The Hunger

I'm writing this comfortably ensconced in my sofa. Don't get me wrong, I'm no couch potato. Indeed, I'm working from my supine position today only because I ran the Brighton Half-Marathon yesterday and find that my hips and glutes are unwilling to do much more than a few gentle yoga stretches and a stroll in the neighbourhood.



A light stiffness is nothing unusual after 13.1 miles of running and I'm glad to say that the side effects of over 2 hours of pavement pounding are a lot less noticeable than they after my last half-marathon. What plagues me today is hunger, the kind of piercing, nagging, impossible to ignore hunger that will not be quelled by an apple and that demands to be addressed every 20 minutes. I'm sure this will eventually stop. In the meantime, bring on the healthy food!



The run itself was lovely: long stretches on the waterfront, bright and crisp Spring weather, efficient organisation. I especially want to thank the lovely people at Zest for giving me a place to run in this event. It was a really good aspect of my training towards the Brighton Marathon which I will be running for Breakthrough Breast cancer in less than two months. They also made me the best cup of tea I've ever had after the run.


If I have one criticism, it's that the event was oversubscribed, meaning that it took about 5 miles before I stopped being stalled and elbowed by other runners. One of them was Katie Price who, thankfully, lagged about half an hour behind me. Who would want to be photographed, sweating along Katie Price? Not me. They also accidentally extended the total distance of the course to 13.42 miles! What with all the apps available to plan a course nowadays, you would think that kind of mistake could be avoided. Oh well, it all goes towards my training.

Katie Price in pink and in pain


Next event? The Action Duchenne Love Run 2012 which was rescheduled because of snow a few weeks ago. I'm looking forward to a light 10k at the weekend. If the monstrous appetite is still raging, I'll make a special request for a post-run pancake breakfast!

Cold Run

I have never been the kind of runner who must at all cost go through a strenuous training regime, executing every planned session to the minute for fear of spiralling into a tailspin of guilt and panic. I enjoy running too much to make punishing and, as a result, when I miss a day, I'm just happy to do a bit more the following day.


With this in mind, I will readily admit that last weekend was spent celebrating my husband's birthday with winter walks in the New Forest (there were many pony sightings!), a lot of nice food and wine and a great deal of rest. It was thoroughly enjoyable and, after 4 days of this, I was looking forward to a run in the park but when I came back to London I found my usual route blanketed with snow...

Was that going to stop me? Certainly not! After all, I have a marathon looming. So I added a mid-layer to my usual training kit and hit the snow running. Coming from a country where snow is a certainty every single winter, you would think that I ought to have a natural ease in icy conditions. That proved not to be true. After a few clumsy slips that, thankfully, did not result in a full spill, I slowed my pace and shortened my stride to find that this was manageable, if not graceful.

I also realised that these are ideal conditions for trail shoes which have more traction and, most importantly, which are waterproof. That last realisation came when I stepped into a puddle of melting snow only to be left with wet, cold toes for the remainder of my run.

In spite of my awkward start and my clammy digits, this was an altogether bracing and very satisfying run. With the wintry conditions showing no signs of letting up, it's probably a good thing for me to just get used to a bit of snowy training. By the way, I'm running the Action Duchenne Love Run at the weekend




I say, cover up and carry on!

Hold your Beliefs Lightly

Grayson Perry is as famous for his craft-inspired art as he is for his cross-dressing public persona. Traditional form and current social subject matter work in a synergy to give substance and humanity to his work. For instance, the large vases adopt the classic shapes of Grecian and Oriental artefacts, yet they are adorned with depictions of contemporary traumatic events rendered with a mix of traditional and contemporary techniques. As Perry himself says about the violence and politics in his work, “without it, it would be pottery. I think that crude melding of those two parts is what makes my work.”




More than the mere incongruous juxtaposition of form and substance, his willingness to be a public persona beyond the art world also contributes to raising awareness of his work and the ideas it engages with. Indeed, Perry received the Turner Prize in 2003, ultimate badge of recognition in the art world, but he also appears on public affairs television dressed up as a doll-like figure. The Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman, the current exhibition curated by Grayson Perry at the British Museum takes the artist's process a step further.



