Taking a chance on a flyer – CHAMP

Art, Arts, Bristol, Events, Inspirational, Launch, Meditation, Music, Nature

Last night (20th June 2015) I was coaxed into attending an event by a very curious piece of advertising. Picked up at The Island, Bristol, this flyer, with its sparseness and contrast, was too intriguing to ignore.

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What I found, in a small, active industrial yard, was a gathering of people brought together for a performance and a barbecue, on the eve of the solstice.

Sam, the main man of the occasion, put the event together prior to the beginning of what he described to me as an adventurous wander of survival without money, a phone or a map. The idea, to leave of without worrying about how much money you have, who you’re in contact with and where you are, is greatly inspiring as a thing to do, and the fact that there was no pretention in the attitude of the friendly, jovial crowd bolstered the moment.

The event itself is tied to a group of artists in Bristol, CHAMP, whose newly renovated garage studio is as I awkwardly put it at one point, ‘nice’. Which is what it is, a well as more valuable adjectives.

It’s the second time I’ve joined the outskirts of a group shepherded by some leader figure called Sam. The first time being the night of my secondary school prom, in the face of rejection I’d gone off to a gig instead, and while there lied to a group of guys about my age so I could feel less insecure. Sam bought me a drink but I’d had to politely decline.

This time around it was homemade wine that I was avoiding for medical reasons and the barbecue, (from which I had a grilled pepper bun) was a happy addition to the performance. A good move. The details of the performance itself is really only for the performance. That it effectively involved a morning ritual with a much heightened intensity, is enough description to honour intentions I figure.

All of that which Sam took on his sojourn of indefinite length today was lain out on the floor until by the end of the performance it was packed away into his bag. In generosity Sam also provided me and others with a free shirt for our engagement, which was a fine thing to do.

Sam, and the rest of those more of the inner circle, were at the allotment mentioned on the flyer this morning at sunrise, to wave Sam away I guess.

It’s a shame I couldn’t be there, but I was more committed to getting to my bed than hanging around for somewhere to couch/floorsurf with the group. So on this, the longest day of the year, I wish Sam the vey best of luck, and am glad that things like this happen, because, if they didn’t, then just how boring would life be?

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And then we pulled the words and stuff…

Arnolfini, Art, Events, Exhibition, Launch

So, it’s getting on great. Going to have lot’s of lovely stuff for you to enjoy and such for the weekend it’s on… 2nd July – 5th July. Proper nice.

This Exhibition what Young Arnolfini, and also IKON Youth Programme and also Black Kettle Collective is putting on is about Communication

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 Why do a communication exhibition when Emma Smith just did one?

Because it’s such a broad topic, stupid question by the way… But that’s no way to speak to an honourable guest like yourself. I do apologise

 “This now is the time for making.”

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 A day of events on Saturday the 4th July you say? In a month you say? My word, how exciting.

This space will be transformed into a hove of ideas all connected to the ways we, as humans, communicate as humans, communicating, humanly, with each other. A place of learning space. A…


  Also… don’t miss… tomorrow at Arnolfini, (Friday 5th – 7th June, irrelevant if these dates have passed)…

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…and this wonderful piece of graffiti that somebody managed to get into the building and perform… (not an endorsement of illegal activity, speak to our lawyers)20150520_180125045_iOS
Thanks, bye.

Politics and Image – Labour’s Emily Thornberry

Other, Photography, Politics

I woke up today to realise that perhaps politics is not all politics after all, fine I didn’t only just realise that but it’ll do as an opening. Anyway, Labour Shadow Cabinet MP Emily Thornberry has now resigned after making an idiotic mistake, Twitter. The fact that she posted an image entitled ‘image from Rochester’ including a white van and three England flags was met by many with offence.

This is the first incident I know of whereby a neutral image, even a patriotic one, taken by an old person, has been met with such moronic idiocy. I respect your opinion but when your opinion concerns reading ironic connotation from a picture and then accusing a whole political party of snobbery then come on.

Is a high ranking member of a party with a working class history going to, in election season, post a condescending image about a demographic on Twitter? Really? It wasn’t an accident, those aren’t her boobs she accidentally posted, it was in all logic a sincere post of respect. If it were derogatory in aim then surely she’d have been expecting people to respond with sneering tweets about people with vans who fly flags. To read into it in such an aggressive manner, with no respect for logic, replacing the world we live in with an ironic fiction whereby left-wing politicians hate anyone with a national identity is pure hypocrisy.

The fact that you can take such connotations from the image indicates that you must indeed be prejudiced in some way too. To read everything as a joke, whether it’s a good one or not is the trait of a comedian, and you’re the one making the joke here. You’re the one who is reading the implication because of what you know about England flags and white vans. To say that someone’s original intention was offensive is to state that you recognise a joke about working class patriotism in that photo, even if it isn’t there. And no, you can’t hypothetically compare that argument to recognising a picture of Hitler on a Neo-Nazi Twitter feed as offensive, because that picture is openly offensive, while this one was apparently covert, and you can see that.

