Treasure Trove

My grandma Margaret used to own a vegetable store, which became, effectively, a junk shop called 'The Studio'. I would happily spend hours sifting through the costume jewellery, silverware, and dodgy ornaments or help her and my great aunt Eileen identify the tiny and often illegible markings inside rings of the deceased local residents.

Invariably I would leave with some obscure prize or other; greek myth tableau on a plate, venetian mask (complete with flaking sparkles that get just about everywhere), big gaudy cubic zirconia or glass set rings, and although I always made straight for the standard junk shop addition lucky rabbits foot, with which I was fascinated, I always left it firmly on the velvet covered table top. No way was I going to carry a thing like that around in my pocket, lucky or not. It's a dead animals foot for crying out loud.

This weekend I visited Canterbury for a friends birthday. For the prerequsite hangover breakfast we went to Cafe Boho which we agreed if it is going to have a wall of clocks they should all tell the correct time, or at the least work, the waitresses should not serve flat lemonade, it should sell all-day breakfast (we just missed it at 12.05), and open at night as a bar. We left in the drizzle which dampened the prospect of sight-seeing but on a whim were intrigued to follow a sign that led down some wiggly back streets to an antiques fair.

As soon as we walked in to a foyer that looked like deaths waiting room with a stronger smell of must and moth balls emminating from the pensioners parked up I had a strong but momentary impulse to turn right around and not bother (the smell of old people can be oppressing). As it was, the hour or so spent in that musty hall was a success. Since my experience of gutless thievery recently I have been lacking a watch and I came away with two. A dainty gold Sekonda for a fiver and from another stall we plucked a pretty wrist watch with a tan strap which on closer inspection turned out to be a genuine Emporio Armani. I only had £7.50 left of the required £15 but the nice man relented so now I have a designer watch.

Other purchases were of a beautiful silver and jade cluster set ring, and a delicate silver box chain necklace with silver twisted wishbone pendant, which had a tiny pearl in set which we were informed was from the 50's. Thus, I will now be on the look out for more Antique Fairs for 1. jewellery, 2. glass perfume bottles, especially with atomizers, 3. teddy bears, and what ever else I can uproot from jumbled cluttered tables of musty-smelling bric-a-brac.

A Good Winter

Speaking of side projects...

...Bon Iver's Justin Vernon has been perfectly described as a prolific writer of 'lonely folk songs', and it seems his musical overspill has been put to good use with the final release of new album Unmap, a collaboration with other local Wisconsinites Collections of Colonies of Bees. That is sweet sweet music to my ears.

untitled

Half day at "work" led to watching a mostly undefinable, possible second half of the Bob Dylan biopic I'm Not There. I think I agree with a reviewer who says "I fear that this will be a film that will really interest people who already know about Bob Dylan, and that it will sort of fly over the heads of everyone else", and another who believes "the more you do know about what's out there about Bob the more you'll be able to make the connections with the scenes". I was mainly watching it for Heath Ledger and Cate Blanchett. But a specific scene of Richard Gere's made the biggest impression: the funeral scene with My Morning Jacket frontman Jim James joining Calexico for a distinctly Bon Iver-esque rendition of Goin' To Acapulco.







Which led me to spotify My Morning Jacket after disregarding some musical freebies of theirs I have, half buried in my music library somewhere but didn't have cause to listen to.

The 2008 Evil Urges album is unexpectedly ecclectic, and although James (or, Yim Yames) still has very little on The Mr Justin 'Bon Iver' Vernon he slinks in nicely next to recent discovery Dead Mans Bones, a Ryan Gosling "side-project", of similarly haunting folk-type persausion, that will see me happily through Halloween and beyond.

Crack den or no it was exciting to be there at his humble beginnings

London, as grotty and grubby as it is, is redeemingly full of hidden gems, some of which, if you're lucky, are also free.

