Tag Archives: moments

Dec7

Chamomile, Long Johns, & Hope

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I have been putting off writing this post for days, if not weeks now. So, on this Friday night, as I was walking over London Bridge, weaving my way through the masses of suited people wearing trainers on their feet and serious expressions on their faces, I decided that today would be the day I write about it; about the last few weeks.
I sneaked in the Pret at the corner of the bridge, got a ridiculously overpriced banana and an orange juice, found an uncomfortable chair, and sat in front of my open iPad.

So here we are. About 4 months ago, I woke up from a phone call with bad news, went to work to receive another one of these phone calls, took a four day trip to Greece to attend two funerals, came back, quit my job, and got an internship in the field I am actually interested in.
From almost the first week of my 3 month internship, I knew that I made the right choice, and this was terrifying; I was so close to it, I was living it, an experience with an expiration date, a fairy tale with numbered pages. It’s not necessarily the specific job that I was so attached to, even though I love the company. It was the fact that I was doing what I actually liked. I was in a creative field, with normal working hours, and an endless supply of inspiration. I will write a separate post about the internship, as it is not the focus of this post, and I don’t want it to take over.

However, you need to understand that throughout these three months, I worked hard in most aspects of my life. I was freelancing to gain some financial support, interning, writing this blog, adjusting to a different kind of living, and constantly looking for a job that I could pick up on the end of my internship. The truth is, I spent most of my time trying to ignore this nagging feeling that the uncertainty for the future was generating; I think the feeling was a cross between anxiety and fear, and I pushed it as back as I could. I was convinced that by the time the three months were up, I would find something; as the days became weeks, and applications never got responses, I still kept smiling, and giving the thumbs up, saying that everything would be ok.
One day, I received an email from one of my dream jobs. Very long story short, I spent a month preparing for 2 interviews, putting my hopes up, grabbing a seat at the top of the mountain and watching my hopes crashing down when I got a no the day after my second interview. I brushed it off, said that it was ok, moved on, applied to other jobs, got interviews, and even got a great offer. Was I really ok? No.
When that job gave me a negative response, everything inside me came tumbling down, even though I put a brave face and kept going. It was almost as someone that just run a marathon, and at the end said, ‘why don’t we go for a lovely walk, maybe some shopping, and the a bit of dancing afterwards?’.

This was not just about the job. It was about everything; about trying so hard, for so long, and coming so close only to get a lovely packaged ‘no’. It was about hope, and the energy that it requires. It was about the last year, everything that has happened, all the things that changed, all the things that stayed the same.
So if I could not realise it, my body would. I was exhausted, my energy levels completely depleted; and so for once, I decided to listen -actually, I had no choice. I acknowledged how finishing my internship made me feel (I spent that evening eating a family-sized Ben & Jerry’s on the couch, watching re-runs of Murder She Wrote and crying when the killer confessed). I spent the rest of that week taking it easy, wearing long johns, drinking chamomile, and getting on a first name basis with the take-away guy. I stayed in the house, relaxed, started reading up on meditation, began eating healthier, joined a gym, and finally acknowledged how much losing that opportunity meant to me. When I did that, some perspective crept in.

Does this mean that everything is magically ok? Again, no. It means that this whole experience was a reminder that I need to take care of myself, not stress to bursting levels, and most importantly, do something good for my body and soul every day.

Last week, one of the companies I was freelancing for offered me a position, and after weighing it up with the other offer, I gladly accepted it. I start on Monday. That is all from me. I now have a banana to finish before going for a quick swim.

Love,

G

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Oct17

The Hmmm Moment of Damien Hirst

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Have you ever had a ‘hmmm‘ moment? Hand rubbing chin, frown set between brows, heavy inhale followed by hurried exhale, absolutely unsure of what your opinion is on something, yet aware that you should have one; that kind of hmmm moment.

You see, that was my initial reaction to the Damien Hirst retrospective at Tate Modern. I was facing the open mouth of a shark, his sharp teeth an impossible breath away, his eyes reflecting my puzzled look; I was standing in front of the shark piece that ensured notoriety for the artist who is regularly compared to marmite; you either love him or hate him.
However, just then it felt like I lost my sense of taste, as I could not decide if I loved or hated it. Hmmm.

The exhibition was on at the same time Kusama was on, and separated by a floor and a million lightyears of artistic approach, I was (unfairly) comparing the two. Kusama is one of my favourite artists for the things she embeds in what she creates, the thought that goes into the action, the dedication that goes into her practice. This was not something that I could readily feel in the pastel green rooms of the Hirst collection. It did not help that the first room had his spot paintings, that even though was approached with the same precision that Kusama exhibited in her spots, this approach was more scientific (complete uniformity in size, equal distance between them, every spot a different colour) and more, well, obvious. Hmmm.