My point, my overriding point, is that you’re reinforcing the stereotypes you ‘hate’ by calling a picture of a white van offensive. You’re aligning with the viewpoint you think miss Thornberry has and then going ‘hah! That’s offensive actually even if I was thinking it too!’ It’s a new turn in image politics, that is indicative of just how far gone the mentality of the online presence is. Not everything is a joke, not everyone is a tit and not everyone understands ironic postmodernism. So grow up. Yes you. Unless you agree, in which case vote for me in the next general election.

Also, check out this racist sunset.

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Wanderings – Exhibition Video

Arnolfini, Art, Bristol, Events, Exhibition
From the 15th to the 29th of October 2014 Young Arnolfini’s Wanderings was on at Be-in Bristol, and for those of you who want to know what that looked like click here…

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…That’s a video link don’t you know, take a look, I love it! I did make it, but that’s not the point…

Someone Get Me Damien Hurst…

Art, Artist, Arts, Other, Reflection, Uncategorized

I am confused. I thought I hated Damien Hirst. I do, I do hate him. I have this inbuilt system of loathing designed just for the two words that make up his name and I don’t know why. I think it’s other people. Their dislike of him, which makes me hate him. If they don’t like him they take that further, they don’t like contemporary art, because of him. I can’t explain this. They are entitled to an opinion. Do I hate Damien Hirst or the perpetual Damien Hirst-ite idea that is still poisoning Britain’s interest in art? Today Hirst sometimes works with children to aid them in artistic senses, he has this childishness that people won’t dare appreciate, because they hate him. He did some stupid and senseless things to art, he hurt art, and now he is trying to make it better, right? Give it a kiss. Out of the good of his own heart. Fair enough. But the old him still exists, laughing away in the form of a skull made of money, made to make money, that made money and made many without much money pretty mad. They don’t forget, those who don’t know and that’s a lot of folks. I think we should forget him, forget everything he stood for, if he’s ready to be forgotten. I think if we did that then we would have a place to start. Will he be forgotten? No. Will people refuse to forget him? Yes. In today’s economic climate people are more ready to hate the gangster artist than before, it an us and them, polarized issue. This is what confuses me.

Saatchi tells me to be afraid, because if he doesn’t like me then what am I worth. I am an ego at the moment. And if I am not fed I will not become credible. Saatchi takes me for lunch and asks me to pick up the bill. Saatchi takes me home to see his wife but he doesn’t know which one she is.
Damien Hirst is here, I try to form my anger into a rational statement, but he’s helping a child do a painting, and he doesn’t even look cynical.

 

 

Saatchi’s pissing up my trousers.
I should go home.

Ode to a Poem

Art, Arts, Poetry, Reflection

looking

(Man walks, in poetic fashion, down a hill)

I’m new to this group, I like poetry.

Poetry, the people’s game, the art of words arranged nicely and a lot of other things, why bring it up, why in this day and age bring up poetry? Of all things, poetry? Who even reads poems anyway? Many people. Good, that’s that one out of the way. I am a poet amongst other things, those things being a general artist, film blogger and a wizard, Harry, and I feel poetry is still and will ever be one of art’s backbones. This is because of its nature as words, as language, a poem doesn’t lose value in any form if its words remain, only in translation and global languages are variations which keep it new and exciting to unravel. I may be wrong, and tell me if I am, but until then, this…

A nonsense poem:

(The Man With No Nose – Joshua K) –

Humphrey Barnaby-Rose,

was born two feet taller than most.

His nose never grew, not at all, not like you,

and his armpit hair curled from his toes.

Bizarrely, still nobody knows,

why the man was missing his nose.

Or why he lived in a box, at the end of a shoe,

on the beach at the start of his road.

He’d seventeen eyebrows, in a line down his back,

and a pet parakeet named ‘Sir Archibald Slack’.

Two doves in a glove, three worms on a rose

and none of these knew why he had not a nose.

He’d looked for answers in France,

asked them all in Nepal.

Found none finer in China,

none more sane than in Spain.

Sat with a man in Japan,

who’d worn rice paper clothes.

Yet, none could suppose, his lack of a nose.

He’d asked

Doctors and surgeons.

Sea-parents and urchins.

Nose makers and sailors.

A deaf record retailer.

And each of his quests had been

nought but a failure.

There’d been a few in Peru,

three fleas in Torquay,

(the dog they owned too)

and a talking TV.

But, nobody knew, why his face was askew.

Why his absent most nose, was there not to see.

Poor Humphrey Barnaby Rose,

who lived in a box, on the shore of a coast.

How did he smell? Like a man in a shoe,

who’d searched the whole world for his nose.