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Patti Smith: Advice to the young from Louisiana Channel on Vimeo.

Build a good name. Keep your name clean. Don’t make compromises, don’t worry about making a bunch of money or being successful. Be concerned about doing good work. Protect your work and if you build a good name, eventually that name will be its own currency.
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The Drowned Man
The Drowned Man: A Hollywood Fable, production shot

Gradiva is the story of a young archeologist who buries his desires, but of course what is repressed always returns and one night he dreams of Pompeii; it is the time of the eruption of Vesuvius, and he sees his Gradiva there, the dream image of a woman depicted in a plaster-cast bas-relief, with a particular gait that fascinates him, for which he searches in the streets. He is possessed by her ‘lente festinans’. The woman in his dream lies down as if to sleep, stretched along a broad step. She dies (it is a moment for which Jacques Derrida says all historians wish: to witness the coincidence of the event with the archiving of that event). She is like a beautiful statue and a veil of ashes covers her face and soon buries her. In 1907, Freud published his essay on Gradiva and delusions and dreams. It is also a ghost story, unstable and distorted, its happy ending uncertain even when resolved. [1]

In that same year, Freud wrote a postcard from Rome to his wife, Martha. "He invited her to think of his joy in encountering––or re-encountering––after a long solitude, a beloved face. It was, however, as he remarked, a rather one-sided recognition, for the face to which he was referring was that of the bas-relief of the Gradiva, a figure stepping lightly, high up on a wall in the Vatican".[2]

106 years later, to the date, I step into a building near Paddington Station, London, for Punchdrunk's latest production, The Drowned Man: A Hollywood Fable.

Contains spoilers... )

[1] & [2] A London Fantasy, by Sharon Kivland
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Friday Night:

Watched Paedo Roman Polanski's The Tenant. Still a disturbing movie after all these years, in particular its climax in the building's courtyard. Would love to know what Zizek makes of it: teeth inside walls, cross-dressing, people hanging out in public lavatories covered with Egyptian
hieroglyphics. To me, it's a film about schizophrenia brought on by isolation, perhaps an allegory of Polanski's own life - and even foreshadowing his escape from America and life in France.

On Saturday:

Ate pancakes with homemade syrup, honey, butter, bananas and blueberries for breakfast.  Drank coffee.  Listened to the Best of the Subway Sect while reading an article in Uncut about Vic Godard. He became a postman in the 80s and has been in that profession for nearly 30 years, but still recording music on his spare time. Then I listened to Tom Waits first album, "Closing Time", while reading another article in Uncut about how that album came to be created and what Waits was like at the start of his career. I did not like the album (too sentimental) but found a cover of "Lonely" by Bat for Lashes that is very good.

Went for a walk with my boyfriend to his
studio in Bow, keeping track of our movements through the App "RunKeeper" on my iPhone.[2] Wandered to Mile End afterwards and had lunch at a new restaurant on Mile End Road, Box Noodle. Walked through Mile End Park and visited Matt's Gallery. It had two free exhibitions: an installation by Susan Hiller called "Channels", with flickering TVs and real recordings of people who have gone through near-death experiences; and an installation of found objects by Mike Nelson which reminded my boyfriend of "Outsider Art", and for myself of Jason Voorhees.

Susan Hiller "Channels".

Mike Nelson

Walked down Mile End Road and had a look around a small exhibition in the Whitechapel Gallery on the multi-media magazine Aspen, which was published between 1965 and 1971. It was a bit like McSweeney's, with each edition curated by a different person and featuring people like Susan Sontag and William S. Burroughs. Roland Barthes' "Death of an Author" was first published in it and you can see the original draft with corrections at the exhibition. I studied this essay back in Montreal when I was in Uni - reading it again reminded me of contemporary dance for some reason, and the question of how much of a piece is the choreographer's and how much is the dancer's (limitations). Still, obviously, an interesting question for writers and what they create.

Bought pizzas and salad at Tesco, took the bus home while my boyfriend returned to his studio to collect some material he'll have printed this week. Played Xenoblade Chronicles. Made pizza with salad and ate it while watching cheesy 80s Brit chiller Haunted based on a James Herbert novel (somebody please make him stop writing! Won't somebody think of the trees?) The only good thing in it was Aidan Quinn, a bit of eye candy to distract you from the terrible performances, the silly story and the ridiculous special effects. Bizarrely, during Aidan's sex scene with Kate Beckinsale, a body double was used for him!

