Face Paint.

This week I realised that instead of my pretty much constant make-up serving to make me look more groomed and grown-up, it's been masking flaws by way of making me look...younger! How and when did this happen? I may be 30, but I more often than not still get asked for ID when out of an evening visiting the choicest nightspots.

It may be because my fragile skin has been chapped beyond recognition by the biting Netherlandish air. Never have I felt cold as such experienced when trekking through Amsterdam in a blizzard between Waterlooplein and the Van Gogh Museum. Snow can be horizontal and razor sharp.

Alex and I only ever seem to holiday when and where it's freezing cold. Often in February around the time of his birthday. I don't know if it's because it's exactly 6 months away from my birthday, so gives me something to brighten the winter months, or if it stems from my distaste for overly hot weather -my Mum is still highly amused by my behaviour on a holiday to Italy in an August heatwave, during which I turned 17. I spent the majority of the time either at the shower block or beneath a parasol. The day we visited Venice I was positively wilting! Or if it comes from my confusion about and misunderstanding of why my fellow Brits seem to vacate our fair Isles at the time of year when our own weather is at its best...?

Our February trips have included Paris, Whitby and Glasgow -the latter is a close contender for coldest holiday ever, and if it wasn't for a kindly IMAX manager sharing the last taxi running, we would have been stranded, yet again in a blizzard -do you see the pattern emerging? -and quite possibly perished from hypothermia.

Unfortunately on the latest trip, the climate rendered me incapable of either removing my gloves, or pausing to take many photgraphs of the surprisingly beautiful (I didn't know what to expect!) Amsterdam. But then, at least I'm not the sort that believe if a photo wasn't taken it didn't happen. Memories count more than a million bunches of megapixels.

I haven't flown many times, so I remain fascinated by the snowy peaks of clouds glimsped through the plane windows, and so inkeeping with our wintery theme.

I also had no idea that Amsterdam was such a destination for deliciousness. I'm no great adventurer, and I swear by my DK Eyewitness Travel guides. How terribly mainstream! And this time we went as far as to eat at 2 restaurants the guide recommended -and weren't disappointed! Fondue and entrecotes at Cafe Bern were the ideal way to thaw out two tremoring travellers.

Plus we had the privilege of sharing pastries with some of the locals...

I'd read that Amsterdam is full of both pigeons and stray cats. Sadly we only made two new friends of the feline variety, but were treated one day to a pre-breakfast spectacle of half a bloodied mouse. Fortunately being 'straight edge (!)' I wasn't nursing any narcotic nausea from the night before!

I also went quite mainstream (for me) in my enjoyment of the Van Gogh Museum. I can be a bit snobby with my art when I want to be, and deny my enjoyment of the artists the world and his dog love, but I have to say, a desire to paint again has been ignited (I recall feeling similar stirrings but a couple of years back-

('all cried out' post, October 2009)

and now I'm feeling inspired enough to have a root through my art cupboard and see if I still have any oil paints hiding there. It's about time I took a break from intricacy, and daubed paint on canvas with wild abandon...

Vincent Van Gogh, 'Wheatfield with Crows', 1890

I shall definitely visit Amsterdam again, although perhaps when it's slightly more temperate. I was able to do the two things I most desperately wanted to -along with Van Gogh there was the Anne Frank House. I was moved to tears. I am now reading her diaries, and am intrigued by what the teenaged mind is capable of when subjected to such extreme, heightened situations. Not that I want to in any way mitigate the horrors of the holocaust, or liken the experiences of the occupants of the secret annexe to the triviality of an American TV show, but I can really see why Angela Chase from 'My So-Called Life' was shown to identify with Anne.

"I'm starting to like Anne Frank."
"Is she a sophomore, too?"
"No, she's dead."
"Oh."

So anyway, until the weather warms and I venture across the Noordzee again, I'll occupy myself with painting, whether the surface is canvas, or my fair and flimsy face.

