So what the hell have I been doing the last few months? (1/6)

Last night I stayed awake until 2AM evaluating the last 14 weeks of my artistic practice. The result - six sides of A4 which my tutor seemed to enjoy reading this morning. My assessment is done, my show is up, and I find my grade out next Monday.
I will publish small parts of my evaluation (along with accompanying images) at a time, for those of you who might be interested.

It is an incredibly frank piece of writing, so I urge anybody who struggles with the truth to avoid it like the plague.

Part 1 of Godknowshowmany (just kidding, this makes it about 6 parts)
“My specialism is Fine Art, and I intend to make a Fine Art outcome (sculpture/drawing/painting/installation/film/audio/photography or any combination of the techniques) exhibited as professionally as if for a gallery, for the FMP show.”

Following the college trip to Barcelona, I felt inspired to go out and collect items and make sketches. Rather than a working title, this was my starting point – the feeling of not knowing everything about one area, and being so hungry to. During the first week of this brief I had begun to make sketches of the places I inhabited, and I took my first walk collecting small objects and photographing them in a field opposite my home. I immediately felt a kind of affinity to these objects – discarded, trodden into the earth, unidentifiable from neglect. I had been having a pretty strange time myself.



Having focussed solely on digital photography during ‘Flow Around Town’ I decided to step back and use film. There is a strange sense of soullessness I feel shooting digitally, as if I, the artist, am not involved enough in my own work, allowing a machine driven by science and maths to create the images. My friends were involved in hands on processes like painting, drawing, sculpting, and it made me feel like a bit of a con artist, rather than a visual artist, to be working in a media so uninvolved.
So I shot photos using disposable cameras as well as old film SLRs, and used the dark room to blow up negatives and develop my own roll of black and white film. Artists understand the mother-and-child sort of connection between themselves and their work, and working in a hands-on way enabled me to feel that connection again.



At first ideas behind the work were, as before, over-conceptual and difficult convey visually. I had feared and anticipated this writing my statement of intent - “This project should find a way to make a conceptual piece understandable to a wider audience – a strong concept shown through my exhibited work”
The concepts I was dealing with were those of value – what makes one item so easy to discard, and not another? I was also trying to imagine these objects as patients – how could I treat them, make them better, return them to the original location as something more valuable in any way? The yearning to do this was partly down to my own poor mental health. It is far too easy to over-conceptualise or over-analyse anything at all in this situation.



Ordinarily whilst working on projects I enjoy visiting galleries for inspiration, since as a 'fine artist', presentation of final works is something I like to focus on alongside every idea. University interviews in various parts of the country made attending exhibitions a little more difficult, but I did manage to see a lot of Fine Art Undergraduate works in progress. At an interview in Leeds I saw a work by a girl who had collected lost gloves over various parts of Yorkshire, photographing them as she collected them, with the intention of eventually returning the glove to that place. One of the other prospective students on the tour asked – “why is she doing that?” … This glove girl and I had something in common. Inspired, especially since our projects had started in the same way, I tried this idea of ‘returning’ my found objects. I printed the photographs that I had taken when I first took them, and stuck them on a wooden stick, going round the route I had found them on and sticking the corresponding image into the area in which it was found. I then photographed this again. It was like the idea of a ghost – only two weeks ago an old tennis ball lay on that earth, for two weeks it was empty, and then reunited with a fragment (photograph) of the tennis ball.



... So what do we think so far? Am I depressing you enough?

Introduction to Sunday Breakfast Blog (starring Heroes on Ship Street, Oxford)

A few blogs ago, I revealed my enthusiasm to write a weekly blog about Sunday breakfasts. And for anybody who doesn't live in England, or lives under a rock, I do not mean Weetabix or toast. Oh no.

