes, then got up, turned the TV on, filled the kettle and looked out of the kitchen window. In today’s episode, a character found out she got pregnant. I wondered if I needed to pop by Tesco, and get a Clear Blue pregnancy test. Obviously, things are never too far fetched.
My phone rang twice that hour. I first spoke to my dad. He gave me his and my family’s wishes, chatted about everyday things, plans for meeting up, arranging to come by. I have not seen him for about a year, not since I last went to Greece. There was something very soothing and very sad in his voice. I found myself clutching my chest when we spoke, and I realised how much I miss him. I then talked to my mum; she gave me her wishes, made our classic jokes, asked me if I am eating well, if my brother called yet, and if I am happy. She then asked me if I remembered the times that we would make a desert for my name day. And I did. And it brought memories of our old house, and the archaic mixer, and the two teaspoons of brandy that magically turned into half the bottle, and the giggling and the smells, and the floor tiles, and the plastic plates, and the smiles, and the morning after where I would sneak to the fridge and grab a fork and eat the rest of it before she got up, when she was actually sitting in her room waiting for me to finish. And all the memories pushed the back of my eyes with tears, and I had to come to the here and now, and control my voice, and not show how much I missed her.
When we hang up, I sat on the sofa. My tea was lukewarm, and I tried to understand why it bothered me so much that I forgot. The past few weeks have been very hectic; they are very close to a merry-go-round, where you spin and spin and spin and spin, but essentially you remain in the same place, just with weak feet and blurry vision. April seemed to be a month of decisions, leaps of faith, amends, and new beginnings.
I guess the reason it bothered me so much was my fear that I am letting go of important parts of my identity; of forgetting my roots. I always had my Greek friends reminding me of any upcoming name days, birthdays, celebrations. I would see it in the news, read it in the papers, hear it in the street. I am now living in London for the last 5 years, and it has played such a big part in shaping me into the person I am. I feel at home, in ways I never did, and never could, in Athens. I consider London my home now, and I am making a life and a living here. But I would not like to lose the parts of the Greek identity I have come to love. And I think that forgetting my name day made me fear that this is happening. I worried that I allowed all the April drama to suck me in so much that I became a character in my own One Tree Hill. I realised how important it was to realise it. I understood how important it was to act on it.
I got up, wore my running shoes and rushed outside. It was pouring with rain, and minutes later I was sprinting down the street. My chest was tightening, and I found myself pushing harder, running faster, my shins stinging, the rain kissing my face, my hands moving faster, until my whole body got so tense that it had no option but to relax. An hour later, I was in the shower, the hot water washing away all the stiffness that was there 60 minutes earlier.
I got out in time to answer my phone, and it was my partner with plans for the evening. My email inbox notified me of all the well-wishers on Facebook. I looked outside. Even if I did not remember, others did.
I had some more tea, and indulged in some of my favourite chocolate. I looked out of the window, at the rain, at the people. I am now at Costa, having a lemon and poppyseed muffin, and a Roasted Hazelnut Latte. I am looking out of the window, at the rain, at the people.
Happy name day to me.

Love,

The Magnificent Something

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RetroARTive: Edward Burtynsky’s ‘Oil’ at the Photographers’ Gallery

Name Day

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