Tuesday, 30 November 2010
Here are some pictures from the set of Bijoux Boy with The Lone Taxidermist!
In it I play the Lone Taxidermist's jewel. A boy covered in silver glitter, sparkling shiny. A boy that she has under her spell, and is exploring her sexuality with.
twisting tugging, pulling, kissing with cloth over our heads! Russian Surrealism.
The Lone Taxidermist herself!
It was really fun shooting and working on the set. I met some really really fantastic people! Great times!
Monday, 29 November 2010
I question everyday where I stand within the corners of this complex world. My background, my identity, my sexuality, my society, my friends, my environment I live in. My family? I grow weary of life because of the lack of tolerance towards each other. I often feel nihilistic. We all say we want unity, peace, to understand each other better, to live and to learn, magic mushrooms legalised, free weed, a revolution, a change, a sense of freedom for all people, all tribes, all colours of the world.
This weekend I went to see an exhibition at the Southbank Centre of the World Press Photography competition. In the show, many different stories and issues were covered, snapped, depicted - in the style of photo journalism, a show similar to Visa Pour Un Visage (but on a much smaller scale) in Perpignan, South of France, which I had the chance to see quite a few years back. From issues of sexuality where intimate, emotional images of lesbians embracing to the tear jerking story of a blind man who adopted a blind child so he could teach the child the skills he had learnt. I recognised a Mali photographer I had seen a solo show of at the FOAM photography gallery in Amsterdam a few years back, an events photographer who managed to capture the lives, parties and elaborate garmented costumes these party goers would wear.
Another side of it was somewhat extremely political, issues dealing with Iran and Palestine. In frank, I found the images from Iran to be to iconic, as if to say, too typical: a man covered in blood before a burning car in the background, a woman raising her fist in the street during a protest. But what did strike me as a beautiful photograph was this years winner depicting women shouting from the rooftops of Tehran at night. Somehow, albeit natural night light, he had managed to capture the light perfectly. The lights on in the windows formulate a pattern from the bottom of the whole scene up to the top. Tehran is awake and they are upset at the rigging of the votes. the images of Palestine left me upset. Politicians use faith as a front.
Beyond the images of nature and sport, in my head I felt to question my origins, my beliefs, my upbringing, my politics. A lot of turbulence. The world is not a beautiful place and neither is my head. I curse my eyes for seeing such horrors. What does a person do now? People being shot smuggling. Oppression, wars, guns, death. Defence, defence, security, Security.
How can these colours of the earth unite. It is surely futile. Baudrillard's fragment reflects this futility, we can only seem to kill, and we cannot seem to combine or unite.
I sat in the restaurant afterwards talking with my friend whilst eating, but my mind was also thinking about this constant dilemma, this split that rests within me.
Again I feel as though I'm wondering in some sort of desert, swimming in some sort of void.
Whilst one side champions for a better ethical world in this way, it completely contradicts the other, who is also fighting for a better world in another way. One just cannot pick and choose as one would like to. One cannot play the bridge it seems. I have played the bridge and I keep getting trampled on. The world is not tolerant.
As a friend told me, Picasso changed every 5 years, and human beings are supposed to reach new cycles every 7 years, I am twisting and turning.
For a long time I have been living in this box but I do not wish to be afraid anymore.
Step by step, I am setting myself free: a libertine.
I met the amazing Steph Horak, singer, raving bean, real spirited girl, very warm and genuine.
I seemed to let myself go to the music, and danced so much without needing to feel for anything else. I was touched by an outer force coming into my body. It did not matter how I danced, how good or bad I looked. I was in my own zone, and I travelled beyond the barriers of self consciousness.
This was the setup DJ Stage.
Rowan was there!
This girl was super drunk and kept bumping into everyone at the party, I'm glad she found a couch to sit eventually! At one point I think she spilt her drink all over my leg. . .
One of the birthday girls Ra, talking to Enya.
Quite a variety of people from young to old!
Nat Hilditch had sprayed a large part of the warehouse with a pretty cool graffiti mural!
Former fellow art student, Katie Martin. . .
Another Birthday girl, Issy Carreira. . .