Next, we watched the documentary The Dungeons Masters, about three people whose lives revolve around Dungeons and Dragons. Funny, fascinating and horrifying in equal measures.[1]

On Sunday:

Had bagels, fried eggs and coffee for breakfast.  Went for a 5K run in the glorious sunshine over Victoria Park. Ran past a Canadian couple we recently met through a Scottish friend we have in common and said a quick hello. Drank a protein smoothie, took a shower, shaved and washed in the bathroom's sink a pair of winter gloves and socks.  Now writing this while waiting for Wink to bake some french fries in the oven and prepare Tuna sandwiches with the last of the bagels.

[1] I used to play Dungeons and Dragons in my early teens - I got all my friends into it.  There's even strong evidence I was the first to play Dungeons and Dragons in Brasil!!!  And I'm not kidding - it was something that didn't exist over there - it was given to me as a gift by my dad in the mid 80s after one of his trips to England. But I'll never be able to prove it.
[2] By the end of the day we'd walked about 9km accumulated over an hour and a half.
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An evening at the Barbican with colleagues from work, to see Deborah Colker's Dance Company perform Tatyana. Based on Pushkin's novel Eugene Onegin, it's a story of unrequited love and tragedy. Two young men, Lensky and Onegin, meet two beautiful young women in the countryside, one being Tatyana.  She falls in love with Onegin and opens her heart in a letter - but he rejects her.  Years later, he runs into her again - this time married to a rich man in St Petersburg - and realises she was meant to be with him... but now her feelings have changed...

The first Act has a large contraption on stage - a sort of wooden tree - which the dancers climb all over, jump from and dance around. The second Act is more surreal and modern, with the dancers dancing as if suspended in the air while light is projected and run through them.  Their style is more modern dance than contemporary - with a lot of ballet thrown in the mix in the second half.

Two interesting details which I thought raised the performance: each character is played by four dancers, and a new character is introduced into the story - Pushkin himself (played by a blonde male character dressed entirely in black which I first thought represented death, and who sometimes was substituted by Deborah Colker herself.) This idea of a character having four dancers works well when demonstrating emotion: four Onegins surrounding one Tatyana gives the impression of "overwhelming emotion" or "excessive love".  And the idea of Colker herself taking turns with Pushkin inside the story was an obvious, but nice, idea of the author never being too far from its creation, and that maybe a love story written a century ago by a man can gain new life today through a woman from another side of the planet (Brasil).

Get Real

Sep. 23rd, 2012 06:49 pm
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The Reality Overload: The Modern World's Assault on the Imaginal RealmThe Reality Overload: The Modern World's Assault on the Imaginal Realm by Annie Le Brun

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is a very academic collection of essays that suffers slightly under the translation from French into English. Nevertheless, it's packed with ideas and polemics on how the dissemination of GMO foods in our world is not unrelated to the information explosion we are going through. In a nutshell, Annie Le Brun's theory is that an attack on our imagination (led by globalisation and French Theory, mostly) has left us incapable of standing up against corporate interests (such as the ones behind the replacement of our food supplies with GMOs.)

I could relate to Brun's views on art: she believes that the excess of information we are under has eroded our courage to stand up and say "this is shit". Our culture wants us to believe everything now has equal weight, everything is subjective. You just have to walk through any museum to see this in the way curators add equal weight to a Picasso and a Damien Hirst. She reserves her final essay for an attack on the French theoreticians from the postmodern school of thinking who opened this door and allowed this disaster to happen. (I imagine Annie Le Brun would get along swimmingly with Camille Paglia). Elsewhere in the book she critics the bodies of Olympic athletes and bodybuilders (non-erotic and only meant for "repetitions"), deforestation, the breakdown of language, and much more.

I couldn't possibly do justice to her book and all the ideas in it. Suffice to say that it's an urgent call to arms for what remains of our world, for us to stand up against changes that are being imposed on us without our consent. If only we could find the strength to disconnect from the reality overload...

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I was having a drink last night with my brasilian friends Lila and Bia at the Haggerston when I noticed a guy dancing by the front door. I couldn't see his face (the pub was dark) but I got the hunch he was cute. The DJ was blasting soul & funk and the guy was animatedly dancing to it with his friends and having a good time. He danced quite well too.

