It seems that my post a few days ago containing a certain Charles Bukowski poem was received with a modicum of criticism from people with feminist inclinations, citing the fact that it might be offensively sexist.
Whilst I agree, you can read that into the poem, and yes, Bukowski was almost certainly 'rubbed raw by experience' himself, I think the sentiment is perfectly valid, and affects both sexes. If you have brutally gone from partner to partner for the whole of you life, I wouldn't be surprised if you were attracted to innocence.
Therefore, I suggest an alternative reading of the same poem;
"I like people who haven’t lived with too many other people.
I don’t expect virginity but I simply prefer people
who haven’t been rubbed raw by experience.
there is a quality about people who choose
people sparingly;
it appears in their walk
in their eyes
in their laughter and in their
gentle hearts.
people who have had too many other people
seem to choose the next one
out of revenge rather than with
feeling.
when you play the field selfishly everything
works against you:
one can’t insist on love or
demand affection.
you’re finally left with whatever
you have been willing to give
which often is:
nothing.
some people are delicate things
some people are delicious and
wondrous.
if you want to piss on the sun
go ahead
but please leave them
alone."
Personally, I think the sentiment still holds true, and no matter what Bukowski's original intent was, I don't really see it as a sexist poem.
Those who read this blog with any sort of regularity can probably tell I enjoy both Tom Waits and Charles Bukowski. So obviously I love this these two.
(Please excuse the Comic Sans, not my video)
New Hearse Pileup gig has been booked too, more news soon.
Vixx posted this on her blog. I really like it, I love the engrained honesty in Bukowski's work:
"I like women who haven’t lived with too many men.
I don’t expect virginity but I simply prefer women
who haven’t been rubbed raw by experience.
there is a quality about women who choose
men sparingly;
it appears in their walk
in their eyes
in their laughter and in their
gentle hearts.
women who have had too many men
seem to choose the next one
out of revenge rather than with
feeling.
when you play the field selfishly everything
works against you:
one can’t insist on love or
demand affection.
you’re finally left with whatever
you have been willing to give
which often is:
nothing.
some women are delicate things
some women are delicious and
wondrous.
if you want to piss on the sun
go ahead
but please leave them
alone."
By no means do I think Rihanna is a rockstar, I think that the whole idea is pretty ridiculous. What interested me more is that Rihanna is seen as an 'R&B', or 'Contemporary Urban' artist. 'Contemporary Urban' is a pretty wishy-washy title. I mean technically I write contemporary urban music - I grew up in the city and it's written in the modern day.The fact it's such a terrible phrase reflects the fact that people prefer the term 'R&B'.
So, Rihanna is an R&B artist then? Well, I'm not sure the phrase 'R&B' is appropriate either.
Little Richard is seen as being a pretty good example of Rhythm and Blues from the 1950's. I won't bore you with loads of details, but essentially rhythm and blues was heavily based on the blues, which originated from black culture around the turn of the 1900's. This eventually turned into rock and roll.
So, what does the modern usage of 'R&B' have to do with rock and roll? Not a lot really...
A highly different musical style, typically using techniques such as sampling and mixing to produce backing tracks and beats. The history of 'contemporary urban' lies somewhere between disco, funk, and rap music - genres that defined the end of rock and roll really.
I think an alternate, fairer name form this genre of music needs to be found. I'm thinking of starting research for a text entitled
'Erasing Musical History with Linguistics'
Any ideas for an alternate name? Maybe you think I'm looking at this from the wrong way - there's certainly an argument in favour of the fact that R&B was a term originally created by music producers as a replacement for the offensive term 'race music', and that R&B still summarises a genre of music typically dominated by black artists. I'd be interested to hear some opinions!
I haven't started my research properly yet - so the content of this article should not be seen as an example of definitive positions, just posturing and conjecture to instigate discussion.