The DJ was our Superman for the night, playing an eclectic range of music and beats.
It was hosted in the warehouse belonging to the lovely artist Anna Louise Hale.
Issy Carreira again. . .
At 2a.m it was super squishy packed. Such a vibrant turnout of people. I enjoyed myself thoroughly.
We sell our souls at the imaginary crossroads daily. A new day only exists if you go to sleep the night before, but what if you do not go to sleep and stay awake, do we sell our souls for good?Nothing to enjoy and nothing to be sad about. My philosophy will be reached and conveyed by the end of this blog entry, not that it matters. If you are a bum in the street, homeless, considered a pitiful life. A junkie. A retard, an aspergers socially inept fuckup with a history, it is alright. A business wo/man. Critical of life, he was critical to life. To live by the sword and die by the sword. What good is there to worry about the next world. What good is there to worry about this world. When pain is pleasure and pleasure is pain. It's so boring to see the slaves at work. The peasents at their best. To believe in a world before and to question and dabble in the world we believe in right now.
Is life celebrated? is it founded on history? events, captured, recorded. Is it survival that has led to the worlds' poets in every working title to wish to exist. To document life through photographs so as never to lose hope that one day their life will feel precious. For a while I questioned this question, what is it I really want, what is it that people want? these days so much data exists that indeed nothing exists at all. Our origins our quest. There is no real answer so we make it up. We appear to appear for the sake of our own appearances.
I've met myself many times before.
Life is a fucking jerk! just a movement. Dead things move. A rock. A planet, an existence, a piece of matter, a spirit, a fucking ghost. Go fuck yourself mentally, orally, sexually, clinically. The pieces of flesh as they mould. Spores. Flesh eating creepy crawlies and the dust of the earth. Ha! We all fucking move. Even death is not stagnant, its stench moves.
Nothing needs to make sense. Your rational fucking retarded schools of science don't matter, we fade away we come back, we fade away, we come back. We live we fade. We breathe. Why do we breathe? So that we do not remain bored. So that we can smell each others own farts and stench. A smell of human vomit that we love and bath in fuck ourselves in.
The brain is our box. Your brain is your box. His brain is his box. The needle is our needle. your needle is your needle. His needle is his needle. She wanted to die.
Dream of falling, down deeper into the dark. Fade, fade away. Fading out again and again and again. we struggle with money this weird element of this weird world. We struggle with health. This weird element of this weird world. We struggle with our minds. This weird element of this weird world. We struggle with the meaning. This weird element of this weird world. It's simple if you understand that there is no point to understanding. It is but simply a mistake.
He cooks the food an extra five minutes for her in his kitchen, and she dies of starvation.
A medium once came to the door many years before I was mistakenly born into this world. She told my mother, she'd have five and a half children. My mother had five children and a miscarriage. The Medium said that one child would make a living from pen and ink. Sometimes I wish I could draw myself out of the bigger picture.
I understand the orgasm as a malfunction in the brain, a glitch, a spasm, something uncontrollable. The circuit boards get shot. A surge of electrical light zig zagging whizzing past transformers and circuit breakers. A Woody Allen sits in the testicular chamber waiting to be exploded. Its function: to create something far from a mistake in our human understanding... a life. A life is a mistake of pure genius. As we understand genius to be insanity and quite often the two are like the dancing devils under the naked sun running hand in hand in a field of blazing grasses.
A mistake, a malfunction of genius: such is the orgasm.
Human beings are but graven images, cast in the image of the creator. According to religious doctrines, Man was created in the image of God. Artists, and creators all aim to create, to build something from the dust of the earth. To burn our hours of life, existence in order to create new lives, new children, new objects of desire to fuck with our eyes and our minds. A fresh vein for the teeth of the needle to bite onto. Creators are Gods among Men! Creating planets, creating businesses, creating fortunes, creating lust, creating greed, creating desire and envy. What a mistake this world has become and it will not last forever though we cling to this want for immortality. Though we would like it so, the world will not be conserved forever.
