by Amir Shariff
Smile, because it’s not going to kill you
Maybe it will. I feel sick that I have to.
It’s like I’m giving you something sacred
And when I have to, Oh! I fucking do hate it.
Those anaemic promises that our time is soon
They said: ‘Out with the old, and in with the new.
Our journeys are long some short for the lucky few,
For the rest we are to head back into our childhood rooms.
We lived away only to return like boomerangs,
To our untidy caves and our parents’ harangues.
I haven’t begun, yet I’m already knackered
Now I see that my intentions never did matter.
Sometimes, we wake up and wonder if we’re alive.
I guess we are to be satisfied at being dissatisfied.
We’ve desired no wrong, yet feel we are punished.
Equally malnourished it’s like all our dreams are discouraged.
University… It’s like we’ve never been.
Working in the same places we were at seventeen.
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Thursday, 30 May 2013
A Shut in Place
by Sam Kay
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A Shut In Place from Sam Kay on Vimeo.
Art Fist needs you!
All of the content on artfist.org is submitted by volunteers looking to showcase their work. To submit your own work, simply send it to artfist@live.com for consideration.
For more information about contributing, check out our submission guidelines HERE.
Sunday, 19 May 2013
In Cloud Country - in conversation with Diane Howse and Iwona Blazwick
by Jon Cronshaw
In recent years the reputation of art inspired by nature has taken something of a battering – especially if it has a tendency towards abstraction.
There is so much kitschy and inoffensive art littering the walls of hotel rooms and coffee shops that the idea of an exhibition focusing on the abstraction in nature is one that is easy to dismiss.
But the latest exhibition at Harewood House sees curators Iwona Blazwick OBE, Director of the Whitechapel Gallery, and Countess of Harewood, Diane Howse, take a daring approach to the genre.
In Cloud Country is an exhibition that doesn’t just capture your imagination – it teases and prods it, pulls at it and contorts it beyond recognition.
At each turn you are met with seeming unrelated works coupled together. One can see an early 19th century sketch by J.W.M. Turner hanging next a piece by contemporary artist Chris Ofili, who is best known for his paintings featuring elephant dung.
Iwona explained: “We felt we had a licence to do this partly because we had both seen an exhibition at the Whitechapel Gallery in the 1990s curated by Michael Craig-Martin called Drawing the Line where he just ran amuck with a whole collection of drawings. You could see Leonardo Da Vinci next to Sol LeWitt – it was really liberating.
“So we thought why not travel across space and time and seeing if the concerns are the same. And sure enough, we found that there were these parallels. So, for example, we could see that you could put together an oil pastel by Degas and find it next a contemporary work by Julian Opie – they’re both intimations of something sublime, but the Julian Opie has a motorway in it.
“It was looking at the similarities, but also the differences, and rather than telling this story as a chronology, it was actually to say there are themes within this topic. The word ‘abstraction’ is as big as the word ‘nature’, and we wanted to find all different manifestations of it - hence the grouping of different themes."
The very definition of the words ‘nature’ and ‘abstraction’ are called into question throughout the exhibition. Diane said: “There’s a notion that if you work with nature that it’s about trees and landscapes seen from a certain perspective, but that’s not necessarily always so. Nature is everything that is in our physical world – there’s gravity, radiation, the movement of the planets, and so on. A lot of artists are working with that notion in the broadest sense, even though they are not in any way, shape or form landscape artists – it’s how we experience that landscape, or our relationship to the physical world.
“A lot of artists now work in the studio, completely removed from natural stimulus, so there’s a notion there of memory, embedded memory, and perhaps of personal memory or even some sort ancient memory that we all have.”
Iwona added: “Throughout the whole thing you get this miraculous process, this alchemical process where an artist can reduce an entire environment - a huge 360 degree panorama – onto a piece of paper. How do they do that? That’s what we’re hoping to show. These are the many ways that artists have done this over the last three centuries and continue to do so.”
The term ‘abstraction’ is used metaphorically throughout the exhibition. Iwona said: ”We’re looking at abstraction where art becomes a symbol, where nature becomes a symbol. So we’ve got a grouping of work around nature and society where we start with William Morris. And even though the drawing that we have, which is a design for a wallpaper, is really a very precise picture of petals, flowers and tendrils, the concept is an abstract one because he reflected a society where people saw the growth of Satanic mills and the way that human beings were losing touch with their environment and destroying it at the same time. Belching smoke, mines, factories, so Morris’s project was to bring nature back to urban society, and bring nature back into the home.”
Alongside the works of Morris and Turner are pieces by contemporary artists such as Imran Qureshi. Iwona said: “He has an extraordinary skill for depicting chrysanthemums and turning those into quite a shocking image of political trauma. That image is really about partition, and it’s a bloody footprint. But when you look more closely, you see that it made of these beautifully, exquisitely rendered chrysanthemum petals embossed with gold.”
The exhibition ventures into the terrain of conceptual art, as Iwona explained: “There’s a thread of post-war conceptual art where language becomes another form of representation. The idea of a proposal such as Paolo Bruschi’s idea that he could colour the clouds over New York, or indeed Lawrence Weiner – one of the greatest conceptual artists in the world – evoking a structure made out of bamboo purely with words on a wall.”
But it is the historical scope of the exhibition that make it such an engaging and surprising experience for the audience. Iwona said: “You have these great, acknowledged art historical giants like Turner, but seen at their most intimate – the sketch. The deftness with which they capture something with pen and ink, or with watercolour, juxtaposed with some of the most important developments in modern and contemporary art.
“It has a strong locus of the British art scene and within British collections. We’re sad not to have Van Gogh or Mondrian, or the Barbizon school, but we do have a Degas and a Matisse. We’ve tried to map the key moments right up to Richard Long, perhaps one of the greatest post-war British artists, who uses his body as a form of mapping. He describes his journey across the moorland to create a sort of conceptual sculpture.”