Of Corpse

My latest masterpiece (?!) in progress...

This is my happy face, by the way.

The inspiration is the Surrealist 'exquisite corpse' -like that old parlour game we all played as children. Players fold a piece of paper and take it turns to each draw a section of the body, resulting in fanstastical beasts, horrific chimeras or comedy gold.

Joan Miro

More contemporary examples by Jake and Dinos Chapman

Surrealism was all about creating a sense of bewilderment with unexpected juxtapositions. Like the random imagery of dreams. I try to use that kind of idea in my collages, and often find that the less obsessive thought I put into what objects or images go together, the better. It seems more natural, more automatic. Trying to avoid the censoring parts of our brains.

Although you will see that I dressed to match my art work, so not so random after all.

I will re-attach the lids to the boxes, and fix the boxes together, for a result almost like when a magician cuts his assistant into half or three. I always thought 'My Glamorous Assistant' would be a good name for a band. My friend Natalie used to be a magician's assistant. She could tell you some stories about that... 

I do a similar idea with the folded paper at work as a self esteem exercise. With a group, we each start with a piece of paper, which is passed around the group for each participant to write something positive about the person whose piece of paper it is. Each person folds the paper to cover their comment, then passes it on to the next. When everyone gets their paper back they are left with a page of the lovely things that others think about them.

I'm not sure the Surrealists would approve of such niceness, but this is my struggle -the dark and the delightful.

Hand. Made.

It seems a rare treat these days when our computer even switches on, let alone is happy to do anything. This is my excuse for not blogging, and I'm sticking with it!

I thought technology was supposed to make everything easier? I continually yearn for the days when it was okay to do everything by hand -sew, write letters..., which brings me seamlessly to the subject of today's ramblings.

'You bite your nails? Its a bad habit. People always tell you that the eyes are the windows to the soul. Bullshit its your hands, thats the sign of a gentleman.'
     -Robert De Niro in Alfonso Cuaron's 'Great Expectations' (1998)

If memory serves me correctly I saw this film 8 times at the cinema. Very clever use of colour, addictive soundtrack (look for 'Like a Friend' by Pulp on Spotify), and the strange and captivating artwork of Francesco Clemente, that is the real star.

I've been working on ideas for a flyer for my Step Mum, who is considering setting herself up doing reiki -which to my understanding is energy from the hands (I am probably very wrong about this!) -hence my doodled hands with rainbow glowing fingertips.

A healthy hand has five digits, and five is a good number. Stylistically I always think odd numbers look better than evens, which I think may be part of why I've become a bit fixated with drawing rudimentary hand shapes at the minute. I like the way my hand/trees turned out (see previous posts).

At work some of the young people made a Christmas tree by drawing around their hands on green paper, cutting them out, decorating them and assembling together -very Strangelord! And it wasn't even my idea!

I am yet to meet a grown adult with smaller hands than mine.

I remember when I was a small child my Mum calling them my 'little dannies'.

Once I when I had steroid cream for my eczema, and having an attic bedroom I could never be bothered to go donwstairs and wash my hands after applying it. The skin on my fingertips thinned so much that my finger prints had practically smoothed away. I did not take full advantage sadly, and committed no crimes.

I used the 'Great Expectations' quote in my dissertation for my Art Foundation course, after a module spent studying hands -different methods of depicting, and in others' art. It is difficult to believe that this is almost 12 years ago! I was introduced to Egon Schiele when a lad in my tutor group said my line drawings were reminiscent of the controversial Austrian. Although anyone who knows me well, knows I am far from controversial.

I revelled in painting PVA on my hands and peeling it off like shed skins for in my sketch book.

I pride myself on a steady hand. I think it's all the practice of obtaining precise flicks of eyeliner, and carefully arranging minute beads, bits 'n' bobs in certain collages. 

I maintain that 'Hand in Glove' is one of the best songs ever written.