This week I was invited to a friend's first public exhibition. I met Matthieu Leger at university, him doing his fine art degree, me doing journalism. Me writing ramblings, him chiselling a farmyard cow from wood and expanding foam amoung other things (she was quite beautiful). He is already a very accomplished artist, having recently returned from Madrid after being chosen for a months scholarship after graduating with a 1st Honours Degree. This though, I am a little ashamed to admit, was the first time I've actually seen some of his finished work.

The Face It venue was in the basement of Hoxton's 'The Foundry', which, apart from the imperial leather soap in the heavily, and yes very wittily graffitied wc's and the guy in the white gimp suit at the top of the stairs who courteously let me leave, I can't say that I managed to take that much in of the place itself. Helpfully however, I have found this review a la fancyapint.com that does a good job of it.

In this case, the basement was host to a collective of portraiture, both painted and photographed. I was particularly taken with a painting of a man sitting, smoking, by Fatime Szaszi (below), which I suppose puts me in the category of more traditional art lover considering the other offerings of surreal, conceptual, and abstract. Fundamentally, I appreciate that which it is clear time and an amount of passion has been invested in it. And that was the case with this exhibition.

Before entering the crack den however, we took a detour to Old Bond Street and another free exhibition Matt had stumbled upon earlier in the week. Jonas Burgert's Hitting Every Head at the Haunch Of Venison is massively involving; his pieces are formed of narratives and I was happily sucked in. We marvelled at the scale of his paintings and envisaged the kind of studio the German artist works in.

jonas burgert at haunch of venison on Flickr - Photo Sharing!

There are so many influences within his work that it is impossible to say whose taste it wouldn't on some level appeal. The collection is on show until the 7th of November so if you get the chance, I would urge you to witness this gem. Unfortunately the Face It show was only on until 24th Oct but I, personally, will be keeping a look out for any more cultural freebies and keeping an eye on where Matthieu Leger, Fine Artist, goes from these "humble beginnings". More to come...

Pretty in Pieces

During some research I was doing recently on natural beauty products from New Zealand either in the market already or about to be launched in the UK and Europe, I came across artist Rob Ryan.


A massively beneficial substance used in most of the product ranges is Manuka Honey and obviously none of the products contained preservatives or parabens. The simplicity of these products is echoed in their packaging, but only Snowberry products caught my eye. The primary colours and jagged edges of the sentimental patterns which bedeck the recycled boxes are peppered with words so striking and poignant that you wonder if Snowberry's founder Soraya Hendesi perhaps asked her emotionally over-developed 6 year old to decorate her creations.

However, a traditionally trained artist, Rob Ryan was born in Cyprus in 1962 and studied fine art at Nottingham Trent Polytechnic before going on to an MA in printmaking at the Royal College of Art in London. Features of printmaking remain visible in his work in the patterns and repetitions, but it is clear a lifetime of experience and emotion goes into each painstakingly and passionately hand-cut design.

Ryan's work with Snowberry has not been his only foray into the beauty world. He has previously collaborated with Paul Smith, which led to this comment on the paulsmith.co.uk - "This is a body of work, which, beneath their overtly visual romance, is almost visceral in it's melancholy. "

Although some of Ryan's work reminded me of similar designs by Zakee Shariff, especially a comissioned book sleeve illustration, because of its production it is undeniably original and his work would look as equally impressive and at home on the walls of an art gallery or my grandparents kitchen.

"They were old, nasty, cruel and unforgiving, but most of all...they were twits!"

Right. That's it. It's done. I. Am. On. TWITTER.

I have succumbed. I have become what I had grown to loathe. And, I don't precisely believe that anyone has more right to do anything than anyone else, but when perfectly anonymous people decide that their stream of consciousness, in a similar vein to one "facebook status" after another, is worth more than a half-chewed peanut to anybody, I wonder if social media has not bred a society of self-indulgent, self-important narcissists.