In Cloud Country breaks the trend for exhibitions to focus on oil paintings or sculptures, and instead relishes in the spontaneity and potential associated with works produced on paper. Iwona said: “What's thrilling about working with works on paper is that they are rarely seen except for in small galleries and storerooms. There’s this ‘what if?’ potential about them – they’re quite utopian. They’re about grabbing something fleeting – they’re about the possibility of something more. And that somehow gives them a tremendous energy which oil paintings lack.
“I hope people come away feeling excited and maybe even grab a pen themselves, and find themselves drawing and reacting to the natural environment around them.”
In recent years the reputation of art inspired by nature has taken something of a battering – especially if it has a tendency towards abstraction.
There is so much kitschy and inoffensive art littering the walls of hotel rooms and coffee shops that the idea of an exhibition focusing on the abstraction in nature is one that is easy to dismiss.
But the latest exhibition at Harewood House sees curators Iwona Blazwick OBE, Director of the Whitechapel Gallery, and Countess of Harewood, Diane Howse, take a daring approach to the genre.
.jpg) |
| Diane Howse (left) and Iwona Blazwick (right). Picture by Bethany Clark. |
At each turn you are met with seeming unrelated works coupled together. One can see an early 19th century sketch by J.W.M. Turner hanging next a piece by contemporary artist Chris Ofili, who is best known for his paintings featuring elephant dung.
Iwona explained: “We felt we had a licence to do this partly because we had both seen an exhibition at the Whitechapel Gallery in the 1990s curated by Michael Craig-Martin called Drawing the Line where he just ran amuck with a whole collection of drawings. You could see Leonardo Da Vinci next to Sol LeWitt – it was really liberating.
“So we thought why not travel across space and time and seeing if the concerns are the same. And sure enough, we found that there were these parallels. So, for example, we could see that you could put together an oil pastel by Degas and find it next a contemporary work by Julian Opie – they’re both intimations of something sublime, but the Julian Opie has a motorway in it.
“It was looking at the similarities, but also the differences, and rather than telling this story as a chronology, it was actually to say there are themes within this topic. The word ‘abstraction’ is as big as the word ‘nature’, and we wanted to find all different manifestations of it - hence the grouping of different themes."
The very definition of the words ‘nature’ and ‘abstraction’ are called into question throughout the exhibition. Diane said: “There’s a notion that if you work with nature that it’s about trees and landscapes seen from a certain perspective, but that’s not necessarily always so. Nature is everything that is in our physical world – there’s gravity, radiation, the movement of the planets, and so on. A lot of artists are working with that notion in the broadest sense, even though they are not in any way, shape or form landscape artists – it’s how we experience that landscape, or our relationship to the physical world.
“A lot of artists now work in the studio, completely removed from natural stimulus, so there’s a notion there of memory, embedded memory, and perhaps of personal memory or even some sort ancient memory that we all have.”
Iwona added: “Throughout the whole thing you get this miraculous process, this alchemical process where an artist can reduce an entire environment - a huge 360 degree panorama – onto a piece of paper. How do they do that? That’s what we’re hoping to show. These are the many ways that artists have done this over the last three centuries and continue to do so.”
 |
| J.M.W.Turner, Rome from Monte Mario, (c.1819). |
Alongside the works of Morris and Turner are pieces by contemporary artists such as Imran Qureshi. Iwona said: “He has an extraordinary skill for depicting chrysanthemums and turning those into quite a shocking image of political trauma. That image is really about partition, and it’s a bloody footprint. But when you look more closely, you see that it made of these beautifully, exquisitely rendered chrysanthemum petals embossed with gold.”
 |
| Imran Qureshi, This Leprous Brightness, |
But it is the historical scope of the exhibition that make it such an engaging and surprising experience for the audience. Iwona said: “You have these great, acknowledged art historical giants like Turner, but seen at their most intimate – the sketch. The deftness with which they capture something with pen and ink, or with watercolour, juxtaposed with some of the most important developments in modern and contemporary art.
“It has a strong locus of the British art scene and within British collections. We’re sad not to have Van Gogh or Mondrian, or the Barbizon school, but we do have a Degas and a Matisse. We’ve tried to map the key moments right up to Richard Long, perhaps one of the greatest post-war British artists, who uses his body as a form of mapping. He describes his journey across the moorland to create a sort of conceptual sculpture.”
In Cloud Country breaks the trend for exhibitions to focus on oil paintings or sculptures, and instead relishes in the spontaneity and potential associated with works produced on paper. Iwona said: “What's thrilling about working with works on paper is that they are rarely seen except for in small galleries and storerooms. There’s this ‘what if?’ potential about them – they’re quite utopian. They’re about grabbing something fleeting – they’re about the possibility of something more. And that somehow gives them a tremendous energy which oil paintings lack.
“I hope people come away feeling excited and maybe even grab a pen themselves, and find themselves drawing and reacting to the natural environment around them.”
In Cloud Country is on display at Harewood House until June 30.
Art Fist needs you!
All of the content on artfist.org is submitted by volunteers looking to showcase their work. To submit your own work, simply send it to artfist@live.com for consideration.
For more information about contributing, check out our submission guidelines HERE.
Friday, 10 May 2013
The Job Interview
by Stephen Vigors
Harry was already running late when he reached the fork in the road. Left to the business park and right to the industrial estate.
He was confused. His interview was definitely at a 'business', but the company was certainly based in an 'industry'. He tried to remember what the industry the company was based in was. Was it based in the business industry? Was the business industry technically an industry or would one just describe the business industry as business. He knew that you got 'businessmen', but he had never heard of an 'industryman'. That seemed strange to Harry.
On this basis he decided, as there is no such thing as an 'industryman' (although it was conceivable that there was such a thing but it was just that he had never heard to term), to take a left and walk to the business park.
This route took him through the large park that rested to the south of the city centre.
