Tag Archives: moment

Try Again Later

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You know when you try, and try, and then try some more? When your head is so used to tension headaches that a stress-free moment feels so unusual? When the last thought that crosses your mind before you sleep is the thought that starts your morning, even before you are awake?
That is what happened in the last two weeks; a project completely overtook my everyday; my train of thoughts only carried this specific task, and when in the end all of this preparation amounted to nothing, I just stood there, mouth half open, eyes wide open, a sense of disbelief and sadness flooding in.
Not necessarily because it did not happen; but because all this effort was in vain. Having another project coming up meant having to pick myself up, and with a stiff upper lip, keep performing.
But the weekend came, and you know what? I allowed myself to get sad; I embraced the whole sinking sensation that comes with being disappointed; I did not aim to be productive: I slept for 15 hours from Friday to Saturday, woke up,had a lazy day in, drinking lukewarm chocolate milk and dunking iced buns in it, watching re-runs of the Big Bang Theory and feeling the weight of the duvet pinning me on the sofa. By the early afternoon, the soles of my feet felt restless.
You see, I really think that when moments come where things do not get your way even though you tried really hard, moments that bring disappointment, leave you disheartened, times that truly, really, totally and utterly suck, it is crucial to stay in the moment, acknowledge how deflating it is, and only after this moment is over, move on.
There are moments that are lost on the everyday, both positive and negative, that are so small yet so monumental in their own little way that it is worth to take some time to see how they made you a better person, wiser, stronger, or well, more grounded.
After the second episode of Scrubs, I got up, in the shower, out of the door, and into the cold, the sunshine, the world that holds so much beauty and so much pain, and so many more moments to be lived, and noticed, and remembered.

Deep breath in; first step; the rest will follow.

Love,

G

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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

Meeting Six Robots Named Paul

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A mechanical eye is looking at me; I stand still. My breathing changes, my chest rises, and I find myself looking back at the small device as its motorized gaze is tracing details of my face. It stops, looks at me straight in the eye for a second that lasts a bit more than that. Then, just like that, its gaze rushes back down, to a piece of paper where its lifeless hand doodles what it just saw with a biro pen, and I find myself letting out a breath I did not know I was holding in.
I have always been fascinated with portraits, with the ability to capture something more than the image; to catch a glimpse of what lies under the artist’s paint, what hides behind the sitter’s eyes, with the light and the pixels and the ink and the hand that held the brush or clicked on the shutter, how much of it was translated on the portrait, how much of it is projected by the viewer.
And here I am, sitting in front of Paul, one of the 6 robots in the NEO Bankside gallery. Paul is the robotic alter ego of Patrick Tresset, the child between his artistic streak and his IT skills. The space has a quirkiness that is both unsettling and inviting; on the walls, Paul’s work is hanging in rows, covering the white surfaces with glimpses of faces he has seen in the past week. There are 5 desks, each equipped with a Paul on it. The sitter sits on a chair, and after signalling that he is ready, the Pauls get into action.
The result is a sensory symphony: the sounds of the biros digging in the paper, the mechanical movement as Paul turns his gaze from the sitter to his work, the sight of 5 desks drawing by themselves a subject that stands with a steely, yet unsure pose.
The portraits were booked solid throughout the week, but thankfully the 6th Paul worked on a drop-in basis. Left in the corner while his siblings were scribbling away, he looked like the younger, more sensitive brother of a futuristic family.
I went 20 minutes before the gallery opened to ensure a seat in front of him. Inside, a woman wearing a strange costume had her portrait done by the 5 Pauls as a part of an art project. She was wearing a mask covered with doll heads. This day is getting curiouser and curiouser.
The door opened, I walked in, sat down, and looked straight ahead. I did not expect to be self-aware in front of Paul, yet when he woke up from his electronic slumber and looked at me in a quizzical manner, I found myself tensing up. It is interesting how we react when we feel observed; even from the mechanical eye.
30 minutes later, Paul was scribbling his signature. I could not believe what was in front of me. You see, in my opinion, his work, my portrait contained something more than a depiction; it contains a moment. It has an element of me as a sitter, but also of how Paul saw me. I looked at Paul, and I found myself frowning, as if I wanted to say something, unsure what is was and who would I say it to.

I caught up with Patrick Tresset, who explained to me that this project was born when he saw his passion for drawing fading away; he then turned to his IT background to seek creativity from a traditionally non-creative outlet. He created a software that would draw in the same style he did, and Paul was born.

I take my portrait, go out, and realising that I forgot my umbrella, I cover it with my coat. I look back, and a woman in now sitting in the drop-in station, as his hand is scribbling furiously on the paper.