Amsterdam is a beautiful city on several levels. It's beautifully designed, the bicycle system is integrated into the cities' structure in a way I don't think is even possible in London - rather that being pushed to the kerb and generally ignored (mostly) like they are in London, they have dedicated lanes on almost every road and seem to be seen in a similar light to those driving cars.
By far the most impressive at this point has been the Central Library, and the attitude towards libraries in Amsterdam. If you live in the UK I'm sure you're aware of the terrible things being done to the funding of libraries. I am currently blogging from this most amazing of spaces:
The Openbare Centrale Bibliotheek Amsterdam is the largest public library in Europe, and possibly also the best. It has 10 floors - we have been working on stuff for Sukey for most of the day from floor 5 - it is fully networked, they have public iMacs for visitors, ergonomically designed workspaces from people on their own or in groups, and a full blown, affordable restaurant on the top floor where you can choose from a variety of incredibly tasty and healthy foodstuffs.
Essentially it's about the most productive environment in which I have ever been.
Student fees for university courses used to be non-existent, but now cost €1,713 from Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam. The people are welcoming, friendly and love Londoners. We're having a fantastic time here!
"you know," she said, "you were at
the bar so you didn't see
but I danced with this guy.
we danced and we danced
close.
but I didn't go home with him
because he knew I was with
you."
"thanks a bunch," I
said.
she was always thinking of sex.
she carried it around with her
like something in a paper
bag.
such energy.
she never forgot.
she stared at every man available
in morning cafes
over bacon and eggs
or later
over a noon sandwich or
a steak dinner.
"I've modeled myself after
Marilyn Monroe," she told
me.
"she's always running off
to some local disco to dance
with a baboon," a friend once told
me, "I'm amazed that you've
stood for it as long as you have."
she'd vanish at race tracks
then come back and say,
"three men offered to buy me
a drink."
or I'd lose her in the parking
lot and I'd look up and she'd
be walking along with a strange man.
"well, he came from this direction
and I came from that and we
kind of walked together. I
didn't want to hurt his
feelings."
she said that I was a very
jealous man.
one day she just
fell down
inside of her sexual organs
and vanished.
it was like an alarm clock
dropping into the
Grand Canyon.
it banged and rattled and
rang and rang
but I could no longer
see or hear it.
I'm feeling much better
now.
I've taken up tap-dancing
and I wear a black felt
hat pulled down low
over my right
eye.
I found this poem via my housemate Matt Beech. It reminds me a lot of someone I used to date. I haven't read much Bukowski before, but I find his loose, direct style very appealing - realist poetry you might say. Makes me want to write more. We'll see. I'll definitely be borrowing Matts' book.
I chew through soft bread
And warm cooked meat,
Reminded of the steaming
Freshly killed carcass my ancestors would eat.
Whilst pre-digested cow circles my mouth,
I think on blood dripping from primal teeth.
Wet crimson snow and the thrill of the hunt.
I rip out another chunk of simulated carcass.
We didn't evolve from animals.
We are animals.
Good bye Chelsea. I'm inclined to say good riddance too.
Don't get me wrong, I've had some amazing moments over the course and have met friends who I truly hope to know for a long time.
However this year has been AWFUL.
On to better things anyway; this is what I've been up to post-degree:
Pouring Pints. I've been working in the Half Moon pub in Herne Hill, it's a lovely little establishment with live music occasionally. It helps keep me off the streets.
I've also been working as an artist's assistant for Stuart Haygarth, the work is repetitive and monotonous. However it also feels quite fulfilling somehow. For instance on the first day I had to make 400 2m lines with loops at one end (you can see what I mean in the piece pictured). Getting to the end of the batch feels quite rewarding.
Also the nature of the work makes me think a little of the Karate Kid. Wax on, wax off. Maybe in the next few weeks he'll throw something at me and I'll find out I've become a high-kicking badass.
Thanks to Louis for referring me to Stuart. The work once again helps keep me off the street.
My work for Six-Creative is on going. I'm currently doing some animated pixel gifs for the spring website. More news on that as it develops.