He looked to his left and saw the high-rise flats and offices half-bathed in the late afternoon sun. The buildings rose up a hill and behind the more modern, concrete buildings were church towers, town halls and university libraries poking through like old memories.
Two women were jogging towards him. They were side-by-side. One of them, who was quite a bit taller than the other, was dressed completely in black. Her leggings, trainers and tracksuit top were all black, as was her hair.
The smaller woman had black leggings, but her trainers were white and her tracksuit top was turquoise.
They were both of an age where age had lost its importance, for a while at least, before activities like jogging became things of the past.
Harry always made nervous eye-contact with everyone that went past him. They were chatting as they went by. Harry looked at the taller girl, briefly catching her brown eyes before they bounced behind him and into the past.
He was alone now. The playground at the entrance to the park had been busy. There had been a dog-walker before, but he must have turned around or followed a different path through the park. There was also an athletics track at the entrance to the park and there was activity here at any time from six in the morning until ten at night. Now, as the sun turned orange and the park grew dark, Harry had only tall trees for company, with mesh fencing to his left and some hedges that separated the concrete path from the bowling green to his right. Ahead, however, was noise.
A boy on a bike rolled from behind the trees on the right and then circled back on himself. His hood was up despite the fact that it wasn’t raining.
Someone was talking as well. As Harry grew closer he could make out the odd word – four letter words all of them – and Harry realised that the boy on the bike was a chav and the words were all his. The bike continued to circle, so much in fact that Harry thought the chav must be getting dizzy.
His right hand left the shroud of his hood and he placed his phone in the right-hand pocket of his tracksuit bottoms.
At this point Harry was well within the required distance to make eye contact with the hooded boy, which he did tentatively while his head was slightly bowed. The boy completed a final 360 degrees spin, finishing with the bike pointing towards Harry, before dropping his feet from the peddles to the soil and wood-chipping path. A puff of brown dust rose into the air from where his grey trainers dug into the dirt.
“You got the time mate?” he asked in a whiney tone that indicated that the boy had a cold, but Harry doubted this as many youths like the boy spoke like this. It was like they had placed two fingers on their nose to close the nostrils so that they could do an impression of a public announcement in a railway station or supermarket.
Harry continued to look at the boy from beneath furrowed brows - nervous and tentative with his reply.
The boy threw one of his legs over the bike and began to place the bike on its side. “Well? You got the time or what?”
Harry slipped his hand into the pocket of his long, brown, corduroy coat to find his phone. It was an old phone. He’d had it for years and, being unemployed, had never been able to get himself one of the flash phones that many of his friends and acquaintances had.
It was difficult to read the image on the phone as dusk sunlight reflected off the screen.
“Qua, qua, quarter to five.”
“What phone is that?!” exclaimed the youngster, looking at the phone as if Harry had pulled a dead rat out of his pocket.
“It’s a ner, ner, ner..”
The boy couldn’t control himself and began laughing horribly. When he finally stopped he pushed an unusually large amount of wet saliva out of his mouth into a spot that looked like it had already been spat on before.
Harry looked at the pool of spit. Some of it was green.
“Give it ‘ere fella,” barked the boy. Harry instantly obeyed, expecting him to examine it, but instead he instantly placed the phone in the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms.
“’’ow much money ‘ave yer got?”
Harry scrambled around in his jacket pockets. There were a few coins in there. He wasn’t bothered if the boy wanted them.
He opened his palms to display what he had scraped out. The boy began laughing again. It was a rasping, phlegm-filled laugh that betrayed his years. Harry had 8 pence to his name, laid out in front of the boy.
There was no laughter this time and the boy insisted that Harry pulled out his pockets to prove that he wasn't being deceitful.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, you poor bastard. You can keep that. Nokias are shit anyway.”
And with that the boy handed back the phone, relaxed and pulled up his bike.
“You need to sort yer sen our mate. No-one has Nokias nowadays. And what are yer wearin’?”
Harry was wearing his best clothes on account of his job interview – brown, leather shoes (the soles were slightly split at the back), brown trousers that came as part of a suit he inherited from his Granddad, his corduroy jacket, a white shirt with grey pin-stripes, and a thin black tie. Wiry spectacles protruded from his thin blond hair that fell below his ears, but sometimes reached for the stars. He always insisted on being unshaven even though it made him look like an insecure teenager.
Harry explained that he was on his way to a job interview.
"Fuck that man. Jobs are for losers," the boy said philosophically before proclaiming that there are better ways to get money than by working, which confused Harry. "Where's the job?"
"B, Business solutions, I think."
"No way!" said the boy before falling back into a fit of broken laughter. Harry couldn't work out what was funny about that. "I used to work there. Man, it's fuckin' shit there. What time is your interview?"
"5 o'clock."
"5?! You better get a move on mate. You're gonna be late if you don't get a shift on. You're about a mile away from it. You're going the wrong wall 'n all."
"Where should I be going?"
The boy began giving Harry some long-winded directions before becoming lethargic and morose. Eventually the boy took Harry there, slowly cycling alongside him as they walked like friends.
When he arrived, some fifteen minutes later, they shook hands.
"Take it easy mate. Don't go walkin' through that park on yer own. There are some right knob 'eads in there." And with that the boy skidded away, rasping, laughing, coughing, fickle.
Harry turned round. The building was made of bricks. The roof looked like it was made of plastic, although it probably wasn't. The doors were definitely made of glass and he went and pushed one open.
It was dead inside the building. There was just the humming of electronics.
He wandered round for what seemed like an hour until he found someone - a cleaner. She wore black jeans and a black polo shirt. She had gold ear-rings and short, black hair. Both her head and body were very round.
"Hello," she said.
"I'm here for a job interview," said Harry.
"You're a bit late aren't you? Everyone has gone. Are you sure you've got the right place?"
Harry remembered that his Mum had printed off a copy of the email that confirmed that he had got an interview. He pulled it out of his back pocket and unfolded it.