As man orgasms each time, a part of his life goes into the act of procreating. A part of his own life is removed, now channelled into his sperm to breath new life into orgasm, (forgive the heterosexual use) off-spring, his creation, his next of kin. Ultimately to implant his genes into a holy hole. A scent of desire, a scent arousing sexual impulse. To achieve that state beyond boredom.
Too much orgasm is referred to as jouissance, when pleasure becomes a form of pain. It once happened that I stood under the shower. This is the place where I let my thoughts flow, perhaps there is a connection between water, my head, and magnetic pulses, something electro, water is a healer, it helps me to think. To shout Eureka!!!!! (whilst standing up) Fuck fuck fucking.
I took a wank in the shower. I masturbated pretty physically tensing all the muscles in my body as if squeezing every ounce of life into that feeling of total pleasure of total jouissance. I concentrated with my mind. Orgasm. To reach a more pure understanding of the human body, the human mind and its function of orgasm. There is this empty place where all men go to for a second or a split second as they cum. Some call it a void. Some ridiculous people claim to see God. I call it a return.
Perhaps it was the heat. As I spunked towards that state of return, pure ecstasy, pure orgasm, pure return, I felt my heart beating insanely, mistakenly irregularly. I felt like dieing, going into shock, I lay on the floor of the bathroom hoping it would pass. I felt faint dizzy, is this epileptic. Am I having a heart attack? a stroke? Thus, I truly understood the meaning of jouissance. The pain of ecstasy.
This incident happened over a year ago.
I understood in that near death instance that since we are made in the image of God, and we are all gods ourselves, the world was created in a similar way. God had a giant orgasm. A Sperm. The world was created. A big fucking bang, a big fucking explosion of cum particles atoms. Macro Micro blablabla heroin heroin.
In creating this seed of life, this mistake of genius, God died of some heart attack from the pain of jouissance. This absurdity is only a mistake of genius, a liquid of spermheads trapped in a rubber bag. Alive but dead. We are the sperm in the condom. Alive but dead.
Alive but Dead I dead, the Mistake of Genius. And it is in this image of god, that we continue to fuck and die. We continue to masturbate each other like heroin needles in veins, regardless of procreation or not, because God was not procreating, but wanking the biggest orgasm called life instead, trapping God's spores, God's children and God's animals of the earth into a giant rubber bag, and then dying on the bathroom floor from a heart attack.
Thank you for leaving me to fuck and wank and bleed and piss and shit and sweat and cum. Without these things I would not be a mistake. How primitve we all are to think that knowledge and the quest for it will make us better people. It is only something to make ourselves useful, to feed our hunger our boredom. Again, our procreativity, endlessly spunking into an abyss of nothingness and everything. Mental masturbation. It's all fucking. It's all heroin. A feeling without feeling. A living without living. A world without a world.
So primitive is our living existence. We even educate ourselves to love and to fear eachother. We invent philosophies about economic structures. value. trade. loss. gain. We try to put a value on every meaning. A value on societies. A value on philosophies. A value on the price of an animal - A value on that of a human being. How primitive. Even my words are primitive. Nothing exists. A value on life, a value on death. River Phoenix said, "I don't want to die in a car accident. When I die it'll be a glorious day. It'll probably be a waterfall."
If I could split up the letters on the keyboard into which ones I type with my right fingers and which with my left, would it matter? I would have calculated a piece of data, but a useless piece of data. However a human being like myself still thought of that idea, does that mean it was useless of me to think of this idea. If an artists has an idea for a piece of work, and they split letters up between those typed with their left hands and those with their right. Does that mean to say every piece of art, an artist makes in this way is useless?
I heard it takes just one person to like your work.
Go rot! you can be whoever you like, you're all still GODS and WANKERS. I'm a GOD.
call me HEROIN
I dream of life as some sort of time lapse.
An orchid opening and dying, withering away like rose.
The clouds pass over, a sun spiralling repeatedly round and round like a fucking halo!
The air we breathe dancing with deadly virus spores, flies swarming in droves. Evolution! A time lapse from nothing to everything and pretty soon everything to nothing.
Existentially I picture myself as a time lapse or somewhere within each of these. A memory fading.
Such a beautiful dream time-lapse. I want to fade, disappear, yet it's the others who wish to capture me, keep me there, to save me! Our once cold planet glows before returning to such morbid premier state!
