more to follow, my friends
26.1.08
13.1.08
Typography
Last week's project at Ravensbourne was the first that I feel I have excelled in. The outcomes of my previous projects had been less than satisfying, and so, when I learned we were to be creating an original typeface, my sketchbook instantly became a flurry of scrawls, line drawings and gaffa tape.
The tutors encouraged us to raid our houses for inspiration, one suggested tea pots or eggs, but I wanted to think outside the box. I felt that originality was the key to success and peer jealousy in this project.
I was trying to think laterally and toyed with the idea letters being formed by other letters. However, I wasn't sure how explicit I could be of the letterforms without diluting the concept, and rendering it a bit of a failure. I had to ensure that the viewer could both read the alphabet without any qualms and decipher which letters had been used to create each letter of the font. And, well, to a certain degree, I was enthused by the result. I was lauded by my peers for being original, and although it wasn't the most exciting font on show, I believe I succeeded in hitting my targets from the beginning of the project.
Go on, then. Have a peek...
7.1.08
Anthony Lister
I was just mindlessly flicking through some 'literature' I picked up in seven dials last week, and came across (believe me, you will too when you see his work) an article about this fine artist who goes by the name of Anthony Lister. Hailing from Australia, he already appears to have nurtured quite a reputation for himself in his native.
Whereas most contemporary painters delve deep into their insecurities in order to find one iota of truth to transcribe into their artwork, Lister taps into our self-conscious with vibrant images of some of our most faithful superheroes, instantly flying us back to our younger years, a time when we worshipped these latex-clad idols. Now, you might think that sounds rather superficial, but his intentions are nothing more than to pictorialize a childish obsession that lurks deep within us. He strives to do so in a flurry of shapes, colours and patterns, which scream with naivety and, on occasions, humour.
Vast white canvasses are invaded by rippling torsos and Goliath-esque biceps, raising these fictitious crime-fighters onto a plinth of almost God-like status, whilst disproportionate busts render the portraits more juvenile and harmless.
To be continued when I can be fagged.
But do check out his website - http://www.anthonylister.com/new.cfm
Whereas most contemporary painters delve deep into their insecurities in order to find one iota of truth to transcribe into their artwork, Lister taps into our self-conscious with vibrant images of some of our most faithful superheroes, instantly flying us back to our younger years, a time when we worshipped these latex-clad idols. Now, you might think that sounds rather superficial, but his intentions are nothing more than to pictorialize a childish obsession that lurks deep within us. He strives to do so in a flurry of shapes, colours and patterns, which scream with naivety and, on occasions, humour.
Vast white canvasses are invaded by rippling torsos and Goliath-esque biceps, raising these fictitious crime-fighters onto a plinth of almost God-like status, whilst disproportionate busts render the portraits more juvenile and harmless.
To be continued when I can be fagged.
But do check out his website - http://www.anthonylister.com/new.cfm
3.1.08
half-life
I rest in peace
But am stirred.
At least
She could have deterred
Her visit until dawn.
I'm conscious now,
The wind calls 'Sean'
And my brain starts to plough
Through a library
Of lost thoughts.
Yet one is very
Unclear; My visual ports
See the water levels
Rise and rise.
This one dishevels
Me, and so the demise
Ensues.
Ducts leaking,
I snatch my shoes.
Floorboards creaking,
I fondle the knob
Of the door and creep.
The only problem
Is I'm still asleep.
But am stirred.
At least
She could have deterred
Her visit until dawn.
I'm conscious now,
The wind calls 'Sean'
And my brain starts to plough
Through a library
Of lost thoughts.
Yet one is very
Unclear; My visual ports
See the water levels
Rise and rise.
This one dishevels
Me, and so the demise
Ensues.
Ducts leaking,
I snatch my shoes.
Floorboards creaking,
I fondle the knob
Of the door and creep.
The only problem
Is I'm still asleep.
2.1.08
email from swoon. hell yeah.
hey there sean parker,
i am probably not in time to tell you that my favorite blades are little box cutters, made by olfa with black blades, cause they are sharper, and for that to matter any longer, but in any case, there is the trade secret. your install looks like a mad inspired mess, of the best sort. you guys would have really liked what we made in london i think, is was even more out of control than paris, by a lot. if you get to looking it up, it was at a spot called black rat press, and the show was called heap, my collaborators were monica canilao and davis ellis, both of who are stunning to work with.
also, i just got back from palestine where i did some painting on the apartheid wall that israel is building (an effed up situation.) i remember a few of you guys were wearing kafias, but didn't know the significance (wearing this, to my eye, usually means solidarity with the palestinian struggle.) anyway, check out the project, and maybe a little background on your fashion....
http://www.cnn.com/2007/WORLD/meast/12/03/banksy.bethlehem/
it was really rad to meet you guys. your enthusiasm was an inspiration.
c.
i am probably not in time to tell you that my favorite blades are little box cutters, made by olfa with black blades, cause they are sharper, and for that to matter any longer, but in any case, there is the trade secret. your install looks like a mad inspired mess, of the best sort. you guys would have really liked what we made in london i think, is was even more out of control than paris, by a lot. if you get to looking it up, it was at a spot called black rat press, and the show was called heap, my collaborators were monica canilao and davis ellis, both of who are stunning to work with.
also, i just got back from palestine where i did some painting on the apartheid wall that israel is building (an effed up situation.) i remember a few of you guys were wearing kafias, but didn't know the significance (wearing this, to my eye, usually means solidarity with the palestinian struggle.) anyway, check out the project, and maybe a little background on your fashion....
http://www.cnn.com/2007/WORLD/meast/12/03/banksy.bethlehem/
it was really rad to meet you guys. your enthusiasm was an inspiration.
c.