The exhibition comprises a mix of pieces from the museum's collection displayed alongside some of Perry's new work in a seamless thematic hang that sheds new light on both the historical and the contemporary. Starting from the premise that the British Museum is a tomb of sorts, Perry outlined a number of themes that also inspire his work: shrines, magic, sexuality, etc. Where some elements of the British Museum's collection are obvious sources of inspiration for Perry, some are brought in strictly for their aesthetic qualities or their oddity – a mummified ear lobe with lavish gold earring still attached has a transfixing effect.



The thematic approach highlights the incredible skills that have gone into creating all these objects. It is the plight of craftsmen to remain anonymous and it is not without irony that Perry uses his own fame to honour them. Yet the star of the exhibition is an intricate iron memorial that Perry crafted out of iron. It is laden with historical and cultural references.



The exhibition opens with a customized motorcycle emblazoned with pastel hearts and featuring a miniature shrine to Alan Measles, Perry's teddy bear God figure. He used the motorbike to tour Germany in 2010 as a metaphorical peace-making process with his childhood fears of the Teutonic nation. The object is not something you would expect at the British Museum, yet it is a perfect example of contemporary craftsmanship and sets the tone for the exhibition: this is not about artistic or historical scholarship, it is tribute to those of made the object that scholarship now examines. As Perry regularly states, “Hold your beliefs lightly” and the British Museum won that gamble by loosening their approach and inviting Grayson Perry to play with their collection.
 

Lessons Learned

Sunday was a perfect sunny and mild Autumn day. I was up at 7:30 – very unusual for me on a Sunday – for a big bowl of porridge. Why the early morning when I usually start looking forward to a Sunday lie-in as early as Monday morning? I was running and Grand Union half-marathon.

I approached the whole thing with a bit of trepidation as my first half-marathon, which took place in Edinburgh last April, turned into an epic challenge. The course had been mis-measured... by 5 miles! That is more or less a three-quarter marathon, which was not what I had trained for.

Mind you, I also did a number of things that I would consider to be mistakes I have learned from:

• Mistake #1: Being in Scotland for a bit of a romantic weekend, Kai and I had a sizeable meal with a few glasses of wine followed by a taste of whisky the night before. It was enjoyable at the time but it made harder to wake up the following morning. It also left me dehydrated.
• Mistake #2: I was also very silly to think I did not need a proper breakfast. It was too early for room service but I quickly consumed a few shortbread biscuits and instant coffee in the room and thought that ought to be sufficient. What's more, I had opted not to carry any sustenance with during the race as I don't like having to hold anything while running.
• Mistake #3: I insisted that my husband not come and meet me at the finish line. I was trying to be kind and let him enjoy the lie-in that I could not have but, as I sat on the grass and cried softly while devouring the chocolate bar, apple and crisps from my goody-bag, the thought of having to get back to the hotel on my own was overwhelming and just made me cry some more.

Last Sunday I put this learning experience to good use. I had a sociable evening out the night before but nothing excessive. On the morning I ate a sizeable bowl of porridge, coffee and few glasses of water before leaving. I also carried a glucose gel with me which – no matter how disgusting – I was quite happy to consume an hour into my run. Next time, I will carry one for every hour of the run. Kai was lovely enough to sacrifice his Sunday lie-in so as to drive me to the start point and pick me up at the finish line. All this made for a very pleasant 2 hour run along the Grand Union canal from Uxbridge to Bradford. I finished it elated and quite proud.

Every new challenge is a learning experience and I still learned something from this recent run. My lovely in-laws had us over for a scrumptious late lunch after the run. It was so nice that I let myself relax for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Although a bit of a stretch after the run and a hot shower before lunch had been helpful in dispelling the lactic acid building up in my legs, sitting down for the rest of the day was not such a good idea...

Another run done, another lesson learned.

The Ugly Truth

Of all the painters of the human form, few opt to show its disquieting – dare we say it – ugly sides, in favour of beauty, but would our appreciation of portraiture be what it is without the uncompromising gaze of Rembrandt and Francis Bacon? We think not! All the harmonious curves, gentle smiles and symmetrical features rendered by countless other artists do not come close to the memorable impact of the bulbous noses, folds of flesh and warped faces created by artists who see the evocative power of human imperfection. Somehow, the close unflinching examination of flaws is something that we can relate to on an immediate level whereas the admiration of perfection is more passive, more distant, less affecting.