My tutor for my final year said he thought my work was too 'humanitarian'. Well I guess he was right there. Off the back of my teaching work in Guyana I have been commissioned to make an animation for the World Development Movement. The animation will be made for their current campaign against food speculation. It's a filthy business.
I am currently about to start working with the artist Alex Chinneck on a piece collaboratively. I am incredibly excited about having creative input toward a practising artist's work. Stay tuned to hear more.
Finally I am also just starting to write the script for a short film I plan to be making with Laurie Lynch and Joshua Osbourne. I'm incredibly excited about this project too.
My dissertation has now been written and handed in, however before I release it to the general public I would like to edit the conclusion and final chapter as I was terribly tired when it was written and made some statements that I would like to tailor. I'm also hopefully going to typeset it properly.
However what I will reveal is that the essay title is now 'Art, Design and Culture; An Exploration of Specialisation' The essay looks at what Art and Design actually are, the roles they play in contemporary culture, as well as the role specialisation plays in education and development.
Stay tuned, it should hopefully be up before too long, as well as a re-hash of a foundation project that I am working on entitled 'hardware'
The reason I am opening this post with an image by Anthony Gormley will be explained as this post continues but I'd like to get stuck in with this long-overdue post. Alongside miscellaneous travel and teaching I have been (semi) busily putting my nose to the grindstone researching for my dissertation. I don't have a title yet, but it will be something along the lines of:
"The Difference Between Design and Fine Art in a Modern Context; How Professionals Define Their Practice Within That Framework"
The reason I have chosen this subject is because from the moment I started foundation at Camberwell I have never been able to define a clear, theoretical difference between the two disciplines.
I realise that the above statement may create a lot of flak for myself, so before the angry comments start I will attempt to justify my position. From what I can deduce, both disciplines are fundamentally about the clearest, most affective way of communicating an idea through the most appropriate medium. This communication can be simple, straightforward, abstract but I believe it is always there. Most differences I have had pointed out to me are only stereotypical differences about the 'tendencies' of design or the 'tendencies' of art, rather than definitive differences.
I should continue by highlighting the fact that by no means do I plan to go out and prove that art is design and design art. In fact, if I manage to find a solid difference it may well be more rewarding for me. What this dissertation is about is gauging the way design and art are perceived in the modern climate, and comparing it to the best possible definition I can assemble from research I have been conducting. I intend to survey a number of people, and conduct a few interviews which I will have carefully constructed with some professional artists and designers.
Finally, back to Gormley. I had the good fortune to attend a private view in Mexico City for Gormley's recent show there. At the introductory talk I managed to ask a question concerning my dissertation, something to the effect of "how would you relate Art to Design, in lieu to the fact that they are both essentially communicative mediums?". To which his reply amounted to; "In my opinion, design is there to facilitate and make life easier, whereas art is there to complicate and make life harder".
An interesting statement, and one I had to muse on for quite a while. Until I realised that it was just a rephrasing of the stereotypical differences I had already been given, that is. In short; design is always selling something and is commercial whereas art is always abstract and expressive. This is an argument which I believe to be insubstantial. Does design have to be commercial? Does art have to be abstract? You may say, from a designer's viewpoint "well, if you want to be successful you have to be commercial." Surely this is true of the successful artist too? If you want to make money, you have to sell work, or get a second job.
The above work is called 'Inside Australia'. Unfortunately I can't remember Gormley's exemplary speech on it, and exactly what it was meant to communicate, but the piece resonates with me, which means that on some level it is communicating.
As a footnote to this post I would like to add this video, I find it very interesting and like the idea of stepping away from the homogenised 'iPod/iPhone culture'. Plus the idea of being a 'gadget maker' makes me smile.