Sloppy New Year
Well, it's been a while. Have you missed me? I thought not.
As per usaul, NYE was an anti-climax of great magnitude. Seriously, why does everyone get so frickin' excited about this one evening? Obviously, there's all that crap about the ever-so-exciting countdown, but, to be quite honest, it just seems like another reason to get paralytic. Don't get me wrong, I loooove getting crunk, but why the dickens does everything have to be so expensive? For instance, trekking to London is not uncommon for students and adults alike, but with the train being £13 and the generic nightclub ticket being at least £20, you've spent more than £30 before you even start drinking.
And that leads me seamlessly to the next point in my rant; the price of alcohol. The clubs think they can fleece you for a flute of fizzy cats' piss and flog it off as some buffting champagne. Just because, it's NYE, you're a bit 'zany' and you're wearing 3D specs, it doesn't mean you have to fork out for this tramp juice.
So, once you are suitably legless, and crowing random lines from 'Auld Lang Syne' in between spewing champagne (and, for that matter, your mum's liquified money) all over the pretty girl's favourite set of Primark heels, where do you go next? You can't take a taxi because there aren't any. You can't take the train because there are queues until breakfast, due to the untimely closure of the major tube stations in the vicinity. Only two choices left, I'm afraid; Night Bus, or shuffle around aimlessy for the next few hours, scooping up dog ends and licking Sub of the Day pictures, until you finally sober up enough to realise that you've lost your phone. And a shoe.
This scenario, my friend, is the precise reason that I went to a house party in Brighton instead. In conjunction with being safe in the knowledge that none of the aforementioned was going to spike my night, I entered 19 Bristol Road, a cute, purple pebbledashed student dig, expecting to fill my evening with conversations with adolescents with plastic haircuts and abbreiviated names. Instead, I started chatting to a delightful melee of artbitches from Maidstone, who, like me, knew no-one at the party except the chaps they came with. Over the course of a crate of Carling and an entire pouch of Cutter's Choice, we swapped names, background stories, and non-descript banter about clothes and music, while I even dabbled in a heart to heart about relationships.
The morning brought with it the aroma of blocked toilets, and the mellifluous snores of deep sleepers. 'Twas a charming scene.
The moral of the story, and my resolution for 2008, is: attend more house parties fuelled by alcohol and teenage frustration.
Oh, and London is shit.
As per usaul, NYE was an anti-climax of great magnitude. Seriously, why does everyone get so frickin' excited about this one evening? Obviously, there's all that crap about the ever-so-exciting countdown, but, to be quite honest, it just seems like another reason to get paralytic. Don't get me wrong, I loooove getting crunk, but why the dickens does everything have to be so expensive? For instance, trekking to London is not uncommon for students and adults alike, but with the train being £13 and the generic nightclub ticket being at least £20, you've spent more than £30 before you even start drinking.
And that leads me seamlessly to the next point in my rant; the price of alcohol. The clubs think they can fleece you for a flute of fizzy cats' piss and flog it off as some buffting champagne. Just because, it's NYE, you're a bit 'zany' and you're wearing 3D specs, it doesn't mean you have to fork out for this tramp juice.
So, once you are suitably legless, and crowing random lines from 'Auld Lang Syne' in between spewing champagne (and, for that matter, your mum's liquified money) all over the pretty girl's favourite set of Primark heels, where do you go next? You can't take a taxi because there aren't any. You can't take the train because there are queues until breakfast, due to the untimely closure of the major tube stations in the vicinity. Only two choices left, I'm afraid; Night Bus, or shuffle around aimlessy for the next few hours, scooping up dog ends and licking Sub of the Day pictures, until you finally sober up enough to realise that you've lost your phone. And a shoe.
This scenario, my friend, is the precise reason that I went to a house party in Brighton instead. In conjunction with being safe in the knowledge that none of the aforementioned was going to spike my night, I entered 19 Bristol Road, a cute, purple pebbledashed student dig, expecting to fill my evening with conversations with adolescents with plastic haircuts and abbreiviated names. Instead, I started chatting to a delightful melee of artbitches from Maidstone, who, like me, knew no-one at the party except the chaps they came with. Over the course of a crate of Carling and an entire pouch of Cutter's Choice, we swapped names, background stories, and non-descript banter about clothes and music, while I even dabbled in a heart to heart about relationships.
The morning brought with it the aroma of blocked toilets, and the mellifluous snores of deep sleepers. 'Twas a charming scene.
The moral of the story, and my resolution for 2008, is: attend more house parties fuelled by alcohol and teenage frustration.
Oh, and London is shit.
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