Later, when he walked past our table after visiting the gents I realised it was Michael Fassbender. Cue five minutes of me trying to explain to Bia and Lila who he was, complete with descriptions of X Men and Shame, and the obligatory iPhone Google search.

A woman in the table next to ours leaned over and asked: "is that the certain Hollywood gent I think he is?"


She rubbed her face in surprise and shrunk back into her boyfriend. "He is THE number one... my number one star!"

Just then, Fassbender picked up his jacket and left with his friends. A search through Twitter informed me he'd been all afternoon in London Fields, causing a commotion with his naked torso. He joined some random BBQ with his friends and talked about chicken hearts (he likes them) with a brasilian girl who only clued in who he was once he'd left.

Other celebrities I've spotted since I've gone on annual leave: Boy George (as mentioned before) and Ulrika Jonsson window shopping for specs in Covent Garden (the shop where Johnny Depp usually buys his.)

This gorgeous sunny weekend also involved an unsuccessful trip to Old School Indie, a club night at the venue usually used for Feeling Gloomy (but still run by the same people.) The idea was apparently to do F.G. but with "happier" songs. It was complete rubbish. The DJ played Rolling Stones after The Cure, amongst other barbarities. Bob Dylan is apparently indie too. RUBBISH. And there was nobody there.

While everyone in London was celebrating the athletes parade this afternoon, my boyfriend and I were at the Tate Modern, enjoying the Edvard Munch exhibition.

It's a beautifully put together show on his life work, arranged thematically. I recommend you use the multi-media guide if you visit: it gives you really good commentary on key work as well as an overview of his life and the key historical events of the time.

Sadly, The Scream is not part of the show (maybe they were scared of another attempted theft?) And my only tiny criticism would be that Munch's photos and experiments with film are almost presented as worthy artistic pieces, whereas they are more like studies of themes he was interested in (self-portraits, ghostly bodies, and other things the moving camera made possible for artists at the turn of the 19th century.)

I forgot to mention another "celebrity" I spotted this weekend... Maeve from Dalston Superstars! She was working behind the counter at the Haggerston and she looked well tired. (Or was there a camera secretly following her around for Season 2?!)
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Leigh Bowery by James Birkbeck
Leigh Bowery, a photo by James Birkbeck on Flickr.
I wrote this huge post this morning about Leigh Bowery, Romo music in the 90s, the band Minty, going to see Boy George's musical "Taboo" last night with [ profile] naturalbornkaos, getting inside a party with him for the launch of Grand Marnier's brand experience The Bubble and much more... then bloody Flickr ate my post! I lost everything.

Don't know if I can be bothered to write it again. Here's a photo of Grand Marnier's Bubble on the roof of the Brixton Clubhouse (which also houses "Taboo".) The sun is about to set and [ profile] naturalbornkaos and I are inside it with bloggers and party hostesses, being filmed and getting tipsy on free cocktail drinks:

I don't like musicals and "Taboo" didn't really change my mind. It was nice to see Boy George so close (he introduced it and explained that it was just a dress rehearsal and things might go wrong) and spot the 80s references on stage (no wonder the musical bombed in the US - it's so English-centric.)

The guy who played Leigh Bowery stole the show. Was surprised to learn later that it's a contestant from The Voice UK!

Plans to visit Hampstead's Ponds today have been scuppered. Might do it Monday or Tuesday if weather allows. Latest plan is to visit Edvard Munch's exhibition at the Tate and do the whole shebang: full price entry, electronic guided tour, cappuccino in the bar.

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It turns out Matthew Robins has a channel on YouTube! Here's a taste of his performance, also filmed at the Little Angel Theatre. So, so good...

Up the Tree

Jan. 8th, 2012 12:24 pm
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Tree by MorningDropsofDew
Tree, a photo by MorningDropsofDew on Flickr.
Goths up trees!

Last week, in a beautiful synchronicitous moment, I discovered UbuWeb through a blog I follow on Tumblr that mentioned Andy Warhol's complete diaries were available for free to download just as [ profile] wink_martindale came rushing into the room with the excited announcement that tons of art films are available there for free (Brian Eno, Bruce LaBruce, Jacques Lacan, Mapplethorpe, and many many more.) Such a great resource, much like

Where will we ever find the time to watch, read and see all the great things that have been created (and still exist)? Oh - I know - stop watching and reading so much crap! (My New Year's resolution.)