‘Goodbye Paul’, I say, and then walk out on the rain, feeling the drops on my skin waking me up from a dream of the future.

Love,

G

 

Pink Origami Spaceship Travels: Space Day at Drink Shop Do

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A pink spaceship is traveling across the room, astronauts are hanging on a string, and a fleet of rocket rests between a sign that reads ‘Up to the Highest Heights‘ and an arrow that points to the toilets, downstairs on the left.
No, I am not in a David Lynch movie. I am in Drink Shop Do, one of the few cafes in London that will make your whole body gooey, your wallet empty, and your belly full of yumminess.
You see, last week I was writing about Jiggling Atoms and life in the molecular level, so I thought it would be a good idea to see the other side of the spectrum; from the minuscule nature of the atom, to the enormity of space.

Drink Shop Do was the perfect setting for that. This multicoloured universe hosted a space day organised by Science London, catering to the varied clientelle that popped in: you could indulge your inner nerd by participating in a rocket building workshop with Dr Simon Foster from Imperial College, or catching up with some of the brightest minds in the field in a session with Kate Gray, Louisa Preston, Marek Kukula and Alex Salam.
Alternatively, if you are more in the crafts category, you would be sitting in the cafe, building origami spaceships, googling interesting space facts on your iPhone and writing them on the back of an astronaut you just drew for the space facts competition.
With a range of space-inspired songs in the playlist (that included Aerosmith’sI don’t want to miss a thing‘), I took comfort in the delicious cake and coffee that were on the table, took pictures, wandered around the store, and learned that space is not just a place where no one can hear you scream (sorry, this reference had to be made).
Unfortunately I had to leave in a rush, but after making a (long) list of the things I want to buy from the shop on the ground floor, I knew that I would be here again soon.

One to beam down, Scotty.

Love,

G

One Hundred

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I’ve spent the day peeking at the rain through the window, dancing to Kimya Dawson, using an umbrella as a ukulele and wearing different coloured socks, drinking rose tea, eating a slice of banana cake, then another, and then a bite before putting it back in the fridge. I turned on the TV and put it on mute, put on Emiliana Torrini, danced a bit more, swapped the umbrella for an invisible microphone, and sang on top of my lungs about big jumps. I landed on the green chair in the corner of the room, and stood there for a minute or two.
This is my 100th post. 100 magnificent somethings that I shared with you, 100 steps towards… well, I don’t know where we are heading; and just between us, it was never about that. It is about the journey. It is about a quest to find something, something that will add to a collection of somethings, a magnificent something. The search is still on.
Thank you for sticking with me. Now it is time for some more invisible microphone-living room dancing (and banana cake).

Love

G

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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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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 ; ;

Red and Grey

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The girl next to me smells of sea and sand. I close my eyes and take a deep breath in. The sun warms my eyelids, and I find that my lips are forming a smile. I had to take a difficult decision today, and I just did.

I walk in a straight line in Southbank, from the National Theatre to Tate Modern. As I pass from the OXO Tower, I slow down. Red petals push through a frosted window, scarlet against grey, warm against cold. It is so beautiful, but no one seems to notice it; I go closer; touch it. It is a warm day, but the window is cool.

There are moments that force you in a dilemma. There is no right or wrong decision. It is what you make with the decision you take. I will follow a dream, chase it until I run out of breath and then some more. I will try my hardest, do my best, and give my all.

Keeping my fingers crossed, and loving you all for being here,

G

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

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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,

G

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The Contents of an Artist’s mind: Hans-Peter Feldman at the Serpentine

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I am the exact opposite of a GPS. I have no sense of direction, whatsoever. If you put me in front of the London Eye, with a gigantic neon arrow pointing at it, and ask me to lead you there, we will end up having tea and scones in Manchester. If we were in a scary movie, I would be the one that looks at the map for a couple of seconds, and then point to the dark, menacing looking road, saying ‘this is the way’, much to the dismay of the rest of the group.
So,all this might explain why I am finding myself in the middle of green fields, with dirt on my new shoes, a broken umbrella and a soaked coat. I am looking at the battery falling down to 2% on my iPhone, and the Google Maps holding onto the screen for dear life as they tell me to go left; and then the program closes; the iPhone shuts down. I look around. I am screwed.
Granted, I am only in the middle of Hyde Park, so I can find my way out easy enough (I think). But I don’t want to. I came here on a mission, and I will achieve it. So, relying on the signage and the kindness of strangers, I was directed towards my destination. 20 minutes later, I was entering the Serpentine Gallery with a dramatic sigh, dripping, eyes wide open.

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

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