I've taken advantage of a break from my course a little to work on some creative writing. So here is the first scene from a novel I plan on doing some more work on. It's called '47'
To protect the book from anyone who might think of re-publishing it as their own I'm afraid I'll be able to only show little snippets in future, and attempt to keep the plot a mystery. So, without further ado:
[EDIT]re-posted after a meeting with my editor[/EDIT]
. She shivered in the downpour, looking up through heavy droplets into an overcast night’s sky. She spread her arms in a wide welcome and her lips curled into an ironic smile as she realised that for the first time since her childhood, she felt truly happy. Her future was dark, but comforting like bed sheets. A promise of eternal protection and rest, a promise of peace. She was sure of what she had to do this time. . A pair of lights glinted into existence at the end of the otherwise deserted street, followed by a hulking black shadow. An almost imperceptible moment of recognition played across her features. A slight tensing of the fist, a narrowing of the eyes as the first trill of excitement in months seemed to wake her from a vacant daze. New doubts rose up through murky pools of bitter acceptance to torment her with suddenly amplified loneliness. The air seemed to grow colder around her fragile form as she contemplated the amount she’d be missed. Had she made the right the decision? Fluttering answers to her quandary were illuminated by the warm yellow street light before wilting in the chilled night air. There only seemed to be one kind of escape from her suffering. She had given this world its chance and it had failed her in spectacular fashion. . She surveyed her surroundings. She was standing on an island in the middle of the road, just up from the Catford Broadway Theatre. It was an old stone building, one of the relics of an earlier architectural style, surrounded by steel, glass and concrete like an exhibit in a museum. Between her and the black shape, a junction controlled by traffic lights clicked on and off with clockwork rhythm. Red for stop. Green for go. The predatory black shape continued to approach with immutable momentum.
. Red for stop . Green for go.
. Red, and blood continued to pump through her veins, at least until the next opportunity presented itself.
. Green and… Freedom. Escape from pain, hunger and torment. No more worries, no more chances.
. Her mind swung between the two like a pendulum. Could this be it? Doubts once again started to take flight in her mind. Red… Green… Red… Green… Red… Green… Red… Gre- no, amber. Red, amber, green. A third option? A third choice? She thought of her only friend and wished she had him there and then. She somehow knew he wouldn’t come, not now. Not yet. Not until it’s almost too late. Surely if he were there he’d have an answer. Why was she suddenly so unsure? For months she had considered this and now, now she was having second thoughts?! She couldn’t believe it. Did she really know what she wanted?... Red. The shape continued to approach; now only couple of hundred meters away. ‘So, time to chicken out again then.’ She thought, ‘All this build up for another few nights on the street. Typical.’ She was never any good with making decisions. . Suddenly red faded, replaced by soft amber flashing and she tensed again. The predatory shape closer still, the light kept flashing. She knew something momentous was about to happen. And suddenly he was there with her. He reached out to her. ‘Don’t go’ she saw him mouth. He was beautiful to her in the yellow light. For a second she really wanted to go to him and she almost turned back but the light was green now. She had made her decision and she knew that it had to come to this. . As the end came nearer, time seemed to slow down. The rain droplets froze into miniature lenses as they descended, each one holding its own tiny refracted rainbow of colour. They became crowns in puddles, solidifying into thousands of caltrops trying to hinder her progress. As she swept through them they collapsed in on themselves. The bus advanced on her with infinite slowness. Its headlights reached out to her like lights at the end of the tunnel. She advanced away from the traffic lights. The rough tarmac pecked at her naked feet. She felt a cold, hard object. She looked down at a small metal cat’s-eye set in the road. Eager to experience all she could in her last moments she enjoyed its touch. Cold, resistant and covered with small scratches from countless tyres. She could see Each pock mark, each cleft in its surface in sharp focus. It could have been the surface of an alien world, with valleys like scars across its face, where massive rivers once ran but now lie dry. Dead. Cold… Abandoned.
. The massive shape came closer.