There is no denying that painter George Condo’s first major retrospective presents a collection of works that confronts us with the most distorted, surreal and terrifying side of our humanity. Did we also mention that they are about as hilarious as they are alarming?

Curated in accordance to a thematic approach, Mental States, at the Hayward gallery, provides a conceptual environment for each and every one of his characters, from the Screaming Priest to Big Red. The first impression is rather tame and reassuring as a series of sculptures of golden heads ushers you along a corridor and into the gallery space. His sculptures are somewhat less striking than his paintings, the additional dimension taking away from the otherworldliness of the impossibly jutting chins and missing eyes. Yet the challenges await at the very end of this corridor with a series of nine more or less mutated portraits of the Queen, Dreams and Nightmares of the Queen. Condo is not scared to deconstruct any image, from the clergy to the royalty, no one is out of bounds.


If you’re not laughing yet, you will as soon as you enter the gallery space dedicated to portraiture. The portraits range from fairly realistic representations of men and women with slight disquieting effects (one eye significantly bigger than the other, a very small head on a big body, a nose that looks like it belongs on a different head altogether) to completely animalistic and fantastic creatures posing in accordance to the classic iconography of portraiture.

This whole menagerie is hung in an old-fashioned “salon style” that is now rarely seen, safe for some more conservative art institutions such as the National Gallery. This approach highlights both the absurdity of the paintings as well as the many art historical references that Condo slips into his work. The space dedicated to abstract-figuration does not have as powerful an impact. The paintings are all on a large scale but, instead of making one strong individual statement, they are covered in sprawling details that require sustained examination.

Finally the Mania and Melancholy gallery is where you will find the most recent and the most disturbing work. Created in the late 1990s and 2000s these works stand as allegories for out troubled times. In Uncle Joe, a man lies on his back, his genitals exposed, a bottle of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. There are soap bubbles floating about him, the grass and blue sky hint more at a bucolic picnic than at a bout of drunken exhibitionism. Yet, the expression on his face is priceless: it’s a truly savage grin slicing his face from ear to ear. Screaming Priest, both an homage to Francis Bacon and a representation of the organised religion’s scandals, and Nude Homeless Drinker evoke the same dissolution of social propriety and dignity. They are both terrifying and liberating. As Condo himself states: “They may not be pretty but I think we can all see ourselves in these pictures; they are so hideous and yet so utterly real.”


You could be forgiven after all that “reality” to want a bit of escapism and, conveniently enough, you can find it on the lower level of the Hayward in the form of Pipilotti Rist’s Eyeball Massage.

Running is my sanity

  Of course, I do it for the many health benefits. It's the best way to get the heart pumping, it prevents osteoarthritis (the most common form of arthritis), heart disease, diabetes, raises my good cholesterol levels and boosts my immunity to colds and viruses.

As I'm running the Brighton Marathon to raise funds for Breakthrough Breast Cancer, I was delighted to learn that the National Cancer Institute reports that women who reported the highest levels of "vigorous activities" (running certainly counts as vigorous) had about a 30% lower risk of breast cancer than women who do no "vigorous activities".

The benefits are not just physical. They are also emotional and mental as exercise is three times more efficient than rest at reducing anxiety. I never think as clearly as when I'm out in the park, jogging in the fresh air. I've solved so many problems by just going for a run that I truly think my life would have turned out to be quite different had I not been a runner.

Basically, running is the best thing I can do for myself. And now it's also the best thing I've ever done for others as my fundraising started last week. I've had my first donation! Albeit, it's from my lovely dad, but who better than family to get you started?

It's been a while...

I know, I know... If you're going to start a blog, you might as well write as often as possible...

I know, I know... It's been about 2.5 years since I've uploaded all about the upheavals that enliven and trouble my little life. It was not for a shortage of upheavals. Far from it, if anything, there have been more upheavals than I could handle over that period of time and, as a result, writing about them fell by the wayside as I was experiencing them.

Let's see... Among the big, epic upheavals, I feel I should mention finishing my PhD and getting married to the most lovely man I could ever hope to have by my side. Then there was the small stuff that is an integral part of life in London: amazing work, lots of art, good times and bad times with friends, riots and public transport strikes, annoying  neighbours, etc.

"Why are you posting again after all this time?", you ask. Fair enough, it's not because I'm experiencing fewer upheavals or have more time on my hands. It's because I'm in the process of training for my first marathon! I will run the Brighton marathon on April 15th 2012 to raise funds for Breast Cancer Breakthrough and it's such a momentous undertaking that I feel I need to share it.