However, a few steps forward and I came across ‘A thousand Years 1990‘, and I stood in front of it, with a determined fascination. A full life cycle was played out in front of the voyeuristic crowd (a perspex box contains maggots that turn into flies, and fly around an insect-o-cutor, with some getting killed and others living through it), and it immediately ignited my pre-existing interest for the meeting point of art and science. From the stark contrast of the mediums (a clear geometric box containing messy organic matter), to the right of the human over life and death.

I found some of his work impressive, but on a technical level: his work with embalmed animals, the most famous I guess being the shark in The Impossibility of Death in The Mind of Someone Living, but also the sheep from Away From the Flock, and it’s counter part, The Black Sheep; the Pharmacy and Trinity-Pharmacology, Physiology and Pathology displays, where he replicates the environment of a pharmacy in the gallery setting (Still and Doubt were similar, yet more powerful); and the Spin Paintings, that even though are truly impressive (and were seen in the Olympics as well), seemed to me to remain in the technical level.

However the point where I started warming up to his art was Dead Ends Died Out, Examined. Cigarette butts were lined along the shelves of a cabinet that came as a precursor to his use of museological display techniques. From the life cycle of a single cigarette to its effects to the life cycle of the smoker, and the value of the object as an exhibit, the work had something threaded through it that resonated with me.

In the same line of thought, I found Lullaby (a meticulously arranged wall of pills) and Judgment Day (a meticulously arranged wall of diamonds) equally interesting and mystifying.

I also liked the butterfly works: In In and Out of Love-White Paintings and Live Butterflies, white canvases embedded with pupae were hung in a specially maintained humid environment; slowly, the butterflies hatch, and fly away from the paintings and around the room, where they are fed on sugar water, fruit and flowers, mate and lay eggs. You then come out of that and walk into the somber In and Out of Love-Butterfly Paintings and Ashtrays, where dead butterflies are stuck on patterned paintings, in a room with scattered ashtrays. The duality of life and death as well as beauty and horror are just experienced in the most visceral and disconcerting way, and I remember needing a second to establish what kind of awe I was experiencing: admiration or disgust. A similar mosaic of butterflies can be seen through a spiritual filter in the Doorways in the kingdom of Heaven, Sympathy in White Major-Absolution II and I am become Death, Shatterer of Worlds. It is interesting to see how he combined these paintings with his Anatomy of an Angel sculpture, where an angel is carved from white marble, one side perfect, the other stripped to show the anatomical parts of a human.

I went around through the whole exhibition, and I still had not made up my mind.

I walked past The Incomplete Truth, a white dove trapped in mid-flight, in a moment in time, in formaldehyde, in a room, in between life and death, in between love and hate, in a hmmm moment that you can not really sway on either sides, polar opposites that are closer to each other than they are to their middle.

And I am content to remain in that hmmm moment; because i don’t know if I like it or dislike it. An opinion is not necessary to take away something.

Love,

G

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oct13

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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Oct9

Edvard

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A couple is standing in front of me, blocking the view to the painting. They are holding hands, their ears are covered with the guided tour headphones, and their heads are tilted to the left. A few seconds later, they simultaneously straighten up and move to the next painting, stare at it, and listen to the voice that gives them information on what is hung in front of them.
I am in the Edvard Munch exhibition in Tate Modern. Each painting seems to be a piece of a puzzle; the final picture is the artist himself. The writing on the wall tells me that Munch was a troubled man, who drew from his spiritual unrest and personal anxieties to define his own subjective vision.

It seems as if the canvas is a temporary release of his obsessions, a way to figure out events, things, life. He seems to come back to certain events (the death of his young sister from tuberculosis at The Sick Child when he was thirteen) and themes (The Weeping Woman is depicted in various forms, each more unsettling than the other). For some reason I had to catch my breath when I stumbled on the Uninvited Guests series, where Munch recreates a fight that troubled him. It was not the realism in the picture; it was the clear intention to find the truth by recreating a subjective memory, an attempt that no matter how much effort he would put into it would always be unsuccessful.

I also really linked his exploration of vision. In 1930, he suffered a haemorrhage in his right eye. Munch did not see this as a disaster; he saw it as an opportunity. This injury allowed him to experience the word in a new way, and instead of fearing it, he explored it. In addition to that, he explored the shifting boundaries between visible and invisible, material and immaterial, through double exposures in his photography and drawing apparitions in his paintings.

Indeed, I found his use of photography fascinating: he doesn’t depict; he documents. He uses it to scrutinise himself, his life, his world. He is taking pictures of his exhibition,but it is not to record the paintings-in fact, the paintings are not props-they are individuals (when he takes a picture of himself with them it often resembles a group portrait instead of an artist’s shot).