He was in the right place. Good. The job interview was at 15:00hs. It was 17:00hs. He always had trouble with the 24 hour clock.
Harry was already running late when he reached the fork in the road. Left to the business park and right to the industrial estate.
He was confused. His interview was definitely at a 'business', but the company was certainly based in an 'industry'. He tried to remember what the industry the company was based in was. Was it based in the business industry? Was the business industry technically an industry or would one just describe the business industry as business. He knew that you got 'businessmen', but he had never heard of an 'industryman'. That seemed strange to Harry.
On this basis he decided, as there is no such thing as an 'industryman' (although it was conceivable that there was such a thing but it was just that he had never heard to term), to take a left and walk to the business park.
This route took him through the large park that rested to the south of the city centre.
He looked to his left and saw the high-rise flats and offices half-bathed in the late afternoon sun. The buildings rose up a hill and behind the more modern, concrete buildings were church towers, town halls and university libraries poking through like old memories.
Two women were jogging towards him. They were side-by-side. One of them, who was quite a bit taller than the other, was dressed completely in black. Her leggings, trainers and tracksuit top were all black, as was her hair.
The smaller woman had black leggings, but her trainers were white and her tracksuit top was turquoise.
They were both of an age where age had lost its importance, for a while at least, before activities like jogging became things of the past.
Harry always made nervous eye-contact with everyone that went past him. They were chatting as they went by. Harry looked at the taller girl, briefly catching her brown eyes before they bounced behind him and into the past.
He was alone now. The playground at the entrance to the park had been busy. There had been a dog-walker before, but he must have turned around or followed a different path through the park. There was also an athletics track at the entrance to the park and there was activity here at any time from six in the morning until ten at night. Now, as the sun turned orange and the park grew dark, Harry had only tall trees for company, with mesh fencing to his left and some hedges that separated the concrete path from the bowling green to his right. Ahead, however, was noise.
A boy on a bike rolled from behind the trees on the right and then circled back on himself. His hood was up despite the fact that it wasn’t raining.
Someone was talking as well. As Harry grew closer he could make out the odd word – four letter words all of them – and Harry realised that the boy on the bike was a chav and the words were all his. The bike continued to circle, so much in fact that Harry thought the chav must be getting dizzy.
His right hand left the shroud of his hood and he placed his phone in the right-hand pocket of his tracksuit bottoms.
At this point Harry was well within the required distance to make eye contact with the hooded boy, which he did tentatively while his head was slightly bowed. The boy completed a final 360 degrees spin, finishing with the bike pointing towards Harry, before dropping his feet from the peddles to the soil and wood-chipping path. A puff of brown dust rose into the air from where his grey trainers dug into the dirt.
“You got the time mate?” he asked in a whiney tone that indicated that the boy had a cold, but Harry doubted this as many youths like the boy spoke like this. It was like they had placed two fingers on their nose to close the nostrils so that they could do an impression of a public announcement in a railway station or supermarket.
Harry continued to look at the boy from beneath furrowed brows - nervous and tentative with his reply.
The boy threw one of his legs over the bike and began to place the bike on its side. “Well? You got the time or what?”
Harry slipped his hand into the pocket of his long, brown, corduroy coat to find his phone. It was an old phone. He’d had it for years and, being unemployed, had never been able to get himself one of the flash phones that many of his friends and acquaintances had.
It was difficult to read the image on the phone as dusk sunlight reflected off the screen.
“Qua, qua, quarter to five.”
“What phone is that?!” exclaimed the youngster, looking at the phone as if Harry had pulled a dead rat out of his pocket.
“It’s a ner, ner, ner..”
The boy couldn’t control himself and began laughing horribly. When he finally stopped he pushed an unusually large amount of wet saliva out of his mouth into a spot that looked like it had already been spat on before.
Harry looked at the pool of spit. Some of it was green.
“Give it ‘ere fella,” barked the boy. Harry instantly obeyed, expecting him to examine it, but instead he instantly placed the phone in the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms.
“’’ow much money ‘ave yer got?”
Harry scrambled around in his jacket pockets. There were a few coins in there. He wasn’t bothered if the boy wanted them.
He opened his palms to display what he had scraped out. The boy began laughing again. It was a rasping, phlegm-filled laugh that betrayed his years. Harry had 8 pence to his name, laid out in front of the boy.
There was no laughter this time and the boy insisted that Harry pulled out his pockets to prove that he wasn't being deceitful.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, you poor bastard. You can keep that. Nokias are shit anyway.”
And with that the boy handed back the phone, relaxed and pulled up his bike.
“You need to sort yer sen our mate. No-one has Nokias nowadays. And what are yer wearin’?”
Harry was wearing his best clothes on account of his job interview – brown, leather shoes (the soles were slightly split at the back), brown trousers that came as part of a suit he inherited from his Granddad, his corduroy jacket, a white shirt with grey pin-stripes, and a thin black tie. Wiry spectacles protruded from his thin blond hair that fell below his ears, but sometimes reached for the stars. He always insisted on being unshaven even though it made him look like an insecure teenager.
Harry explained that he was on his way to a job interview.
"Fuck that man. Jobs are for losers," the boy said philosophically before proclaiming that there are better ways to get money than by working, which confused Harry. "Where's the job?"
"B, Business solutions, I think."
"No way!" said the boy before falling back into a fit of broken laughter. Harry couldn't work out what was funny about that. "I used to work there. Man, it's fuckin' shit there. What time is your interview?"
"5 o'clock."
"5?! You better get a move on mate. You're gonna be late if you don't get a shift on. You're about a mile away from it. You're going the wrong wall 'n all."
"Where should I be going?"
The boy began giving Harry some long-winded directions before becoming lethargic and morose. Eventually the boy took Harry there, slowly cycling alongside him as they walked like friends.
When he arrived, some fifteen minutes later, they shook hands.
"Take it easy mate. Don't go walkin' through that park on yer own. There are some right knob 'eads in there." And with that the boy skidded away, rasping, laughing, coughing, fickle.