So whatever I use my hands for this festive season -modelling a selection of nice mittens, throwing snowballs (I wish...!), wrapping presents worse than I did when I was 5, clapping along to Christmas songs, waving farewell to the old year and hello to the new, maybe actually having the time to do some art. Not punching computers! I'll be sure to stay strange.

Probably see you in 2012...

Emin-spirations

I was reminded of two things last week:-

What a ridiculously, hilariously bad film 'Creep' is. If you haven't seen it, the monster is called 'Craig'...and it gets worse...(come to think of it, I have known some monstrous Craigs in my time...)

The second thing I was reminded of is how much I adore and admire Tracey Emin.

I didn't mean to emulate her when I was at art college, and I did get slightly offended by comparisons, I mean, I'd never leave my bedroom in that state, the Monica that I am these days, but looking back...

Tracey was featured on BBC's 'Who Do You Think You Are?', investigating the maternal side of her family, finding a history of reform school boys and artisan gypsies (sadly I don't think my family tree bears any such romantic fruits. My Grandparents thought our family ran a workhouse. My Dad disputes this...)

The woman makes me smile. She's like the bad bits of me amplified. Drunk on TV. Back in the vodka days I must confess there were times my bedroom might have been slightly like hers. The tears, the ramblings.

My unconscious channelling of her aesthetic themes has at times included the use of text (I LOVE text in visual art), the use of traditionally feminine crafts taken out of context and given unexpected, inappropriate or sinister meanings, and self as art. I think I'm self obsessed...Ms. Emin's work is as intensely personal as it comes. Literally laid bare.

Her collected writings 'Strangeland' is about the most elating and abject in-equal-measures bunch of words one could ever cast their eyes and their heart over. Makes me wish I'd continued to keep diaries (possibly would have if it hadn't been for little brothers' prying eyes).

I read an old diary recently. THAT was depressing!

I was genuinely heartbroken when I learned of the fire at the Momart warehouse in 2004, in which Emin's controversial appliqued tent 'Everyone I Ever Slept With' was destroyed. The tabloids had a field day... "Didn't millions cheer as this 'rubbish' went up in flames?". It annoyed me that so many people took 'slept with' as the euphemism it is commonly used for, and not in it's literal sense -a tribute to everyone Emin ever shared a bed with, including family members, I feel is a really sweet sentiment. But it's that play on words and opening herself up to misinterpretation which only enhances the art. 

Her gorgeously sensitive line drawings make me know I really need to get my sketchbook out more. Whether she's depicting dainty birds, copulating couples, or said dainty bird perched on a penis. Come on, you gotta see the funny side?!

She's everything I wanna be when I grow up, and everything I won't be because I haven't got the guts. And even though I'm teetotal, I'm sat in my bedroom, listening to Hole, thinking I'm eighteen and getting all post-feminist on your ass, filling art shows with photos of me and plaster casts of contraceptives...(anyone who saw my 18+ art foundation final show knows what I'm talking about...!)

Oh, and just so you know, I will be wearing leopard print 'til I'm 90.

arty cats (or avatar adventures)

Gosh, has it really been this long? It's terrible I know! I have been busy though, what with turning 30 and hosting the biggest party since I was 8 and demanded a 'present tree' (I got the idea from a book -how many 8 year olds do you know who own party planning books?!)

I've also been moving house, to my very first, very own brand new house, and yes, at first it was chaotic -hence my absence.

In getting back to normality and realising I'd neglected my artisitc endeavours, I discovered that a cushion I was pictured holding in my avatar on Folksy had since been used as a kitty-comforter a little too often. Probably shouldn't sell it then!

Instead, I thought I could share with the world my brand new Aladdin's cave of an art cupboard, so I fluffed my hair, made sure my fingernails were clean, and set about posing as the ever-suffering Alex took pictures.

It appears Casper has missed out on being involved in art recently also...