I want to fade, disappear, but it's the others who wish to capture me, keep me there, to save me! Our once cold planet glows before returning to its morbid premier state!
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
Monday, 22 November 2010
A beauty, a throbbing gem found upon an ordinary autumn night. What beauty in the mundane! Yet how odd that within the mundane, beauty grows in such ways, and its leaves depart entirely unbalanced.
Also saw Tania Maria Rottger (who I haven't seen in a long time) at East Bloc club which ended up being a little too stuffy.
I met some lovely twins, in particular Alex - a dreamy artist/film-maker.
I ended up going to a private party afterwards which was very crazy to say the least. Sunday I spent nursing my hangover.
Here are some pictures from the last time Rebecca Brodskis came to visit London. Tania was also there coincidentally!
Don't Kill the Arts, Tory Scum, Penis Cum, Anarchy!
Stacey McGonigal at the (peaceful) protest.
The lovely (sexy) Film and Video artist Sydney Southam.
The cool, crazy, passionate artist Josephine Lorna Baker.
Myself, Leo Cohen and Josephine Lorna Baker holding a banner which reads "Clegg + Cameron a match made in Hell" sign made by Josephine Lorna Baker fairly last minute at home herself.
This sign speaks for itself.
Again, the super sexy Sydney Southam at the protest! (more pics)
Artists/Students James-Frederick Boman and the quiet but noticed Ivy Mei Adeline.
Artist George Rae was there for the beginning but disappeared later on.
The eye in the sky looking down from above.
Black flags, and you know they mean business Mister Clegg... Mister Cameron!
For a video of us in action, see the end of Sydney Southam's post of the day here!
This ambitious project was conceived by artist Tamsyn Challenger in response to the brutal murder and rape of more than 400 women over a decade in the US border town of Ciudad Juárez and the region of Chihuahua in Mexico. 200 artists have each painted one of the murdered women, confronting us with and safeguarding in our memory the dead and disappeared. The exhibition was curated by the London based curator/writer Ellen Mara De Wachter (pictured below), also known for curating at the 176 Zabludowicz Collection.
A show with extremely dark thought provoking politics/brutal realities... so many faces, so many different deaths and tortures. Beheading, strangulation, rape, bodies dumped naked. It begins to get a little overbearing as each number on the floor beneath each work, relates to a name you can look up in the handout, to learn who is depicted and what their terrible fate was.
A sheer number of faces - so many, too many, what an impact! some sweet and innocent, some unrecognisable, and instead there is a pair of shoes or a locket. Some with barbed wire around their necks others with alter pieces and ornaments.
I found this painting to be a pretty important point. The voice of the voiceless. I was reminded of a song by Rage Against the Machine who have also covered political aspects of Mexico in their songs. "They'll never silence the voice of the voiceless", I think that this show has certainly had an influence in educating people about these attrocities. A politically fuelled voice, speaking for the voiceless. The show was made possible in conjunction with Amnesty International who supplied Tamsyn with both names and photographs of the dead women.
In addition to the faces on the walls, I was surprised to bump into my Swedish friend/artist Louise Hagelberg (whose illustrations I love the most). She is currently assisting a Swedish art Photographer. I was delighted to see her and briefly catchup!
Also there seen with myself here is the lovely Congolese artist Gisèle Nzolameso whose work is also quite activist about the treatment and rape of women in the Congo. Thandiwe Johnstone is an artist in her last year studying at Byam Shaw School of Art who spent many years growing up in Kenya. Her former art teacher was an artist in the show. And last but not least is the beautiful Velevet Zoe Ramos, an artist from Aruba in the Caribbean, who I recently exhibited with in a show in Queen's Wood.
Simon Ould was there sticking out in the crowd with his UV jacket on... Actually I asked him to take the last picture (big mistake) and he started to dick around with the Camera! Typical Simon style!
I had to wrestle my camera back from him!
Leo Cohen, Gisèle Nzolameso, Thandiwe Johnstone.
Gisèle Nzolameso with Thandiwe Johnstone.
Gisèle Nzolameso and Velvet Zoe Ramos.