He also seems to delve on his experience of ageing, emotional turmoil, sickness and bodily decay. In fact, in the last rooms, a series of self portraits (including the last one he ever drew) shows a heartbreakingly humane vulnerability that is touched me to my core.

His paintings are not defined from the external world; the are shaped from the internal state, the filter that dictates how the world is perceived. He is not drawing the world; he is drawing his world.

A canvas as a reflection, a painting as a mirror, a depiction of reality instead of realism. Baring your heart on paper, on brush strokes, on film, on the light of the day and the darkness of the night. The artist becoming art, becoming one with the work in the frame.

The couple moved to the next room; I wonder what the voice is telling them. I wonder what they see.

Love,

G

Sep23

Spice of Life

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My grandmother lost her sense of smell the day she was hit by a taxi in the middle of a crowded Athens street. The man drove her home, left her on her couch, and closed the door behind him, taking a part of her with him. We thought that is was a temporary loss, something that would come back with time; but time only brought days and deepened wrinkles, keeping what the man took to itself.

This was always a huge source of sadness for my grandmother. Smell was her favourite sense. After that, she always said that food did not taste the same, rooms did not carry the same memories, hugs did not feel the same. A part of life was lost the moment the car touched her body.

As I am sitting here, my eyes closed, taking in all the smells from the shop, all I can see is her face. The blend of smells is flooding me with memories, one stronger than the next, and for a moment I feel like I am back in her embrace, a feeling I have not experienced since she died 4 years ago.

I open my eyes and I look around me. I am in the middle of a sea of colours, of a sea of smells. It is not the smells that remind me of her, it is my overwhelming use of the sense that does. The absolute joy that can come with a nice smell, the gut-wrench that comes with a bad one, the act of smelling milk before drinking eat, deep inhales over a rose tea, quick sniffs with squinting eyes when walking inside the house and smelling warm food.

It is amazing how the spice shop in Notting Hill wakes up these memories inside me without the sadness that could be attached to them. It is almost a celebration of these events, instead of pure reminiscing. The shop is a mini portal into the world of senses, with hundreds of different spices, products and recipes. If variety is the spice of life, then the spice shop personifies that.

Minutes later, I go out on the rain, with some Greek Giros spice, and two chilli chocolates (original and orange). The rain soaks up my paper bag as I wait for the bus, but I still feel a warmth inside me. The warmth intensifies with the first bite of the chilli chocolate, with the most unusual taste explosion I’ve ever experienced (definitely one of my favourite chocolates so far).

I smile; my grandmother would have liked this I think, and I take a deep breath in, welcoming the smell of rain, damp soil, damp clothes, people, tears, loss, and everything in between.

Love,

G

Sep20

For the Love of Books

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for the next page.

Love,

G

Sep16

The Magnificent Something for Time Out London

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I really hope that you enjoy it.

Love,

G

Sep12

full stop

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

Love,

G

Sep8

Liminal: making a 3 minute sculpture in Tate Britain

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They say art is eternal, but I am not sure. I am inside Tate Britain, standing in front of the latest addition, a sculpture that encompasses beauty with a sharp social commentary on the ephemeral nature of modern culture. And just as I am admiring its beauty, a small boy, no more than three, walks in front of me, takes a block off, and walks away.

No, I have not just witnessed an act of juveline vandalism. I am in fact talking about Liminal, the piece created by artists Kieren Reed and Abigail Hunt, an open invitation to visitors of all ages to experience sculpture in a physical, material, and social way, taking place every Weekend in various places inside Tate.

Wooden blocks of all shapes and sizes lie on the floor, creating an ever-changing landscape as visitors pick them, build them up, tear them down, move them around and turn them into something completely different.

Visitors turn into impromptu artists, having the chance to create a temporary sculpture inside one of the biggest galleries in the world, and the beauty of it is how temporary it is; how you were part of this whole process, this beautiful room for this specific slice of time, before other hands take the parts that made your piece to create others.

It is amazing to think how the whole room could be conceived as a continuously moving sculpture, constructed and deconstructed by the sculptors themselves.

I watch the child pause as he realizes that I am still standing next to my piece, containing the small square box that is missing from his. I smile a smile of agreement, and he goes on, taking the piece, changing my piece, adding to his, simultaneously creating two new forms, simultaneously changing both pieces.
Our actions always simultaneously change both pieces.