Harry turned round. The building was made of bricks. The roof looked like it was made of plastic, although it probably wasn't. The doors were definitely made of glass and he went and pushed one open.
It was dead inside the building. There was just the humming of electronics.
He wandered round for what seemed like an hour until he found someone - a cleaner. She wore black jeans and a black polo shirt. She had gold ear-rings and short, black hair. Both her head and body were very round.
"Hello," she said.
"I'm here for a job interview," said Harry.
"You're a bit late aren't you? Everyone has gone. Are you sure you've got the right place?"
Harry remembered that his Mum had printed off a copy of the email that confirmed that he had got an interview. He pulled it out of his back pocket and unfolded it.
He was in the right place. Good. The job interview was at 15:00hs. It was 17:00hs. He always had trouble with the 24 hour clock.
Art Fist needs you!
All of the content on artfist.org is submitted by volunteers looking to showcase their work. To submit your own work, simply send it to artfist@live.com for consideration.
For more information about contributing, check out our submission guidelines HERE.
Wednesday, 1 May 2013
Hungry Heart No.6: Baguette aka French Stick
by Michael Sterrett
The documentary Room 237 about Stanley Kubrick's classic horror film The Shining has been released this month. As an obsessive of the movie since my teenage years, I cannot articulate the delight I felt upon watching this mesmerising piece of cinema from beginning to end. Using footage from The Shining, Kubrick's other works and further relative sources, Room 237 is best described as a visual essay on the hidden meanings and subtext of the 1980 chiller. Ranging from theories that the film is an allegory for the Native American genocide to Kubrick's involvement in the faked Apollo 11 moon landing, it's impossible not to be drawn into the wild circles of logic the film espouses so passionately. Room 237 is now available on I-Tunes and I cannot recommend it highly enough.
Aside from sating my inner horror nerd, one question posed by Room 237 resonated greatly with me. Namely, when we create art are we fully aware of the subtext or hidden narrative that reveals itself after the fact? This is a timely conundrum, as I have been working on a script for the past few months and after giving it a few weeks to breath upon completion found that instead of reading back what I had assumed was a bizarre dark comedy was in fact quite a sad little play on friendship, failed love and the American sitcoms I grew up watching. My attempt to write a Miramax genre piece ended up more akin to those upsetting melancholic dramas broadcast on Channel 4 in the 1980s. Whether it will ever see the light of day is one thing but I was taken aback by how even a hack writer like me could subconsciously imbue a story with more meaning than I had intended to.
One example of subtext revealing itself is the much loved film Three Men and a Baby. Directed by Leonard Nimoy and starring power trio Steve Guttenberg, Ted Danson and Tom Selleck, the film tells the story of three cool Manhattanites who become saddled with a baby. And over the course of the movie learn not only to care for the infant but actually love it. Pretty much a staple of my youth, Three Men and a Baby appears to be a big hearted tale depicting an unconventional surrogate family acting against gender stereotypes and embracing not only their inner paternalism, but their maternalism also. And, to be frank, any film with Fleetwood Mac's Everywhere on the soundtrack is bound to get this pundit weeping like an idiot.
But let's take a step back for a second and see what the film might conversely be communicating. It's no coincidence that the three characters are all artistic, successful auteurs in their own right. This was after all the 1980s, an era of aggressive entrepreneurship that co-opted art created by the 1970s counterculture for its own financial ends. Yes, these three men are smart and creative, but they also know how to make a buck. This isn't the hippie commune idyll of non commercial artistic expression and, in turn, child rearing.
Furthermore, it's safe to posit that the male leads are essentially one man represented three ways. Ted Danson's rakish actor is the vain, irresponsible Id, unsurprisingly the actual biological father to the child. Tom Selleck's paternal architect is the superego, leading by example and handling the situation with the problem solving skills and compassionate conservatism of a can-do Reagan era American. Guttenberg's commercial artist, a role that is perhaps the least clearly defined, is the ego negotiating between the Id's endless reservoir of desire and the superego's authoritative black and white moralism.
Once we acknowledge that Danson, Selleck and Guttenberg are in fact one man, the film's true subtext becomes painfully clear. Not only is the story a critique of 1970s countercultural idealism, it is in fact a brutal rejection of 1960s and 1970s feminism. When viewed through this prism we can see that the mother figure, whose occupation of actress may as well be viewed alongside that of prostitute, gets pregnant as a result of her misguided belief in feminist female sexual agency. But this is 1980s conservative America. She does not contract AIDS, but is punished for her transgression with pregnancy. Incapable of raising the child alone, she abandons it altogether - the ultimate sin for a mother regardless of circumstance. The damning twist occurs when not only does the paternal authority represented by the three men take the child in after it's abandonment, they actively thrive in their role as father. In fact, soon they are parenting the infant better than any mother could, all the while dealing with their careers, social lives and even at one point a bunch of drug dealers. The heightened jeopardy of the drugs storyline is an important plot point which highlights how men not only have to exist in the domestic sphere as fathers, but also in the urban jungle, risking their lives and safety to protect their wives and children from the brutal realities of existence. Yet the greatest criticism of feminism is saved for the film’s supposedly heart warming denouement.
When the mother returns to New York, weeping and weak, a wretched waif almost as vulnerable as the baby itself, the three men relinquish the child to her. Her role as mother is essentially all she has to offer society. She is a pathetic figure to be pitied and the shame of abandoning her child is more than enough punishment for her. They take her and the child in as their own, the patriarchal order is restored. Cue 'The Minute I Saw You' by John Parr.
I have expounded this theory a few times recently and every time it has been met with quizzical stares and the suggestion that I am over thinking what is supposed to be a fun little film. So in that spirit here is a beautifully simple recipe given to me by my brother and baker extraordinaire Matt Sterrett
Baguette aka French Stick
250g strong white bread flour
5g yeast
5g salt
175ml water
Makes 2 small baguettes
Sieve the flour into a large mixing bowl and add the yeast, crumbling it into the flour if using fresh yeast. Then add the salt and mix it into the flour, then add the water and mix until you have a sticky dough(you may need to add a little more water).