But, I digress. I am now one of the above. I am disappointed that Nobel Prize winner Barack himself has abandoned his social media trial blazing, albeit for world peace. The people who place themselves within the public sphere at least have the autonomy to encourage or discourage the dissection of their lives and thoughts by tweeting or not tweeting. I could understand why the public would be interested in the activities and whereabouts of the "famous", but who cares about joe blogs?

My bandwagon jumping took place directly as a consequence of a media conference at The National Media Museum in Bradford; Mediafest09. The theme of this years conference centered around Women In The Media, the subject of which I based my dissertation on. During the day there was a vague air of feminist anger, which a couple of the otherwise inspiringly successful speakers verbally acknowledged in order to keep in check.

Generally it was a celebration of the successes of women in the fastest growing industry worldwide and a fantastic exposure to role models and advice from these women. But what struck me most was that these 30-74 year old women were miles ahead of me; on paper a ready to go, 'finger on the pulse', 21 year old Media Graduate. "You'll find me on Twitter" - the resounding sign off after each presentation.

How do I find you on Twitter if i'm not on there myself? So, onto Twitter I went, adding them all one after the other; Guardian Directors of Digital Content (Emily Bell), Film Company Birds Eye View's Creative Director's (Rachel Millward), etc, etc. I hope that by having that tenuous link with these women I will better learn the ways of the professional media world and how, not just to keep up with social media, but how it is best utilised.

My main question right now though is whether Twitter is geared towards the professional or the personal? Because if the wonderful answer is both, then where the hell has the line gone?

Out of this World

I have vowed to dedicate more time to the radio. In a similar vein, this is why I don't begrudge Spotify their adverts. Recently, a tune popped into my head that I couldn't place until I realised it had percolated my brain in the midst of an otherwise lovingly arranged playlist. After a haphazard quest for the origins of the music I unearthed The Asteroids Galaxy Tour.

And, in a bid to encourage more percolation and a generally faster pace of information sharing I will attempt a whistle stop tour of my new world...

'Fruit' is The Asteroids' debut album and although their title begs a science fiction quality their sound is more of a regression to 60's and 70's funkiness. I can gather the Danish Mette Lindberg and Lars Iversen first gained widespread recognition after their second single "Around The Bend" was used in a Apple Ipod Touch advert and they were officially blogged by Katy Perry.

Now the rinkety tinkety personal favourite "The Golden Age" is the song that lured me into their universe used in the advert on Spotify. On repeated listen the opening piano is reminiscent of Lily Allen's "Knock 'Em Out", which I remember hearing for the first time on Allen's Myspace which was bedecked with multi-coloured polka dots. The Asteroids' evoke that similar frolicking, fresh attitude that excited me about the possibilities of Miss Allen.

In other news, second party information reached me recently of another Radio (One in this instance) performance worth talking about. Australian, but now London based, comic Tim Minchin's session with Chris Moyles earlier this week prompted my Dad to share with the family some of his wildly innapropriate - for my 14 year old brother - all singing, all playing, all dicing with the intricacies of the English language in a way that is both intellectually impressive and childishly hilarious musical skits via Youtube:

Throughout that video my emotional gauge went haywire but I have to admit that upon its culmination I could quite happily have gone home with that talented, oddly charming, and wholly disreputable man.

what might have been lost

Cornwall is over. Glastonbury is over. Something like Love is over. Life begins again, something altogether different.

Glastonbury 2009 was spectacularly unexpectedly fantastic; breakfast baps, pear cider, wellies, tanned shoulders, broken tent, Bon Iver. Beautiful.

I would love to take my Dad to next years 40th anniversary installment, he had these shining eyes when I got back and sat rapt while I regaled him through Wednesday's 5 hour bus queue to Monday's 5am trek off the site of Worthy Farm. It took 7 hours to bring myself to shower away the second skin of festival dirt that I wanted to cling to. Instead I created an aptly ecelectic Glast09 playlist of which features particular favourites Brackett, WI and The Wolves (Bon Iver), Tender (Blur), Cancel On Me (Bombay Bicycle Club), Toothpaste Kisses (Maccabbees), and You've Got The Love (Florence & the Machine). On Sunday night I realised why festival venterans keep their bands on their wrists until they fray and break.