In England, a Sunday breakfast usually refers to a "full breakfast" and we affectionately call it an "English breakfast" too, unlike you European suckers and your "continental breakfasts" - as if a croissant and juice is really that special. A full breakfast is one of the most traditional English meals you could eat, and differs from any other breakfast in that it features cooked foods such as eggs, bacon or baked beans. Such a glorious dish would not be confined, by many people, to a Sunday, if it weren't for the fatty nature of the food and the growing pursuit of a healthy diet.

"It's called cholesterol, Scottish people eat it. Most of them don't live past fifty" - fictional character Alan Partridge on the full English breakfast.

There's a lot I don't like about this country - the weather, Cheryl Cole's accent and the price of cigarettes, but you'll never hear me badmouth the full English breakfast. In celebration of this dish I decided that every few Sundays I would sample this delight in a different Oxford eatery (in a totally non-sad, non-lonely way... obviously.)

Sunday 22nd April - Heroes Sandwich Bar, 8 Ship Street, Oxford.

Heroes is on Ship Street, just off Cornmarket - central and accessible, but slightly removed from the weekend mania of the main streets.
Obviously the first massive decision is "What do I choose?"
Fortunately, Heroes has a straight-forward traditional breakfast menu, and offers a 10% student discount, so I've not too much to worry about.
I read in Women's Health that it's far healthier to order a vegetarian full English because the quality of meat in some breakfasts isn't top. Sunday is also workout day, so on this occasion I made the healthy vegetarian choice.

The contents of this veggie breakfast: 2 fried eggs, 2 pieces of brown toast, mushrooms, tomato, baked beans, and (surprisingly) a falafel.
Having never had falafel in a breakfast before I was impressed by the bold and somewhat untraditional move - I enjoy food from other countries. (Doesn't mean I'll ever be ready to see frogs legs on an English breakfast menu, though.)
Eggs... I am a bit egg-phobic. Maybe it's because they're gooey and slimy and all to do with chickens not being pregnant - they are just fucking weird. Unable to pawn my eggs off to my breakfast buddy, I decided to brave them myself. And I liked them. That works massively in favour for Heroes.

I'd complain about the lack of hash browns, but their absence just meant I didn't feel so gross afterwards.

Yep. That's right. No complaints. Maybe I'm losing my bitter touch, or maybe Heroes just do a truly eggs-cellent Sunday breakfast!
What a great start to Sunday breakfast blog.

Until the next Sunday,

Dear men in nightclubs: stop being assholes. Sincerely, Kat.

And so, here it is: 2012.
I don't know about you, folks, but I didn't wake up as a new girl. Instead I woke up at 8am in an upright position on my friend's sofa and thought - "How long have I been awake? Why is there a bed on the floor? Where are Bethan and Louise?" Not a lot of time got spent on the thinking, I was pretty happy to climb into this makeshift bed for a few hours, because at 8am I was still drunk. My New Years Eve was spent in Northampton, with my friend's student house as base, and Northampton "clubs" as our destination.

I do not like clubs.
When I was 10 years old "clubs" had a different meaning to me (girl guides, swimming team, etc) and I still didn't like them. You may sit there and think "but you're a young, single girl who likes to drink and act in a completely obnoxious manner - why on earth would you not absolutely love clubs?"

Well for a start: the music, the girls, the guys, the prices... so everything. There are some things associated with clubs that I do like. I like getting ready (to an extent) and I like spending time with my friends.

Everyone you meet in a club is an absolute asshole. The girls all want free drinks, so they've dressed as much like a prospective rape victim as they possibly can. And the guys all want someone to fuck and it doesn't even matter who. Why would they waste breath on conversation when they can as easily say nothing and grope a woman? It's just as charming, right? Wrong. So wrong.

Last night some guy, who we'll call Dick, repeatedly pinched my bum. The first time I let it slide a bit, I probably politely told him to fuck off. He was less lucky the second time. I was drunk, but I'm pretty sure I slapped him, and I'm told that I then picked up a bottle and told him he really better leave me alone. I'd never have actually bottled the guy (I don't come from Brixton, for one) because even when I'm drunk I know it's best not to get a criminal record for GBH... even if it'd be totally justified.