Now I know I can run! I've been a runner for over 10 years, clocking up the miles, rain or shine, in parks or on roads, 5 days a week. I ran the Edinburgh half-marathon in April 2011, I've also done a handful of 10k charity events to keep a bit of diversity in my training. I love running. It's my sanity. The endorphins, the fresh air, the chance to burn off nervous energy is something that I want as an integral part of my life for as long as I can put one foot in front of the other. In fact, I'm running the Grand Union half-marathon on November 13th as part of my training... and for fun. Running doesn't scare me.

Fundraising is another story. This will be the first time I raise funds for a charitable cause. I'm quite proud to be in the position to do so but it's a new undertaking and, as is the case for all new undertakings, I will be proceeding with baby steps.

Tune in for more about this and other upheavals! Once a week or more often... It's a deal!

Not I

Juliette Binoche and Akram Khan, photo by Tristram Kenton, courtesy of the National Theatre

Juliette Binoche is the epitome of French charm for the Brits. She has it all: self -assuredness, natural beauty, intellectual aspirations, cheeky candor and charm to spare. It didn't really come as a surprise to hear that she was invited to choreograph a dance with masterful dancer Akram Khan for the National Theatre. With the financial backing of the prestigious Fondation d'entreprise Hermes to seal the deal, In-I looked like cultural history in the making.
I gladly signed up to review it, expecting to be dazzled by a show of Franco-British magnificence. Yet, there is a true risk involved in juxtaposing amateur and professional dancers on a stage and I have to admit that In-I was a great illustration of that danger. Amateurs, no matter how revered in other areas of their lives are just not in full possession of their body the way professional dancers are. Last night, as I was watching actress Juliette Binoche clumsily plowing her way through the show, as heavy as Akram Khan was weightless, as clumsy as he was graceful, I felt real annoyance. I felt, unfairly perhaps, that Khan's animal grace was held back by his partner.

I made my way home mulling over the review I would write the following day. This morning I was still thinking about it as I was making my way to ballet class. Should I focus more on the narrative aspect and treat it as a play? Perhaps I could simply present it as an interdisciplinary project aiming to offer Akhram a platform to act and Binoche a chance to dance, regardless of the outcome. Then I caught sight of my face in the mirrored wall of the rehearsal studio. My, do I look angry when I'm focusing on achieving the correct form of a plié! Maybe I should start by relaxing my face in class so the teacher doesn't think I'm about to scratch her eyes out. The essential quality that brutally separates the pros from the amateurs is the ability to make it all look effortless which can only come after decades of excruciating daily training. Suddenly, I felt a surge of sympathy for Juliette Binoche who was exposing her incompetence as a dancer to hundreds of people every night, angry face, clumsiness, excessive sweating and all. I certainly would not be willing (or invited) to do a similar thing but if she is, who am I to judge?

Local Time

After a restful holiday, I took a flight that lasted a little over 6 hours, a train ride of about twenty minutes, a tube journey of half an hour and then I sat on a bus for another thirty minutes to arrive home bleary-eyed and feeling as if had been run over all these vehicles. Although I was greatly tempted to drop my bags and to jump under the duvet for a much deserved snooze, I followed the advice dolled out by all good travellers: get in step with local time as soon as you land and the jetlag will magically evaporate (or last less than a week). Muttering away, I started unpacking but just transferred all the content of my bag to the bed, then I started making breakfast but left my eggs in the pan while I sorted through the mail and ran a shower that I didn’t get into right away because I had started too many things and suddenly found myself trying to scramble eggs while folding clothes and looking for the shampoo.

Normally a powerful multitasker – yes I can talk to you on the phone while painting my toenails and watching a film – when in the grips of the effects of jetlag, I found myself utterly useless: a danger to myself and others. I came to terms with this fact in time to turn everything off, slip into inconspicuous sunglasses and head to the Turkish café around the corner. There, a lovely gentleman proudly wearing the thickest moustache I had ever seen promptly brought me a piece of cake (actually, two pieces separated by a mound of whipped cream) and a strong coffee. I was saved. What with the coffee being a much needed source of fog dissipating stimulant and cake being such a good source of… cake, I was able regroup long enough to make a list: Top-up Oyster for public transport journeys of the upcoming week, buy fruit and vegetables at the market (still not bored with my market…) wash holiday clothes, mend jacket for meeting tomorrow. One by one, I tackled these apparently mundane tasks, abnormally proud to tick them off my list. By about 5h I was more or less back on London time, but only thanks to a few Turkish minutes.