. Fifty metres away. A stretch of re-set tarmac gave her a path, leading her to the other side. It seemed to stretch out to the horizon, as strange and ineffable as infinity. A car passed. With her heightened perceptions it was easy to clearly see the driver and his passengers. He was an older man, probably in his forties. He did not look happy. Behind him in the back seat, three teenagers were sprawled; hair damp, eyes red, as if they’d been drowned. One reached out to her, clutching an empty vodka bottle like some sort of shield. . Twenty-Five. The bus a huge Double-Decker buses. It was so close now, though she knew she had to wait until the last seconds to assure her fate. She brought her hand underneath a raindrop as it crawled downward through the air watching its slow decent as it came closer to her skin. This water droplet could have seen more wonders than she had in her lifetime. She saw it cling to its peers in the clouds, by holding on to heaven so tight, all it would have done is weighed itself down. She could almost see it finally too bloated with the weight of its siblings, being flung downwards toward a carpet of stars. Now a ripple finally ruptured its surface, smashing the tiny bubble to tiny droplets. Each reached up toward the sky, but failed, falling back to earth to be reunited with its fallen brothers and sisters . Five metres. The final seconds. She looked along her makeshift runway; the bus would not stop in time now. She paused for a split second and a jolt of energy burst down her spine, propelling her toward the point of collision. She felt ready for this, having meditated upon it for hours in the park. It was going happen, she had no option. She was not particularly curious about what would happen next; if there would be a bright light, a rushing of air, a heartbeat or oblivion. It no longer mattered whether she would be re-incarnated, if she would go to Purgatory, Heaven, or Hell. All that was certain was that her story was over and that wherever she would go it would not be here. It was finally the end. . One metre. She ducked down, then launched herself into the air with all her might, drifting in a lazy arc toward the point of contact. The bus driver’s face contorted in horror as he engaged the breaks too late. The world became a beautiful, slowly spinning mass as the final seconds of her life drifted away. A feeling of weightlessness overcame her as her loose clothes floated around her. It almost felt as if she could fly. She felt the moment might last forever, but in truth it was only a fraction of a second. She caught sight of the bus number, forty-seven. She watched the numbers grow and swell in size until they were all she could see.
The sale went quite well, organized by DADDY FLIRT, the design collective that has started in our graphics group. After electing to help them set up their gear, it was complete and utter chaos - I had no idea so many customers could squeeze around one table.
...Unfortunately, I believe the rather dark tone of my Zine scared potential buyers off. I don't know how many I sold yet, but I believe it was quite possibly in the area of two. In addition to that, I've been asked to start my next project - an 'image bank'. Out of the many choices of subject, 'habits' was the one I picked - mianly because I can continue to follow my unhealthy obsession with the number 47. I think I might be turning slightly mad, but at least I don't yell at mice with my shirt off.
The rest of the week I have been occupying myself with getting shouted at by my parents and doing MAJOR ROOM MAINTENANCE. The feature wall is now orange, and the carpet comes in on Teusday
Finally anyone with an interest in Half-Life at all (as I am), should probably check out this site, it looks rather amazing
I started my 'Zine project II' and after a lot of brain wracking decided to base it upon the old Russian Folk Tale 'The Fool Of The World And The Flying Ship'.
The text follows;
THE FOOL OF THE WORLD AND THE FLYING SHIP
A STORY FOR YOUNG CHILDREN BY MATTHEW GAFFEN. BASED ON A RUSIAN FOLK TALE.
Once upon a time there lived the great and ruthless Czar Nikolai, king of all the Russias. His daughter, the beautiful princess Alexeya, was courted by royalty from all over the land with offerings of fantastic wealth. But she rejected every one; wanting only to marry the man she loved.
In desperation, Alexeya said that she would only marry the suitor who brought her father the gift of a flying ship. Although this aggravated her father, she insisted until he sent a decree saying so across the land.
a poor peasant family lived deep in the forests of Russia. Pyotr was the youngest, and a quiet boy. His two older brothers often bullied him; they called him stupid; even his mother occasionally called him the fool of the world.