Turn the mixture out onto a clean work surface and work it until you have a springy dough that comes away easily form the work surface, the technique in this video is helpful:
Shape the dough into a ball and leave to rest in the mixing bowl, covered with a tea towel for 1 hour.
After an hour the dough should have doubled in size. Turn it out onto a well floured work surface and divide it into two and roll each piece of dough into a ball. Cover the two pieces of dough and leave for 5 minutes.
After the dough has rested take one piece and flatten it with the heel of you hand to make a rough oblong shape, then fold one side of the dough into the middle and press it down to seal with your thumb or the heel of your hand, then repeat with the other side, then finally fold the two sides together and seal. Roll the baguette lightly to shape it and place on a baking tray lined with a floured tea towel.
Repeat with the other piece of dough and then cover them both with a tea towel and leave to rest for a further hour. At this point heat your oven to maximum with a baking stone or upturned baking tray on the middle shelf.
Once the dough has rested take the first baguette and gently place it onto a flat floured baking tray or similar that you can use to slide the dough onto your baking stone. Take a sharp knife and make 3-5 quick slashes length wise along the top of the dough. Then slide the baguette onto your heated baking stone and repeat with the other baguette. Finally spray the inside of the oven with a water spray, if you have one, this will create steam and help give your baguettes a good crust. Then bake for 10-12 minute, or until, the bread is nice and crusty then allow the bread to cool on a wire rack.
This bread is so delicious you can eat it on it's own or perhaps dipped into good quality olive oil and balsamic vinegar. I love it with a good thick soup like Minestrone or filled with a strong mature cheddar and some peppery rocket leaf.
Best enjoyed with a cold, crisp glass of English cider and The Dana Gould Hour podcast.
Follow Michael on Twitter @mjsterrett
Art Fist needs you!
All of the content on artfist.org is submitted by volunteers looking to showcase their work. To submit your own work, simply send it to artfist@live.com for consideration.
For more information about contributing, check out our submission guidelines HERE.
The documentary Room 237 about Stanley Kubrick's classic horror film The Shining has been released this month. As an obsessive of the movie since my teenage years, I cannot articulate the delight I felt upon watching this mesmerising piece of cinema from beginning to end. Using footage from The Shining, Kubrick's other works and further relative sources, Room 237 is best described as a visual essay on the hidden meanings and subtext of the 1980 chiller. Ranging from theories that the film is an allegory for the Native American genocide to Kubrick's involvement in the faked Apollo 11 moon landing, it's impossible not to be drawn into the wild circles of logic the film espouses so passionately. Room 237 is now available on I-Tunes and I cannot recommend it highly enough. Aside from sating my inner horror nerd, one question posed by Room 237 resonated greatly with me. Namely, when we create art are we fully aware of the subtext or hidden narrative that reveals itself after the fact? This is a timely conundrum, as I have been working on a script for the past few months and after giving it a few weeks to breath upon completion found that instead of reading back what I had assumed was a bizarre dark comedy was in fact quite a sad little play on friendship, failed love and the American sitcoms I grew up watching. My attempt to write a Miramax genre piece ended up more akin to those upsetting melancholic dramas broadcast on Channel 4 in the 1980s. Whether it will ever see the light of day is one thing but I was taken aback by how even a hack writer like me could subconsciously imbue a story with more meaning than I had intended to.
One example of subtext revealing itself is the much loved film Three Men and a Baby. Directed by Leonard Nimoy and starring power trio Steve Guttenberg, Ted Danson and Tom Selleck, the film tells the story of three cool Manhattanites who become saddled with a baby. And over the course of the movie learn not only to care for the infant but actually love it. Pretty much a staple of my youth, Three Men and a Baby appears to be a big hearted tale depicting an unconventional surrogate family acting against gender stereotypes and embracing not only their inner paternalism, but their maternalism also. And, to be frank, any film with Fleetwood Mac's Everywhere on the soundtrack is bound to get this pundit weeping like an idiot.
But let's take a step back for a second and see what the film might conversely be communicating. It's no coincidence that the three characters are all artistic, successful auteurs in their own right. This was after all the 1980s, an era of aggressive entrepreneurship that co-opted art created by the 1970s counterculture for its own financial ends. Yes, these three men are smart and creative, but they also know how to make a buck. This isn't the hippie commune idyll of non commercial artistic expression and, in turn, child rearing.
Furthermore, it's safe to posit that the male leads are essentially one man represented three ways. Ted Danson's rakish actor is the vain, irresponsible Id, unsurprisingly the actual biological father to the child. Tom Selleck's paternal architect is the superego, leading by example and handling the situation with the problem solving skills and compassionate conservatism of a can-do Reagan era American. Guttenberg's commercial artist, a role that is perhaps the least clearly defined, is the ego negotiating between the Id's endless reservoir of desire and the superego's authoritative black and white moralism.
Once we acknowledge that Danson, Selleck and Guttenberg are in fact one man, the film's true subtext becomes painfully clear. Not only is the story a critique of 1970s countercultural idealism, it is in fact a brutal rejection of 1960s and 1970s feminism. When viewed through this prism we can see that the mother figure, whose occupation of actress may as well be viewed alongside that of prostitute, gets pregnant as a result of her misguided belief in feminist female sexual agency. But this is 1980s conservative America. She does not contract AIDS, but is punished for her transgression with pregnancy. Incapable of raising the child alone, she abandons it altogether - the ultimate sin for a mother regardless of circumstance. The damning twist occurs when not only does the paternal authority represented by the three men take the child in after it's abandonment, they actively thrive in their role as father. In fact, soon they are parenting the infant better than any mother could, all the while dealing with their careers, social lives and even at one point a bunch of drug dealers. The heightened jeopardy of the drugs storyline is an important plot point which highlights how men not only have to exist in the domestic sphere as fathers, but also in the urban jungle, risking their lives and safety to protect their wives and children from the brutal realities of existence. Yet the greatest criticism of feminism is saved for the film’s supposedly heart warming denouement.