Veggie Heaven

To say that I am not a vegetarian would be understating how much I enjoy the primal satisfaction that I get out of consuming a mixed grill or a kebab at the Turkish restaurant up the road. Although I would not be considered a raging carnivore as I don't even eat meat every day, I find that I am truly satiated only after a meal that includes a good piece of iron rich meat. Anemic self-righteous vegetarians often annoy me and I get a smug pleasure out of scientific discoveries that confirm my views such as the research published last week linking soya with infertility. As a friend once said after a talk I organised on the subject of meat, “these people don't smell right and they tend to pair off.” I wouldn't go that far and I do know a few people who are non anemic, non self-righteous vegetarians and I like them in spite of their choices. I am open minded in that way. I just don't invite them over for dinner as I can't fathom the thought of serving a big salad followed by a piece of fruit... I've always enjoyed my vegetable side dishes but they don't make for a meal now do they?
Since I've moved close to one of London's biggest/cheapest/most chaotic outdoor food market though, I've had to come to terms with a new frenzied consumption of fruit and vegetable. For instance, this morning I left the flat with my little cloth bag to pick up milk and paper but I came back with a dozen courgettes (which I will grill with lemon juice, olive oil and garlic for dinner), three gigantic avocados, half a dozen lemons, a pound of satsuma oranges (so sweet and seedless!), a pound of tomatoes (which I will turn into sauce) and a box of litchis. Yes, a box that could easily fit a pair of shoes, full of litchis. All this set me back less than a fiver...

Of course, all that is delicious and healthy and I get to cook and prepare it while I'm writing which fills my little doll's house of a flat with lovely smells but what really gets me to fill my little bag with vegetarian goodies every time I leave the house is the market itself. It's the perfect cross between my memories of living in Congo, my souvenirs of traipsing through Istanbul and a typical London outing. I ask you, where else could you get a “Ta, love!” for buying a big stinking durian fruit and plantain? What's more, the displays are stunning in a mouth-watering way. It's all so colorful: the stalls, the stall owners, their language when they curse at people who haggle. Why wouldn't I want to bring a bit of that home? The vegetables, that is, not the stall owners or their colorful language.

Well, I might eventually get used to it and be able to resist the siren song of this vegetable paradise but right now, I have courgettes and tomatoes to process...

Bring in the clouds

Have you ever noticed how certain cities don't fare very well in extreme weather conditions? As I sit at my computer in my bikini, refusing to stray more than a few feet away from a whirring fan, I'm thinking more specifically about London in the Summer heat.

If London were a person, it would be a city banker. A youngish man, still hungry for recognition but not yet sucked dry by the long days at a stressful job and the short boozy nights. Good looking in an angular, slightly rumpled way, London is both attractive and distant, as if it were withholding the best it has to offer. It needs a bit of a cloud cover to mask the edges and the dirt. Yet when it gets too sunny and hot, London becomes overbearing like an old sweaty uncle wearing a scratchy, ill-fitting polyester suit. It smells and it sticks to you with clammy paws. You want to get away from it but wherever you turn, there it is.

If you think you will have a picnic in the park and get a bit of fresh air, there it is in the form of loud, overweight half-naked sun bathers guzzling cider. Try and get out of London and just entering the urban inferno that is the tube during heat waves will send running to your overcrowded local lido for a dip in lukewarm water or any cinema showing a longish feature (I recommend the latest installment of the Batman franchise: two hours and a half of dark action. Not a minute of onscreen sunshine) for the air conditioning.

People can complain all they want that it's never warm or sunny enough, but I still think London is most agreeable in the Spring and the Autumn. At the moment, I'm secretly wishing for a nice Summer storm followed by a few gray days to cool everything down and get London back to its louche/aloof best.