Last night, I went out in search of a lesbian bar with B, a friend who is single, gay and doesn't know many girls in London. This city is tough for lesbian establishments: for every 50 crowded gay bars filled with sweaty men there's 1 pub in the middle of nowhere with four lesbians playing pool and a young couple nooking in the corner. Where do London lesbians go on weekends? Who do they need to know? I refuse to believe there are more gay boys than girls in this city.

Edit: Just discovered another great site through The Observer: Edge.
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Miranda July, The Future, 2011
I visited the Hackney Picture House with a couple of friends today for the first time , to see Miranda July's new film. Hackney Picture House is a lot like the Rich Mix near Brick Lane, but better laid out: it also has a stage for live music and literature nights, areas for art exhibitions, food and drinks for sale and plenty of sitting space. We were happily impressed by it.

This is the first time I see a Miranda July film (I've only known about her short stories.) I didn't know what to expect which helped me get into the movie (helped by the Picture House's extremely comfortable, reclining seats.) I'm not a big fan of American Quirk/Twee (i.e. Napoleon Dynamite), but The Future worked for me. It's not a film trying to be cool or win an indie audience; it's very centred on Miranda's background in literature, dance and art (some could think of some aspects of it as a little pretentious) but it had enough humour and darkness, I thought, to counterbalance it. Miranda, who wrote and directed it, plays one half of a couple living in L.A. who are on the brink of entering their mid-30s life crisis. There's a print of Escher's on the couple's wall which keeps reappearing in the movie, and it was a smart symbol of the story's structure and the characters' problems: they are stuck in these patterns they can't get out of, trying to make sense of their lives (find meaning and direction), but they keep returning to the same spots.  To which one of my friends added that, also like the Escher's print, their lives are sort of wonderful.

Every time I think American cinema is dead and there's nothing remotely interesting coming out of there, a film comes along to shut me up.
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Most Brasilians dream of one day visiting Portugal just as I imagine most Americans wish to eventually cross the ocean and take pictures of themselves outside Buckingham Palace. It's one of those things that is drilled into us from school: this is the country that discovered you, that you fought against to gain your independence, that you now have a special relationship with thanks to shared history and language.

Last week, at the height of the riots across the UK, [ profile] wink_martindale and I hopped into a plane in Stanstead (terrified we'd encounter rioters as we took the No. 8 bus at 4am to the train station) and flew to Spain for 8 days of traveling down the Iberian coast to Lisbon. We visited Bilbao, Gijón, Ferrol and Galicia in Spain; and Braga, Aveiro, Lisbon and Porto in Portugal.

Spain and Portugal are very similar to France in the widespread restaurant and café culture, except that they mostly specialise in sea food. Alcohol is very cheap and the food is mostly excellent, sometimes really great. Watch out though for the bread and butter placed at your table without your request - if you eat from it, you pay for it.  We found the Spanish and Portuguese to be friendly and helpful.

The Portuguese are obsessed with that American reality show "The Biggest Loser" - they have marathons of it on the telly as well as their own version of it. In stores, you see all sorts of Wii games dedicated to the show. I'd always heard that their tellies were filled with Brasilian soaps but I didn't spot any. Fado was played in touristy restaurants, Arcade Fire in the ones used by residents.

I didn't like Lisbon very much: it was decadent, decrepid, dirty, crumbling, depressing and a little creepy. But I also saw loads of potential there for rejuvenation - it needs some kind of artist revival that breaks through the hashish haze and brings life and vibrancy back to the streets. This bit of urban art was sweet and inspiring, reminding me of projects here in London that involve community residents: it was an exhibition of photos of elderly residents that lived in the hills surrounding the city's castle; a sort of remembrance. We also saw some great graffiti, including this strange altar in a dead end alley. Sadly, there was also a lot of rubbish tagging that spoiled the beautiful, historical buildings.  Loads of grand homes that would be worth millions in London were completely abandoned, boarded up, trashed.

Porto was lovelier and I want to visit it again. Beautiful beaches that are close to town, loads to see - our day and a half there wasn't enough.  I'd like to go back for a week and have time to spend days on the beach, swim, discover all of Porto's bookshops and history.