I have inherited, as it would seem, my dad's relaxed disposition of time management, organisation and general procrastination, which to be fair he did make a point of apologising for when I was hours away from a dissertation deadline and far from finished. This culminated in a situation thus: project 'garden pond' is suffice to say ongoing, and so on returning from the train station on Monday a.m. June 29th to strengthening heat I was faced with a empty pool of cold water and nothing better to do. Calf-deep in pond water it occurred to me that our garden is not overlooked on any side, which was a very pleasing discovery.

Monday night yoga relaxed out some of my taughtness from sleeping on the ground and unsupportive wellies but again reminded me that I am extremely unsupple. Today is a faux new year; resolve to try Bikram yoga to enhance suppleness, find a job, soak it up, enjoy it.

Things from Cornwall I will miss

Road Trips,

The Beach,

Fireworks in St.Agnes,

Night times adventures on the bypass,

Cider at Lunchtime,

Watching the sun come up on the Beach,

squeaking

Today I have been doing a lot of squeaking.
A tardy deadline had me squeaking in disarray and panic. A beautifully blue and hot day had me squeaking in pure delight. Walking to the shops for Kopperberg pear cider had me squeaking in already quite tipsy tones, and tending burnt raw arms and a bruised nose had me softly squeaking and sharpely exhaling in pain. For today, I got my nose pierced.

In a bid to begin a life brimming with stories of impetuosity and spontaneity, on a whim that had been brewing for a while I strolled right into the Electric Chair in Falmouth and asked when the next availability for a piercing was. I tend to get really nice people whenever I've had a piercing done and this was no exception. My gun man cheerfully informed me he could puncture my nostril before a tattoo appointment. Fantastic. Puncture away.

My next impetuous plans are to complete a ski season off my own back, pass by driving test and buy a classic car (no tax-yessss), freelance myself rich, and finally, create a contented farmers-wife's-life for myself in southernmost France. Yum.

Must remember to put one of my sea-creature themed plasters on before bedtime, been waiting for an excuse...

One woman, one man: Good Dick. It all sounds so simple

Good Dick is Glaswegian ex-pat Marianna Palka's writing and directional debut. Released in October of last year, it was a massive hit at Sundance and won Palka 'New Directors Award' at the Edinburgh Film Festival. It was apparently, but not evidently, "shot for a pittance with friends for cast and crew", including Palka (the woman) and longtime boyfriend and the film's co-producer, Jason Ritter (the man). This parallel coupling comes to light so sweetly not only because the "longtime" is nine years (they are 28 and 29 respectively) but because they produce "one of the most fascinating on-screen movie couples in quite some time." Cinematical

Palka's labour of love is a "battle-scarred comedy about the pained romance of pair of social misfits -– he's a homeless video clerk, she's a misanthropic porn addict." Palka describes the film to come out of fear, a fear of being "an inactive observer and opinionated commentator" and subsequent metamorphasis into "an active, courageous participant in my own artistic journey". Mainly because she has this unashamedly Scottish but slidingly American accent and a slightly odd face, Palka's words do not come across as pretentious or at all zany. If anything they help to cement my suspicion that her film is to be appreciated beyond the admonition, by herself, that it is "a modern fairytale". Good Dick seems quirky in that indie sort of way because of the soft focus and that darkened high-contrast in the cinematography, the twee soundtrack that kicks in half-way through the trailer when the characters desires are realised, and that 'controversial' title. But there is such a genuinely subtle nature to her story and her characters that it transcends fantasy and manages to strike a balance between social comment and something just so beautiful and unexpected it shrugs off the indie-edgyness. This may mainly be because of the blurred boundaries of the acting between Palka and Ritter, but rather than being self-indulgent, both maintain their modesty and their honesty about the films ethos.