Park life of luxury

Hyde Park, Summer Pavilion by Frank Gehry in construction, July 2008

If you call yourself a londoner and you don't live in the vicinity of Hyde Park, chances are you visit the place only on the odd sunny Sunday when you didn't have enough faith in BBC weather to plan a trip to the country or to the sea side. Once in a while, I take a walk through the park just to remind myself of the first impression I had of London when I got here over four years ago. It's orderly, pretty, clean. Nothing bad could ever really happen in Hyde Park, except when it comes to art... Indeed, no walk through the park is complete without a visit of the Serpentine gallery.

Each year, the Serpentine commissions an architect or an artist to design a temporary pavilion that will house the events of the season. The gallery itself being quite small, this serves the practical purpose of an enlarged capacity during the tourist laden Summer months. When the Autumn comes around, the small building (bigger than most two bedroom flats in London) is sold to a private collector who no doubt has a huge garden or an aircraft hanger to house it.

This year the pavilion was designed by American architect/occasional jewelry designer Frank Gehry who says of his construction: “The Pavilion is designed as a wooden timber structure that acts as an urban street running from the park to the existing Gallery. Inside the Pavilion, glass canopies are hung from the wooden structure to protect the interior from wind and rain and provide for shade during sunny days. The Pavilion is much like an amphitheatre, designed to serve as a place for live events, music, performance, discussion and debate.” As I walk by, builders are still working on it and the thing looks a lot like chaos: a mess of timber, steel and textured glass sticking out at odd angles. I don't quite see an urban street, I certainly fail to see an amphitheatre, but this is one rare building that is more or less exempt of the dictates of practicality. It is art, it is the talk of the town, it is vanity project. Actually, it is ornament. Like a shiny piece of jewelry that has no purpose other than to attract attention and admiration. It's doesn't really come as a surprise that Tiffany&Co. should sponsor it then.

There has been over the recent years a growing number of art projects funded by luxury labels. To see another example, I needed only to step inside the Serpentine where the Richard Prince show is sponsored by Louis Vuitton. Just like Takashi Murakami before him, Prince has appropriated the legendary Vuitton logo to produce very expensive bags. Is that art? I never quite know what is art and what isn't with Richard Prince. His tongue-in-cheek references to popular culture are easily accessible: car culture, pornography, romance novels, great American myths. Mostly based on found images, they are sometimes slightly tweaked, like the naughty nurses with their exposed lingerie and paint dribble eyes, or just made bigger than life such as the enlarged photographs of cowboys and actresses.

Richard Prince

Student Nurse, 2005

Acrylic and inkjet on canvas193 x 137.2 cm

© 2008 Richard Prince

Yet, the resulting works are so often (voluntarily) poorly executed that it's hard to take pleasure in their sheer superficiality. They are fun to look at but empty and redundant. We get that naked chicks and cars have a long standing partnership in the average pantheon of male fantasies but to plaster the naked chicks on the car is perhaps a bit literal and lazy no? A car plastered with vintage pornography makes for a funny sight in a highbrow gallery, but that's about it.

Richard Prince: Continuation

Serpentine Gallery, London (26 June - 7 September 2008)

Installation view© 2008 Richard PrincePhotograph: Jerry Hardman-Jones

The combination of the Tiffany pavilion and the Vuitton art left me thinking that art is perhaps more than ever perceived like a luxury good. I would be hard pressed to try and differentiate the handbag from the print: the price is similar, it is signed by the same artist, it's just as aesthetically pleasing. What's the difference? Oh, yes, the handbag has a purpose...

That's what intermissions are for

The view from the Riverside Terrace

It is now a commonly accepted proposition that our characters are formed of a combination of innate traits and acquired characteristics over which we have variable degrees of agency. Frozen, a Fresh Glory Production of Bryony Lavery's masterful play currently on at the Riverside Studios, asks what should be punished as pure evil and what should be treated as illness?

When a pedophile kidnaps and kills her daughter, Nancy's life comes to a standstill, revolving around the possibility that she might still be alive and then the need to confront her killer. All the while Agnetta looks at Ralph as the object that will verify a scientific hypothesis: some people are genetically predisposed to violence and can therefore not be held accountable. First performed in 1998 and then revisited at the National Theatre in 2002, the play deftly explores both the emotional impact of violence as well as the rational explanations, deconstructing dichotomies of good/evil, abused/abuser, rational/emotional.