Jun. 1st, 2011 01:40 pm
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Guernica is a great online magazine on art and politics:

Do you know any good online magazines you can recommend?
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Untitled by Mr. Van Dinh
Untitled, a photo by Mr. Van Dinh on Flickr.
The Universe is like a dark forest - it is important to keep silent to avoid hunters. Alien civilisations do not reveal themselves, as to do so would be to invite destruction.
- Liu Cixin

There's a free exhibition currently on at the British Library which looks at the history of science fiction through books. All sorts of books: novels, science papers, greek myths, religious texts and essays.

I unfortunately didn't have a chance to see it all because the Library closed half way through my walk. I did however manage to buy the gorgeous book on the exhibition, Out of this World, and promise myself a return very soon.

The only thing that left me scratching my head was the inclusion of Neil Gaiman. He's a fantasy writer, not sci-fi (as far as I know). And he's a crap fantasy writer. But I suppose exhibitions need to cater to all tastes, even the poor ones...

This Is It

Mar. 22nd, 2011 08:20 am
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What It IsWhat It Is by Lynda Barry

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This is the most beautiful and fun creative writing book I've ever read (and I've read quite a few of them.) It's a mixture of graphic novel, art collage and creative exercises to get your imagination flowing and your pencil moving. Lynda's way of getting to a story is through the exploration of the image and the reclaiming of playfulness (remember when you told stories and drew pictures just for fun?) Her exercises are simple but effective, and her point is that writing lies in the exploration of the world around us and our memories. When we master the ability to visualise what has come before (favourite dogs, school friends, etc) we build confidence in exploring what is completely made up.

The first 2/3 of the book tells the story of Barry's journey from a little girl who liked to draw to a woman who publishes books. The final section are the exercises. My favourite is the "Image Bag". You collect images from magazines and put them in envelopes that go into a bag. Whenever you want an image, pick an envelope from the bag and imagine yourself either as the viewer of the scene in the image or one of the people in it.

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Ben Rivers Slow Action
Slow Action is a post-apocalyptic science fiction film that brings together a series of four 16mm works which exist somewhere between documentary, ethnographic study and fiction.

Continuing his exploration of curious and extraordinary environments, Slow Action applies the idea of island biogeography - the study of how species and eco-systems evolve differently when isolated and surrounded by unsuitable habitat - to a conception of the Earth in a few hundred years; the sea level rising to absurd heights, creating hyperbolic utopias that appear as possible future mini-societies.
You arrive outside a gallery near Mile End, between the park's sports' field and Regent's Canal.  It's not yet 12 noon so you sit on nearby picnic table and wait.  You talk to [ profile] shuffle81 and [ profile] wink_martindale about the gorgeous weather. Three friends sitting nearby chat along the same lines and sip coffee. A girl chains her bike and stands by the gallery's door until it opens. 

It's dark inside and you can barely distinguish the girl who hands everyone high-tech headphones.  She shows where to adjust volume before another door is opened into a screening room.  A woman with a foreign accent speaks softly into your ears while the images on the screen move through an alien desert-like landscape.  It takes you a moment to realise that people are sitting on black leather bags on the floor.  You slowly inch forward and find one for yourself.  For the next forty five minutes you visit the post-apocalyptic societies of Eleven, Hiva (The Society Islands), Kansennashima and Somerset.

To me, this is true science fiction: it's our world viewed through an old camera but at the same time made strange and remote by the stories, facts and figures given by the narrator.  It's here and it's nowhere, it's ideas over action, it's completely devoid of clichés.  It's perfectly formed and delivered, from the gallery's setting to what's on screen.  True science fiction makes you look outside the window and shudder, makes you step out of your comfort zone, even if for a little while, and question the structures and lives around you.  It makes you look leave the screening room and see the outside through new eyes. 

Slow Action
ends today.
commonpeople1: (Jehovah's Witness)
I went into Waterstones during my lunch break yesterday, just to kill some time, and came out carrying three books: Sarah Waters' The Little Stranger (ghost story), C. J. Sansom's Dissolution (crime novel set in Thomas Cromwell's time) and Peter Ackroyd's The English Ghost. I wanted to buy this last one after reading a review last week that the English are the people on the planet to have reported the most ghost sightings. Ackroyd has put together a collection of newspaper stories, diary entries, etc, on reported ghost sightings. His introduction is worth the price alone. To me, Christmas holidays are all about ghosts and murder, so I'm pretty happy about these books.