Sometimes words are wasted on individuals like Dick. Instead of the vocal act of making small talk, he opted for the physical pinching act. And so, instead of the vocal act of explaining that women don't take too kindly to that kind of come-on, and "do you know that's harassment?" etc, I opted for the more physical act of slapping his big stupid face. Some people are too ignorant to understand words, but I'm hoping his sore face will teach him everything I could have explained.

Maybe I just shouldn't go to clubs, or maybe guys in clubs should stop being such complete freaks. I have never met a nice-seeming guy there, and if I have, I am pretty sure they were hiding some Rohypnol for later. The guys who I have met in clubs act like they're on night release from prison for rape-related-crimes. Please note, men, that there is NOTHING sexy about that.

And if I'm wrong about clubs - if these sex pests are actually the best boyfriend material I'll ever find, then I would rather die alone with several cats for company.

I believe that I can leave Jenna Marbles to wrap this up for me.

Realizing that it is time to 'clean up my act'

In a more formal social situation today, I was to discuss a shoe. A black Dr Martens boot for men, in fact, but that's not the point.
What I wanted to say is: "You need this shoe because let's face it, England's shit and it pisses it down all the time and you're going to get bloody soaked this winter."
What I actually said was: "You need this shoe because let's face it - England's .... (long awkward pause where I wonder if 'shit' is the only negative descriptive word I know) ... famed for bad weather and you're going to get .... (astounded that I made it so far without swearing) ... rather damp."

Later in the evening, when I got home, I looked at my Twitter feed. It appeared that maybe one of two Tweets would be clean, whereas the others featured a variety of foul words that I think it would be best not to repeat.
I read this Twitter feed, astounded and a bit ashamed, and thought to myself - "Blimey. Is this the impression I make on people who aren't lucky enough to have met me to my face? From Twitter, do I merely come across as a bad tempered little smoker who hasn't completed any formal English qualifications and picked up her vocabulary by watching bar brawls?"
Yes. Unfortunately, that is probably exactly how I might seem.

This is my dilemma: I like to swear. Just the same as how I like to smoke menthols, and I like to drink Old Rosie despite its dangerously deceitful alcohol percentage.
After I read a wonderful quote by Stephen Fry, I had always thought - yes! What a modern view on swearing. What a marvellous opinion. How very British to be swearing whenever one pleases. (Here is the quote for anyone who never saw it)

Swearing is a really important part of one's life. It would be impossible to imagine going through life without swearing and without enjoying swearing... There used to be mad, silly, prissy people who used to say swearing was a sign of a poor vocabulary -such utter nonsense. The people I know who swear the most tend to have the widest vocabularies and the kind of person who says swearing is a sign of a poor vocabulary usually have a pretty poor vocabulary themselves... The sort of twee person who thinks swearing is in any way a sign of a lack of education or a lack of verbal interest or -is just a fucking lunatic... I haven't met anybody who's truly shocked at swearing, really, they're only shocked on behalf of other people. Well, you know, that's preposterous... or they say 'it's not necessary'. As if that should stop one doing it! It's not necessary to have coloured socks, it's not necessary for this cushion to be here, but is anyone going to write in and say 'I was shocked to see that cushion there, it really wasn't necessary'? No, things not being necessary is what makes life interesting -the little extras in life.

At a time in my life where I need to make some moderately-sized changes, this might be an important one. In the days of social networking (and if you've read my previous blog you already know my feelings about that) I am less likely to meet a wonderful bloke and enjoy an Old Rosie in a pub garden together, than I am to meet said wonderful bloke, give him my name, only to have him search me on Twitter and think - "That girl needs to wash her mouth out with soap. Alone. Without my help."

And so as of this moment, please prepare to hear me use fabulously eccentric words and phrases like 'blimey', 'goodness', 'oh my', 'crikey', 'bar steward', 'mucking up'... (I'm getting lost now, does anyone have any inventive words?)