When the mother returns to New York, weeping and weak, a wretched waif almost as vulnerable as the baby itself, the three men relinquish the child to her. Her role as mother is essentially all she has to offer society. She is a pathetic figure to be pitied and the shame of abandoning her child is more than enough punishment for her. They take her and the child in as their own, the patriarchal order is restored. Cue 'The Minute I Saw You' by John Parr.
I have expounded this theory a few times recently and every time it has been met with quizzical stares and the suggestion that I am over thinking what is supposed to be a fun little film. So in that spirit here is a beautifully simple recipe given to me by my brother and baker extraordinaire Matt Sterrett
Baguette aka French Stick
250g strong white bread flour
5g yeast
5g salt
175ml water
Makes 2 small baguettes
Sieve the flour into a large mixing bowl and add the yeast, crumbling it into the flour if using fresh yeast. Then add the salt and mix it into the flour, then add the water and mix until you have a sticky dough(you may need to add a little more water).
Turn the mixture out onto a clean work surface and work it until you have a springy dough that comes away easily form the work surface, the technique in this video is helpful:
Shape the dough into a ball and leave to rest in the mixing bowl, covered with a tea towel for 1 hour.
After an hour the dough should have doubled in size. Turn it out onto a well floured work surface and divide it into two and roll each piece of dough into a ball. Cover the two pieces of dough and leave for 5 minutes.
After the dough has rested take one piece and flatten it with the heel of you hand to make a rough oblong shape, then fold one side of the dough into the middle and press it down to seal with your thumb or the heel of your hand, then repeat with the other side, then finally fold the two sides together and seal. Roll the baguette lightly to shape it and place on a baking tray lined with a floured tea towel.
Repeat with the other piece of dough and then cover them both with a tea towel and leave to rest for a further hour. At this point heat your oven to maximum with a baking stone or upturned baking tray on the middle shelf.
Once the dough has rested take the first baguette and gently place it onto a flat floured baking tray or similar that you can use to slide the dough onto your baking stone. Take a sharp knife and make 3-5 quick slashes length wise along the top of the dough. Then slide the baguette onto your heated baking stone and repeat with the other baguette. Finally spray the inside of the oven with a water spray, if you have one, this will create steam and help give your baguettes a good crust. Then bake for 10-12 minute, or until, the bread is nice and crusty then allow the bread to cool on a wire rack.
This bread is so delicious you can eat it on it's own or perhaps dipped into good quality olive oil and balsamic vinegar. I love it with a good thick soup like Minestrone or filled with a strong mature cheddar and some peppery rocket leaf.
Best enjoyed with a cold, crisp glass of English cider and The Dana Gould Hour podcast.
Follow Michael on Twitter @mjsterrett
Art Fist needs you!
All of the content on artfist.org is submitted by volunteers looking to showcase their work. To submit your own work, simply send it to artfist@live.com for consideration.
For more information about contributing, check out our submission guidelines HERE.
Thursday, 25 April 2013
Homeless Portrait
by Jeff Bell
How sad the homeless portrait, desire
caught in eyes too personal the message
for others to see. Is this why most masters
captured eyes so dull?
Caught in no man's land of hidden love,
a glimpse of past possibility well and truly lost.
Thoughts of why it feels better never to return,
even to places having never seen before.
The airport, the motorways, the skyline of
unknown city, all forever hidden.
Time stopped as picture made ready,
maybe overwound reason for hold in time.
Now only closed Post Office brings return,
from stalled journey back to first home.
How sad the homeless portrait, desire
caught in eyes too personal the message
for others to see. Is this why most masters
captured eyes so dull?
Caught in no man's land of hidden love,
a glimpse of past possibility well and truly lost.
Thoughts of why it feels better never to return,
even to places having never seen before.
The airport, the motorways, the skyline of
unknown city, all forever hidden.
Time stopped as picture made ready,
maybe overwound reason for hold in time.
Now only closed Post Office brings return,
from stalled journey back to first home.
Art Fist needs you!
All of the content on artfist.org is submitted by volunteers looking to showcase their work. To submit your own work, simply send it to artfist@live.com for consideration.
For more information about contributing, check out our submission guidelines HERE.
Tuesday, 23 April 2013
What Does It Mean to be 'Alternative' In Today's Music Industry?
by Marcela De Vivo
The definition of alternative music has drastically changed over the years. A few decades ago, alternative literally meant whatever music is opposite of what is mainstream or popular. Today, alternative is an umbrella term for several different genres and artists. But how did it progress into a term that doesn’t necessarily mean anything anymore?
Alternative music can be traced back to the 1960s and is almost solely responsible for the evolution of Punk music. The Punk genre was the musicians way of taking music back into their own hands and creating a unique, never-before-heard product.
Many alternative bands were featured on MTV when music television still revolved heavily around musician’s lives, music videos and how music was actually being created. As years have gone by, people’s attention on music television has been diverted by popular reality television shows like The Real World.
Many people say that the music scene changed in the early 1990s when Nirvana hit the world with their “Nevermind” album --and caught the attention of alternative fans and the general public alike.
Since then, hundreds of bands have tried to imitate Nirvana and become the next best thing. Record labels would scour clubs late at night searching for anything that came close. A lot of bands were signed this way in the 90s, but none ever become as successfully as Nirvana.
The 2013 Alternative nominees category includes Gotye’s “Making Mirrors” alongside M83’s “Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming.” But what exactly classifies these jams as alternative music today?
According to The Academy, albums that contain more than half of their playing time of new vocals and alternative recordings should be classified as such. They have also said that this category is reserved for non-traditional recordings outside of the popular mainstream consciousness.