This production uses spare set, lighting and sound to focus on the writing which seamlessly intersperses the gut wrenching testimonies of loss with the manic delusions of an addled mind and the scientific discourse. Quite a challenge for the actors who nonetheless deliver powerful performances. Jack James is especially potent as Ralph, the psychotic killer who oscillates from moments of pure mania to candid regressions on a troubled childhood.


A bit like a kick in the head that leaves you, once the shock has worn off, with enough material to really think, Frozen is a rare theatre experience. I suggest you visit the lovely Riverside terrace during the intermission just to drink in the sunset with a glass of wine and remind yourself that life is not all horrors... Now that's really what intermissions are for.

Looking up

Five days of rain and more to go, I miss seeing that lone little cloud from my window...

Where is God when you need him

If you have been experiencing difficulties getting through to God these days, it might be because he is trying his holy hand at hairdressing in Dalston. Who knew?

Questions I never thought I would ask myself (but did)

What does one wear to a dinner party if the other guests are magicians?
Can I still eat that cheese if I take off all the green fuzz?
Why don't people answer my emails while I'm online?
Why does the weather not care about my deadlines?

Things to do (that can't be planned for...)

Finding ducks in a swmming pool.

Falling asleep to the sound of the rain's pitter-patter on the roof above your head.

Getting lost.

Meeting a friendly fox on your way back home after a late night out.

Failing at something you should be good at.

Discovering that you can do something you never thought about (like putting your foot behind your head or solving riddles)

Forgetting your underwear in the morning and smiling secretly all day.

A.

Have you ever stood by, helpless, while what you thought were the central features of your life just slipped, disappeared into the bottomless pit that lies beyond the limits of the earth as it was thought of before Columbus? Home, relationships, dreams and ambitions plummeting towards the open mouth of nothingness... The void is a scary thing, paradoxically full of emptiness and possibility. Quite a sight that! Some people would say it's one of life's formative experiences but I'm ready to bet all I've lost that the very same people pray they never have to go through it.

Of course, you'll try to clutch at straws, attempt to preserve whatever you can because these things define you, or so you think. Yet, aspirations and dreams are slippery little buggers. They will not be held and so down they go with the love that you had for people you didn't quite know and the desire you had for a future that didn't quite suit you and the hope you had for a life you couldn't quite envisage.

Only then, slack-jawed and bug-eyed, do you get to scream, shout and curse until your lungs are empty and burning. Only then do you get to cry until your eyes are raw and your whole body shakes with the pain of trying to keep what must be lost. Only then do you see that you have been stripped of protective layers of affection, belief and trust. Only then can you see that you're still there, blurry and sad, but still there.

Still there, faced with all that emptiness, all that potential. Still there, lighter of all these expectations; preempted regrets, really. Still there, capable of looking into the void and seeing that you will not fall after all. Still there, capable of knowing people you have not yet loved and finding a future suitable to your desires and envisaging a life filled with hope.

Your life, the aspirations and dreams that you make out of what you once thought was emptiness.

The Invasion of the Pet People

Flop dominating an Easter bunny

Have you ever been in the presence of a truly smug pet owner? You know the kind. The ones that can't seem to have a conversation that doesn't relate to how cute or clever their pet is. Try and tell them that your 10 year old son is reading law at Cambridge or selling crack on the playground and you'll still get the same pet oriented response: “Oh yes, I know what you mean. Buffy is so clever she prefers to chew on The Economist.” or “If you think that's bad, you should see Buffy trying to hump the Irish Wolfhound at the park!” I even have a (distant, by marriage only) relative who would speak of nothing but his dog's ability to run in the woods at night without hitting trees.

I used to think there was something wrong with these people. They had no interests or achievements of their own and therefore projected all their desires and delusions into their dog/cat/goldfish. That is, until I came home one day to find a quivering little ball of fluff peeing on my sofa. The thing had a head so big compared to its little body that it looked permanently poised to topple over. It also had long droopy ears, big feet and a little tail in the shape of a cotton bud. Its fur was a mesmerizing array of grey, caramel and white tones. I automatically didn't care that the little rabbit was soiling the furniture, she was just the most perfect bunny I had ever seen and I was smitten. She was promptly named Flop and, without even realising it, I started taking pictures of her and showing them to whoever would look. I think it's the most amazing thing I've ever seen when she jumps/sneazes/grooms/tries to seduce my guests by peeing on them/eats wires and clothes. I even have to confess to the ultimate Pet Person crime of having a picture of her as the wallpaper for my mobile. Not to mention that I refer to her rather than it...