The "unique courtship" of Good Dick's main characters came out of Palka's frustration with the myth of "the archetypal lover [that] is no longer associated with film." claiming "It's rare to see a male character who's actually loving." She says "I wanted to reintroduce the wonder of sexuality; the titillation of not seeing everything, the romance of a film about real people whose sexiness abounds because of their authenticity. These days sexuality has somehow become associated with all things false, and I think it’s a mirage." Ritter has said "I was pleasantly surprised by this bizarre story about these two characters that were unlike any characters I had ever met." Palka wants to reintroduce the courageousness and the chivalry back into love and the idea of love, and back into film, into writing, making, and distributing film. Suffice to say, the filmmakers are self-distributing.

Looking for...

Cool Runnings

Unfortunately not a homage to one of the finest Jamaican Bob-sled inspired films to grace the cinema, but some musings on extreme running…

"Every time your foot hits the tarmac, the equivalent of 84 stone (that’s six grown men) thuds through your fibula and tibia. Knee joints grind against each other; the tissue of your meniscus cartilage tears and bleeds internally. For the body to work at its optimum, the temperature of your legs must rise from 37° C to 38° C - making the first five miles torture. As lactic acid accrues in your muscle cells, each stride burns like fire. Blisters throb and burst painfully; toenails bleed; your heart palpitates as the right ventricle weakens with the effort. At mile 12, with your blood sugar levels depleted, you’ll hit ‘the wall’ - as your body is forced to cannibalise your fat reserves to produce energy. If you last until the 20-mile mark, even your mind will start playing tricks on you - the analytical right-hand side of your brain telling your information-gathering left-hand side to just stop. Why don’t you walk?"

Yes! Why don’t you just walk. For god sakes please walk.

Running, even the perhaps limited experience of it I have garnered from my uni gym’s treadmill, can be a cathartic experience. However, after reading this little intro of an article in January’s edition of FHM (an unexpected delight) in which the unnamed writer goes on to interview the "possibly insane" long distance runner Dean Karnazes, to whom this 20-mile opener (or more specifically the 26.2 miles of a marathon) is described as "a mere jog to the corner shop for a Twix" I am less inclined to pursue my dreams of running myself fit around the lauded British countryside, and am more attracted by the idea of copping a lift round the shop for that aforementioned chocolatey snack.

The flight side of the biological human reflex fight or flight, running is second nature though it seems such an unnecessarily painful endurance for the body. This year on 7th April, 38 runners in temperatures as low as -36C completed a marathon in the North Pole, including British man Ted Jackson (see above). I think this man is crazy; the accompanying picture does not discourage this suspicion.

Apart from skeletal and joint damage running can cause the body in regular conditions, especially on hard surfaces, running in extreme temperatures such as the Antarctic puts enormous strain on the heart, presents the possibilities of hypothermia and frostbite, and, without protective goggles, the reflection of the suns ultraviolet rays will effectively cause sunburn to the cornea leading to possible permanent vision loss.

All this sounds invariably like scare-mongering I’m sure, and on the rare occasions I’ll mosey up to the gym I’ll still run the obligatory 20 minutes, and I’ll be feeling the tightening in the backs of my calves, and the burning in my throat, and the banging of my little heart that doesn’t know what its done to deserve this pounding. I used to sprint at school, I chose running over everything else on sportsday, but running like this is not for me. So I’ll come wobbling off that glorified conveyor belt and think if I’m going to be insane for something, it’s not going to be this.

Purpose

Because one of my few but mild passions is writing I have been encouraged, and have eventually willingly, jumped on the blog-wagon. I endeavour the content of my blog to maintain inspiration from these African proverbs, because I think they are often the wisest and most profound;

'Lack of knowledge is darker than night'

'One must talk little and listen much'

'Having a good discussion is like having riches'

I aim in this blog to discuss (albeit with myself) musings, problems, ideas, etc about old things and new things that I like or will later have a discussion with a real person about. To educate myself about the wider ideas in life. I want life to be more exciting than writing on a page, although writing can often be very exciting indeed...