The recordings use new technology and never-before-used production techniques that give the music a really unique sound. Alternative music can contain elements of all kinds of music including: pop, folk and even classical.
Today’s alternative music is, ironically, mostly mainstream and popular. Because it is such an umbrella term, it encompasses an incredibly wide range of artists who get varying amounts of exposure and radio play. Alternative includes genres like: indie rock, gothic, punk rock, industrial grunge and even some emo.
Even Dubstep and TripHop are two genres that may be considered alternative today because of their different sound. Artists like Nujabes combine hip-hop elements with classical music and vocals to create a genre called “Trip Hop.”
No matter what you call it, your favorite music will still sound as sweet to your ears as it always has. Perhaps the word alternative will soon cease to be used by the music industry because of the current confusion as to which artists deserve to be called by this name.
Marcela De Vivo is a freelance writer in the Los Angeles area who works with Arena, a music streaming site that hosts many “alternative” artists. Marcela’s writing covers everything from music, health, technology and marketing.
The definition of alternative music has drastically changed over the years. A few decades ago, alternative literally meant whatever music is opposite of what is mainstream or popular. Today, alternative is an umbrella term for several different genres and artists. But how did it progress into a term that doesn’t necessarily mean anything anymore?
Alternative music can be traced back to the 1960s and is almost solely responsible for the evolution of Punk music. The Punk genre was the musicians way of taking music back into their own hands and creating a unique, never-before-heard product.
Many alternative bands were featured on MTV when music television still revolved heavily around musician’s lives, music videos and how music was actually being created. As years have gone by, people’s attention on music television has been diverted by popular reality television shows like The Real World.
Many people say that the music scene changed in the early 1990s when Nirvana hit the world with their “Nevermind” album --and caught the attention of alternative fans and the general public alike.
Since then, hundreds of bands have tried to imitate Nirvana and become the next best thing. Record labels would scour clubs late at night searching for anything that came close. A lot of bands were signed this way in the 90s, but none ever become as successfully as Nirvana.
The 2013 Alternative nominees category includes Gotye’s “Making Mirrors” alongside M83’s “Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming.” But what exactly classifies these jams as alternative music today?
According to The Academy, albums that contain more than half of their playing time of new vocals and alternative recordings should be classified as such. They have also said that this category is reserved for non-traditional recordings outside of the popular mainstream consciousness.
The recordings use new technology and never-before-used production techniques that give the music a really unique sound. Alternative music can contain elements of all kinds of music including: pop, folk and even classical.
Today’s alternative music is, ironically, mostly mainstream and popular. Because it is such an umbrella term, it encompasses an incredibly wide range of artists who get varying amounts of exposure and radio play. Alternative includes genres like: indie rock, gothic, punk rock, industrial grunge and even some emo.
Even Dubstep and TripHop are two genres that may be considered alternative today because of their different sound. Artists like Nujabes combine hip-hop elements with classical music and vocals to create a genre called “Trip Hop.”
No matter what you call it, your favorite music will still sound as sweet to your ears as it always has. Perhaps the word alternative will soon cease to be used by the music industry because of the current confusion as to which artists deserve to be called by this name.
Marcela De Vivo is a freelance writer in the Los Angeles area who works with Arena, a music streaming site that hosts many “alternative” artists. Marcela’s writing covers everything from music, health, technology and marketing.
Art Fist needs you!
All of the content on artfist.org is submitted by volunteers looking to showcase their work. To submit your own work, simply send it to artfist@live.com for consideration.
For more information about contributing, check out our submission guidelines HERE.
Thursday, 18 April 2013
The Mariners
by Amir Sharrif
Under a summer’s starlight two old mariners speak
Equal in years and with the seas markings on each.
‘Friend, I see here less of our kind.’
‘Yes my friend, only us two and time.’
‘I heard the gulls which to us hark and cackle
We meet once more to see the sea unravel.’
‘Bygone those days are, along with past great states
Where we once sailed to, eaten by cosmic space faded in greys.’
‘Dust speaks unto dust, with only fleeting
Moments of understanding.’
They spoke this way together reminiscing
Of their youths, adventures and captured wisdoms.
Once agitated with full vibrant beards,
They learnt their craft under these same stars.
Forever guided never lost and learned
Speaking in a language they never did once yield.
‘Promise in a new world one approving
Old values, for these words are moving.
On plates creating fissures anew.
Flowers amongst a world of deracinated roots.’
‘The cold breeds hardy souls with stout skins.’
Spoke the first.
‘Different dialects creating broken tongues.’
Spoke the second, seconds later.
Life continues against the bitter winds
Consuming both old and young,
Said the narrator.
Under a summer’s starlight two old mariners speak
Equal in years and with the seas markings on each.
‘Friend, I see here less of our kind.’
‘Yes my friend, only us two and time.’
‘I heard the gulls which to us hark and cackle
We meet once more to see the sea unravel.’
‘Bygone those days are, along with past great states
Where we once sailed to, eaten by cosmic space faded in greys.’
‘Dust speaks unto dust, with only fleeting
Moments of understanding.’
They spoke this way together reminiscing
Of their youths, adventures and captured wisdoms.
Once agitated with full vibrant beards,
They learnt their craft under these same stars.
Forever guided never lost and learned
Speaking in a language they never did once yield.
‘Promise in a new world one approving
Old values, for these words are moving.
On plates creating fissures anew.
Flowers amongst a world of deracinated roots.’
‘The cold breeds hardy souls with stout skins.’
Spoke the first.
‘Different dialects creating broken tongues.’
Spoke the second, seconds later.
Life continues against the bitter winds
Consuming both old and young,
Said the narrator.
Art Fist needs you!
All of the content on artfist.org is submitted by volunteers looking to showcase their work. To submit your own work, simply send it to artfist@live.com for consideration.
For more information about contributing, check out our submission guidelines HERE.
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