The two eldest brothers heard of the decree and told their parents. They provided the brothers with all the family’s savings, rich food and corn brandy for the journey. Unfortunately, although both the brothers were smart, they were also terribly corrupt, and quickly squandered their supplies through drinking and gambling.
Days passed, until eventually young Pyotr insisted that he also went out on a journey to find his brothers and the ship. His parents begrudgingly honoured his wish and provided him with some black bread, water and the only meat they had left in the house, some pickings from a roast chicken.
Pyotr set off with his meagre supplies, happy to at least have the bright blue sky above, and shoes on his feet. He hadn’t travelled far when he bumped into a crooked old man who asked him if he could spare any of his precious food. Pyotr handed him his pack, but warned him to expect very little.
The old man inspected the sack. ‘Not much!’ he said. ‘Why, there’re two whole roast chickens, two white loves, and a flask of beer in here!’ and sure enough, there was! Together they shared the feast, whilst Pyotr told the man the story of his two brothers and Czar’s decree.
Eventually the old man had to leave, but assured Pyotr that he was sure he would find the ship. However, he warned, if such good fortune should befall him - the captain must never refuse passage to someone who asks, no matter who they were. His words hung in Pyotr’s ears as he drifted off to sleep.
When Pyotr awoke a glittering ship made of ice hung before him, in the shape of a giant dove! As he boarded, it took off and he steered it toward the Czar’s palace.
It wasn’t long before he met his first passenger, who was pointing a gun at some distant target. He introduced himself as sharpshooter, and claimed his aim was so good that he could hit any target, at any. Distance.
The next person to stop the magical craft hopped up on one leg - the other firmly bound double. He claimed that if untied, even the fastest bullet would not catch him. Pyotr didn’t know whether to believe these people’s strange stories, but he knew he had to give a ride to anyone at all who asked.
Soon another man waved the ship down and quietly asked to board. He claimed that he had heard the ship touch off days ago at the beginning of his journey, and that his large ears allowed his to hear across miles of tundra even the faintest of sounds.
The ship was getting a little full by now, but even so Pyotr couldn’t help but stop for the next three people who asked for a ride. The first was an old farmer who farmed straw on a glacier. Indeed, the bail he kept on his back was so cold, Pyotr was surprised the old man didn’t have frostbite!
The second passenger was a forester with a large bundle of saplings, which he claimed were enchanted and could grow at incredible speed, he boarded alongside the third person, his wife who although took up the space of two passengers, made up for it with her good will, and abundant hamper of food and drink.
Singing and laughing and eating their fill, the rest of the journey to the palace seemed to take no time at all. Soon they were at the palace - but on arrival, the Czar was less than pleased to discover that his daughter’s future husband could be a mere peasant. Soon his great and terrible mind set about making an impossible task for his new guests. If they did not complete it, he would banish them from the palace, leaving Nikolai with the ship.
Eventually, the Czar decided to host a huge banquet for his new guests. However, he warned, if they did not finish every last scrap of food and drink, they would be banished from the land. As the table filled up Pyotr’s heart sunk, but the forester’s wife only licked her lips.
Soon the new friends realised how big the forester’s wife’s appetite really was – swallowing whole platefuls of food in one – without chewing! Swiftly the banquet was consumed, until soon the table was completely empty.
The friends from the flying ship congratulated each other for a job well done, gave a special round of applause to the forester’s wife and a sense of calm drifted over them. However it didn’t last long, as the listener overheard the Czar’s dastardly next plan - a bath so hot it would boil the friends alive!
Pyotr’s heart sunk for a second time, however the farmer told him not to worry: ‘my straw will cool even the hottest of fires’ said he. He sneaked out of the group and cooled the fire with his straw. In the mean time, the friends in the bathhouse enjoyed one of the best washes of their lives!
The Czar was enraged to discover the peasants’ singing and laughing the morning after, and said that if they could not provide him with a bottle of water from the magical lake Balkai, by 12:00 noon they would all be beheaded. And it was already 11:55. A feeling of dread swept over them.