So very helpful! He's lucky I didn't glue him to my collage. Tempting...

Thinking Inside the Box.

My latest work in progress got me thinking about my penchant for putting my ideas in boxes, and how it all began.

More recently I've been challenging myself to branch out from my fine art student 'art for art's sake' mentality to create things that whilst still arty, have a function -hence the little trinket boxes as above.

But it's not all about functionality. It's memories of my jewellery boxes as a child, especially the one with the plastic ballerina that played 'Some Day My Prince Will Come' (he did by the way, after a heck of a lot of frogs!). It's like my mum's pewter 'treasure chest' ornament, which I broke by filling with beads and burying in the garden. It's my plastic vanity case which when I was a kid housed a toy hairdryer, brushes and curlers -which I punked up when I was about 17 with stickers and a snakeskin lining.

Boxes conceal, but also protect. And for me there's something really lyrical about a box and the secrets inside.

People who know me know I've always been a hoarder, and that nothing has changed now. When I was on my art foundation at Doncaster College my workspace was nicknamed by a fellow student Karen 'the table that taste forgot', owing to the multifarious bits of junk I'd gathered up from home and brought in to serve as my muses -hideous dolls from Mega Girl lucky bags, seashells, my pearls from when I was a bridesmaid, dancing medals, beads, bits of Barbies, ornaments inherited from Grandma...the list goes on.

 A tutor suggested to me that I look to Joseph Cornell for inspiration. I think he wanted to see me at least make use of the rubbish I'd cluttered the studio with. But it wasn't until I went to uni that I really got chance -stimulated by possibly one of the most important exhibitions -for me -that I've ever had the pleasure to visit -Peter Blake's 'About Collage' at the Tate Liverpool in 2000/01-which featured not only Blake's homages to Cornell, but also examples of Cornell's boxes. 

I went two, if not three times.

There is real magic in this reclusive, self-taught artist's aesthetic -the dream-like juxtaposition of images and objects.

Feast your eyes and let your imagination run away with you.

I am convinced that like me Cornell intended part of the art to be in viewers creating their own meanings. And a while back, when fellow crafter and blogger Mary-Jane from Voodooville featured my Little Red Riding Hood themed 'Happy Never After', and described my work as  'so like Joseph Cornell's stuff, but with a twist', she could only guess as to how much of a compliment that would be to me.

So Joseph, you fight for that special place as my most favouritist artist -rivalled only by Hans Bellmer, Max Ernst and lovely Tracey Emin.

And I now, and forever will remain a boxy lady.

Stay Strange xxx

(thanks to http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/cornell/for the Cornell images)



on the button!

Life gets in the way. And the sickness! But that's another story...

Finally found the chance to tell you all about the fun Stacey and I had a few Saturdays ago at The Button Tin, the quaintest little craft kiosk imaginable. And in good old Rotherham of all places!

The lovely and talented textile artist Gemma Nemer opens up her personal workspace to deliver workshops 'with a vintage twist'. Her ethos is all about keeping alive traditional fabric crafts, and re-using and re-working reclaimed materials -a girl after my own scavenging heart!

Apparently we opted for the trickiest, most labour-intensive make Gemma offers -etui sewing boxes. Nothing like jumping in at the deep end!

I'd planned to give the end result away as a gift if I didn't like it. Being a perfectionist I can't bear to look at something I feel I've made badly, but I worked so hard my eyes were crossed and my fingers were numb! And the clashing fabrics I'd chosen, which initially we weren't sure about, looked just so cute together.

There is no such thing as too much pattern!

So now my battered purple sewing tin has a sweet, new, pain-stakingly crafted companion...

...and I'm trying to pick which of Gemma's classes to try next. I'm thinking the nostalgic jewellery making, in the hope my efforts would turn out anywhere near as perfect as Gemma's pretty petals...

See more of her work on Flickr click click!

And visit The Button Tin's website clickety click!