In the evening, I went to the Royal Opera House with a colleague for their annual Firsts season. These are collections of performances - of all kinds - from young artists and companies. It's a way for the ROH to support recent graduates and for people like us to discover new talent we can commission. The one performance that really stood out for me was Ten, by Hetain Patel, which was a mixture of stand up comedy, choreography, music and a study of heritage and language... and more! It was really cool.

I chatted to my colleague about my impending contract termination (ends in the middle of January) and she confessed that it would be great for me to stay on. It's similar to what my boss has said but unfortunately I'm not allowed to apply for the new position being created until everyone in the council at risk of termination has a go. If none of them get it, I'm allowed to apply.

Onwards and upwards. Have started glancing at job listings again.
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Can someone who is as thick as shit, badly-dressed, arrogant and an all-round dick head produce good art? I asked myself this question a few times on Thursday night during the launch party for an art project related to my job. The artist commissioned for the project delivered a great piece which will undoubtedly have an effect on the public space it was foisted on, but in person she's a nightmare to deal with: stupid, annoying, self-absorbed, unrealistic, smug and rude... I often run out of negative adjectives when I try to think of the best way to describe her.

She ruined the night for my colleague, shouting at her when the £300 open bar came to an end and she wasn't yet drunk. The irony is that she arrived too late to join her guests, who drank a lot, had a good time, and praised the work to no end; it was only her who got a meager free glass of wine and had to pay for the rest of the drinks. She shot herself in the foot by complaining out loud about us, right in our face - the people who gave her the grant and might be in control of her destiny the next time she faces a panel after a new commission. Stupid cow. I hope her art career is ruined for good.

I have no doubt that Hercules and Love Affair are unlike her - gods and goddesses of sweet beyond the beautiful music they create. Last night, they filled a small venue underneath London Bridge with people willing to get sweaty for a bit of their power 70s hypnotic disco. Donna Summer's "I Feel Love" with Vogue arms. Big phat beats (I can't believe I just used the word phat) that gave way to dance pop and a constant call for us to get our hands in the air (we did.)

Then a sound problem and most of the people who were there for the wrong reasons (art dealers from the Frieze fair only interested in networking; blokes who don't do much apart from stand around drinking pints) left, creating the space for the rest of us to spread out and really let loose when they returned for 4 stomping diva songs.

This video was recorded in Rome three days ago. Same gig vibe, same version of "Blind", same outfits. You'll get last night's feel:

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Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg

Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones, 1986
I've now read this book three times. I was first introduced to it during university by a friend who described it as the perfect book for "not only writers but all types of artists." And he was right: the way Natalie talks about the life of the writer and the approaches to creating can also be applied to photography, painting, interpretive dancing, etc. It's a natural follow up to Allen Ginsberg's theory on poetry and writing which he taught during the 70s and 80s - and which Goldberg learned as his student - mixed with Zen philosophy and a lot of her own personal wisdom. It's a call for the artist to become aware of the world around herself/himself as a way of creating meaningful, honest and powerful art. The book is divided into brief chapters that can be read in any order and are filled with creative writing exercises and thoughtful divagations on being an artist. It won't teach you how to develop a story arc or create conflict in the third chapter, but it will give you hope on the powers of writing (or painting, or photographing) bringing out the artist in yourself.
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Yesterday was my community garden's Harvest Festival. [ profile] wink_martindale and I helped with the children's workshop tent though we also lent a hand with the collection of lettuce from the beds beforehand, setting up tables, etc. The Festival was more of a neighbourhood party and lasted only five hours but I was completely knackered by the end; children's bundle of energy rely heavily on taking your own! But it was really good fun and we were all glad that the sun came out, attendance was high, there was a trio of musicians that added greatly to things and everyone enjoyed themselves.

I was happy to see [ profile] amypops, her boyfriend David, [ profile] kirstenlj and [ profile] yaruar with their children. I got to tell them a little about what my previous Saturdays have been like at the garden and perhaps seduced them into joining me in future visits. They stayed longer than they intended to, which says it all really.

The children's workshop consisted of dyes made from beetroot and berries, brushes and potatoes carved to make shaped stamps (stars, triangles, hearts, teardrops...) The kids lightly daubed the stamps with the ink and pressed it onto the paper. The photo above is the mural I created from their work.

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