‘Oh no! Said Pyotr. We are all surely done for!’ however, lightning got up, and finally requested for his leg to be untied. Before the rope had left his foot, he was a retreating speck in the distance. In fact he got there so quickly, and so early, he decided to have a nap…
When it had reached 11:59, lightning had still not returned and the friend’s started to worry. The listener cocked his ear, and said he could hear the lightning’s snores.
At this point, sharpshooter stepped up an asked to listener to point him in the right direction. He stared off into the distance until he caught sight of lightning - and released a shot that landed inches above his head at the first strike of twelve! The thud woke lightning up and he got back by the last!
The Czar realised how difficult it was going to be to give his guests an impossible challenge, and so said they would be forcefully ejected that night, explaining that without an army, young Pyotr would not be able to defend Alexeya as her husband. On hearing this, Alexeya sneaked out of the palace in disguise to meet with Pyotr.
She told his she was the princesses’ serving maid, and asked for a ride in the ship. They flew far above the palace as he told his story to her, and soon they realised they were in love. Pyotr promised that he would do anything he could to see her again, whatever it took.
That night they were forced out of the palace by the guards, without the ship. Pyotr thought that all was lost, and that he would never see the serving maid again! However, the forester asked for the friends to trust him, and asked for their help planting his magical saplings. So the friends set about planting all the saplings around the palace and then went to bed.
The next morning the Czar awoke to discover that a magical army surrounded the palace! He looked out the window and saw them shake their terrifying wooden limbs. Knowing he was outnumbered, he allowed Pyotr and his friends back into the palace – as long as the wooden soldiers stayed outside.
The friends approached the Czar’s throne, and Pyotr told him his demands. He said that he could never marry the daughter of such a man, but asked for her serving maid’s hand instead. The Czar was at first confused, then insulted when he saw Pyotr point at his only daughter, but she rushed to his arms. His friends added that their only demand was to continue to live at the palace and serve the Czar with their many talents.
Surrounded by an army, the Czar had no choice but to honour Pyotr, his friends, and Alexeya’s wishes. Soon Alexeya and Pyotr were wed, Pyotr’s poor parents moved in with him, and his brothers, who had eventually come back home and apologised for their lies. The wedding was the happiest day on their lives, and they danced late into the night.
And they all lived happily forever more.
The end.
This project never came to fruition. I'm not sure if I'll return to it, however I do recommend checking the animated short based on it, as it is really well made. Youtube
A zine, according to that great web-based phenomina WIKIPEDIA, is as follows:
'A zine—an abbreviation of the word fanzine, and originating from the word magazine—is most commonly a small circulation, non-commercial publication of original or appropriated texts and images. More broadly, the term encompasses any self-published work of minority interest.'
To summarize: A zine is an artist's, usually small print run publication. Zines can be incredibly facinating, inventive, and informative. Occasionally you might find one you really connect with and feel the need to pay for.
The reason why zines are suddenly peaking my interest is because all last week I have been making my own for the latest project. It's called '47' - a number you will come to realise I have an OCD-like fixation with. Actually, here's a link which I found by chance on the net.
47 the zine - is a twisted children's book based on the first scene of a novel in which a young girl commits suicide
My room is making steady progress, it is now covered in lining paper and looks as such:
I just realised I should mention that the game is NOT my work. Someone else put a lot of hard work into it, so check out their sites, Other one
This blog is here to display my creative output, be it musical, literature-based, art or design. At well as a resource for titbits of useful or interesting information. Hopefully this blog will soon become the sister project for Gaffen.co.uk, which should hold the information for my more 'official' work. Basically being a web-portfolio
So why the dead cat? Quite simple really - I was bored in a lecture at Camberwell and drew this:
My main project at the moment is trying to sort out my bedroom, which is in a massive state right now. After it's sorted maybe I can do some real work. Photos to come.
It seems to somehow fit with my practice quite well and thus adopted it as my logo.