Love,

G

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Sep2

Inside and in Front of the Frame: Portraits in a Room

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The man in front of me it’s wearing a white Urban Outfitters t-shirt, with a faded pattern of a man stuck on a desert island. His hair is brown and untamed, and his eyes are hiding behind circular sunglasses. Around him, a frame cuts his world from mine, allowing me to see him through a rectangle. The man in front of me is me, and I am in front of a mirror. I take my glasses off, and come closer to the cold surface. The movement inside the mirror resembles mine, yet it is different. Life from a different angle, from a different viewpoint.
You see, the man in front of me might look like me, but is not me. It is a reflection of me, an representational image of myself. It is a depiction, instead of a portrait.

I remembered that moment as I was standing in front of the winning portrait of the BP exhibition. A portrait for me should not be a mere replica of the person; it should pierce through the resemblance and reach a level of truth that is raw and refined in the same brushstroke.
Going to the BP Portrait Awards at the National Portrait Gallery has been a yearly tradition since I first came to London. For a few months, the room at the far end of the ground floor hosts the pictures, portraits, stories, technique, craft and heart of some amazing artists that hang their work.
For me, this exhibition has many points of interest:
From the moment you walk into the room, you realise that it is not only the portraits of the people that are hanging on the wall, but also the ones of the people that are standing in front of them, looking at the picture on the wall. It always fascinates me to see how people interact with the painted image. Large groups are sitting in front of the more realistic ones, give second glances to the picture they thought was rubbish after taking a look at the famous name of the artist that drew it, talk about how life-like, appealing, appalling, unattractive, or powerful an image is as they nod their heads, squint their eyes, and then walk to the next one.
In my mind, the portraits are divided into three categories:
The ones that aim for various degrees of realism (from the hyperrealistic to the life-like) are the ones that collect the most oohs and aahs from the crowd. This year’s exhibition has some amazing examples, like Robin by Lesley McCubbin, Devan by David Eichenberg, Today you were away by Ian Cumberland, Silent Eyes by Antonios Titakis, LE (Salmakis Num 3) by Ivan Falco Fraga).
Then, there are the ones with a difference in theme or technique. The technique might he pushing the boundaries, from incorporating different material and forms (like Lindsay Lohan by Ben Ashton, About Time by Tonny Mulligan, Pasha Triptych by Ismail Acar and Tessa and the Clay Heads by Ruth Murray), to encapsulating alternative themes and aesthetics (The Skateboarder by Eric Olson is a good example of putting the Skater culture and style in the actual painting). The theme might hide a background story, (like All Dressed Up for Mam and Dad by Peter Goodgellow, a self portrait with collaged pictures of the artist’s family on the inside of his coat, carrying the memories with him), social comment (Mr Kitazawa’s Noodle Bar in Tokyo by Carl Randal, where anonymous strangers are eating alone but separate in a familiar form of urban isolation), sitter’s personality (swallow by Alexandra Gardner, trying to be something else by Edward Suitcliffe, and Irish Frank by Ray Richardson are three great examples of that), or a moment of love (Wes’s Dream by Erin Wozniak), fear (Bruised by Nathalie Beavillain Scott where she documents her son’s car crash) or both (92 years by Tim Benson, where he depicts his grandmother that was suffering from dementia in such a painfully honest way, in an electrifying lay ambiguous light that makes us think that she could be either in the middle of a conversation, or in a state of agony, fluidity of mind seeping on the body).
And then there are these that have something more than acrylic mixed with water on canvas. The ones that contain a raw emotion in each brush stroke, a story behind each curve, a feeling of truth hidden in the corners of the sitter’s eyes. The first prize, Auntie by Saleah Chapin, is a testament of the human female form, the skin as a trail, the body a map, a personal history document. Similarly, El Abuelo by Ignacio Estudillo has a ghost-like quality, a portrait that is there but is absent, a picture that is not an analytical description as much as a glimpse of the human condition his sitter belongs to. Joachim by Nathan Ford stirred something strong in me, and made me stop and examine it closer. The half completed portrait was holding a secret, and it was truly captivating.
My personal favorite was Mary Waiting to Go Roller Skating by Timothy Galenby. A chiaroscuro portrait of his grandmother standing next to a glass cabinet, in which pieces of her past (a picture taken when he was a child), present (a painting) and future (a scull) are kept safe. The scull gives away her fragility and preoccupation with death, as well as the artist’s anxieties about losing her, however when seen as a whole, it has a truly heart warming effect.
On my way out, I saw a woman staring at me with a truly unnerving look. I gasped as I realised that it was actually a portrait, Still Waiting by Antonio Barahona. It was not the most realistic of the lot, but it had a truly unnerving quality in it, a captured humanity.
I passed from it smiling, and made my way out. I passed from revolving doors, catching briefly a glimpse of myself on the glass. And then the sun.

Love,

G

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