Well, I had asked for it. Literally. I had half-jokingly been annoying Andrew about getting me a monkey/bunny/goat for months and I have to admire how practical he was in his choice of pet. The goat might have proved problematic in a central London flat. Still, be careful what you wish for because you might get it (if you have a lovely boyfriend who can see past your nagging yet has a limited tolerance to it) and there might be consequences. Yes, I have become one of the Pet People.

Is there such a Thing as a Visual Culture?

Short of going through life with our eyes closed, we cannot avoid road signs, advertising, maps, artworks, posters, graffiti, television and computer screens. They all present us with images that are an integral part of our lives to a point where we decode them in a quasi-automatic manner. Yet, we have been trained to recognize and understand representations of all kinds. From the very moment we are presented with associations between pictograms and words as an early approach to learning vocabulary all the way to graduate academic disciplines such as art history and semiotics, we become unassuming experts of the visual. Maybe this widespread and inevitable familiarity with the visual explains the fact that there is no one discipline that can pretend to encompass all that constitutes "the visual". Or is there?

With The Study of the Visual After the Cultural Turn, Margaret Dikovitskaya aims to demonstrate that Visual Studies have emerged in American academia as the ultimate distinct field for the study of visual culture over the last decades. This is no small task considering that, although this interdisciplinary area of research splicing various aspects of anthropology, art history, film studies, linguistics and comparative literature has existed since the 1980s, it has yet to be the object of a consensus regarding its objectives, definitions and methods. What's more, its applications vary from one institution to the other and, in spite of a growing number of adepts, it is still more often than not aggregated to aesthetics or cultural studies.

The author, far from being deterred by this state of affairs, sees these discrepancies as an incentive to develop a common ground for working in the field of the visual. To be exact, Dikovitskaya aspires to shed new light on this area of study by looking at the way in which an intersection of art history and cultural studies has generated new ways to consider the visual. Her starting point is the hypothesis according to which deconstructionist criticism is responsible for a cultural turn that has helped redefine the status of culture. Where cultural phenomenon was previously seen as the mere response to social, political and economic processes, it has now come to be perceived as their cause.

In order to get the lay of this as yet unexplored theoretical land, the author embarked on an extensive series of interviews of faculty members attached to various American universities. Among the academics who have collaborated to the project, some are established authorities such as Douglas Crimp, Anne Friedberg, Nicholas Mirzoeff. In order to get a range of theoretical standpoints, the academics were divided into three representative clusters: those who believe visual studies to be an appropriate extension of art history, the proponents of a new focus independent of art history but related to digital and virtual technologies and those who view visual studies as a threat to art history. Considering that an academic field is defined by the object of study, the basic assumptions underpinning the methodology and the history of the discipline itself, it comes as no surprise that the author should consider this epistemological effort as a pioneering attempt to present a historiographic account.

The structure of the book is quite straightforward: an introduction followed by a bibliographical essay, two chapters, a conclusion and a substantial appendix. The introductory bibliographic essay retraces all American publications pertaining to visual culture and provides succinct analyses of each tome's specific contribution. If this first part of the book reads more like an attempt to gather the preliminary material from which an analysis could eventually be derived, the second part provides some insight into the turn that seems to have brought about this new field as well as concerns regarding potential theoretical frameworks. This chapter aims to determine what the potential objects and methodologies of this emerging discipline could be, but the focus remains on art history, its methods and its objects of study. Indeed, the resulting concluding remarks serve the purpose of asserting the importance of visual studies by suggesting that they have come to subsume art history: "Given that visual studies treat all images as worthy of investigation and implicated in relations of power and history, from the perspective of proponents of the new field, art history is encompassed by visual studies and becomes, in effect, part of this new field's own history."

For all the material gathered, Dikovitskaya is left with a comparatively flimsy conclusion: visual culture is in the making. Pointing more to the need to redefine art history on the basis of new objects of study -- such as virtual reality and video art -- than to the legitimacy of a brand new field of research, this book still has the merit of being an exhaustive account of the various forms of engagement with visual culture. The collection of interviews alone is of great interest for any graduate student concerned with visual studies and its potential objects. It is also likely to be of interest for academics involved in researching and teaching such matters as it is an informed point of view on the way disciplines have the potential to evolve.