Launch

Today has been a big day. Against all odds and despite all signs to the contrary over the last couple of years, 21st Century Portraits is now out in the world and tonight it launched at the National Portrait Gallery.

21st Century Portraits

Today is a BIG day. Like, 245 pages big. The Book is now on sale.

It’s terrifying and exhilarating and frankly strange to think that all my words are now out there in the world for public consumption. We’ll try not to go near that other c word (criticism) for now.

I’m incredibly proud of how hard I worked to help make this book happen and hope that anyone with the excellent sense to buy it (…) appreciates its provocations, its beauty and its best intentions.

I always said I wasn’t going to leave London until the bloody thing was published and so here it is, and now here I go, in just two and a half weeks time. Talk about back to back Significant Life Moments.

The problem with Australia

So I went to the press preview for 'Australia' at the Royal Academy on Tuesday. I'm writing a review for Artlink and for a couple of weeks now I've been worried my instincts (that it would be disappointing, conservative, terrible... that my snobbery and cultural bias would cloud my objectivity...) would get in the way of me looking at the show with an open mind.

And so I tried. And failed. Because it really isn't great. Does it warrant the casual racism and vitriol dressed as criticism it's receiving in the British press? Well, no.  But it's not great. It's not even very good. I'm going to need to leave my thoughts to marinate for a while yet in the hope that something by way of coherent argument emerges. Because right now it's just an exasperated mash of frustrations.

I can't believe this is the same institution that hosted the seminal Sensation back in 1997. I mean, where's all that curatorial chutzpah gone?

What a missed opportunity. National Gallery of Australia, I'm blaming you too.

I wrote a book.

Elsewhere in the world brilliant friends of mine are on the brink of delivering small humans. This week, yesterday, I was borne of a book whose labour has only taken three and half years. I feel overwhelmed, elated, terrified and not sure what to do with it. I just keep staring at it. For several hours last night it went like this:

(Dazed wandering about the house, book invariably clutched to chest or held at a length with look of clinical curiosity.)

“It’s a book. I wrote a book.”

“I, me, I wrote a book.”

“I wrote this.”

“A book.”

“It’s a book, an ACTUAL book.”

“Oh my god I wrote a book.”

(Ongoing disbelief and dumb wonderment etc. etc.)

Sunshine. And a look back at Venice.

It’s a beautiful, nay, glorious day here in London. It’s hot. As in SUNNY. You know, Properly Warm. And SUNNY, did I mention that? And so what have we done?

This isn't London. Obviously.

Absolutely nothing.

Party’s over syndrome

So the party is well and truly over. We got back to London on Monday, Mum and Max left last night and this has been the brutal shift in my reality:

I’m not expecting sympathy. I don’t deserve it (not least because I’m off to Reykjavik in three weeks time…)

But between now and then there’s still in excess of 300 emails to get through, 1000 words to write up on the Biennale for Artlink and my birthday this Sunday to contemplate.

What a killer trip – Paris, Provence and the Luberon, St Remy and Aix, Arles, Nice, northern Italy, Venice...

It’s been amazing, folks. AMAZING. 

Tuesmonday

I bloody love a long weekend and I love that the month of May has two of them. It's civility and generosity rolled into two. I also love Tuesmonday. You know, that wonderful negation of Monday blues by sheer fact of it already being Tuesday and thus one day closer to Friday. It's pretty wonderful.

So I had a good long weekend.

A little bit of lately

At the time of writing I’m en route to Kassel, Germany to see Documenta 13 – globetrotting art dilettante that I am – but even with a dedicated couple of hours to give here I’m slightly overwhelmed as to where to start on what is effectively a “Life Lately” catch up. Or really, a life lately, and life not so lately catch up.

The last nearly two months have been frantic. I do remember the last time I was this overwhelmed with exhaustion and adrenaline and it was pretty ugly then but that feels like a warm up compared to this recent marathon of sleep-deprived madness. 

Jumping on Jeremy

This is a cheat post. One of those posts where you stick up a bunch of images in lieu of substantive or witty writing to tell yourself you updated the blog. Tick.

I am writing. Just elsewhere. A book. I'm nearly done. I promise.

In the meantime, distract yourself with pictures of our visit to Burgess Park, Peckham two weekends ago to jump on Jeremy Deller, or rather, Jeremy Deller's brilliant, bouncing Stonehenge spectacle, Sacrilege. The title says it all really.

Things I Want To Do When...

Am busy. Stupidly busy. Swigging diet coke at 3am busy. It's awful. I look awful. But soon - soon - it will be finished and normal transmission will resume.

Then I Will...

Loveliness and busyness

I’ve been wanting to write about the Damien Hirst exhibition at Tate for a couple of weeks now. But every time I go to write about it, well, I get a bit cross and cranky. So I’m going to save that for another day.

Instead I’m going to reflect on last weekend– lovely, lovely last weekend.

On Friday evening I joined two of my favourite Antipodeans, Katie and Nina – my cocktail coterie - for dinner at Shrimpy’s. Nina made the booking six weeks ago, which tells you lots about both Nina’s organisation and the popularity of this hip little pop up restaurant by the canal near Kings Cross. It’s the work of the genius team behind east London’s Bistrotheque.

Bruised feet, bridal magazines and a girl crush

Today was the first day of full-time employment and it went quickly and, you know what, actually rather pleasantly. Last week was my final nannying hurrah with three small but charming Aussie kids - same nationality, same school, different family - and lovely though they are I will not miss ham sandwiches, swimming lessons, tennis lessons or spelling tests. I suspect I will miss starting work at 3pm but you can't have it all.

Exhaustion thy name is Full Time Work

I am zonked. I should be in bed right now and know I will regret it in the morning but I've just finished up the last of my NPG work and LB is cooking us a late light dinner while I fight the urge to rest my head on the keyboard.

Art and cake and plans ahoy

Cornwall coast

It's been a surprisingly fruitful, if not frustrating week. The reality of not having a job is fast becoming annoying, exacerbated no doubt by the unfortunate turn in writing towards a feeling of it being, well, homework. Some not so exciting artists and some works so well-known it is impossible to write anything original about them without six months of intensive research and even then it would still risk sounding familiar. Am pushing through but the rate of productivity has severely slipped so this week needs to be tackled with the sort of bloody minded ruthlessness usually applied to a dessert chasing five courses and a cheese platter. And yes, I probably will end up feeling just as ill at the end of it.

Art and pesto... the art of pesto?

I don't know where the last week has gone but wherever it went it went quickly.

For the most part I have been at home, sitting at the little desk LB procured for me, writing diligently if not excessively about portraits, artists and the 21st century. I don't know if it's the magic of the desk, or the submission to total art submersion but I have really got a buzz from the writing I've accomplished this week.

Adrian Ghenie, Pie Fight Study 2, 2008

London days and dates for one

It's been a week now since returning to - gasp, sunny! - London. Note I didn't say "warm" London but sunshine seems a conciliatory gesture, especially at this time of year and so I will simply be thankful. For the sunshine and for socks.

Lovely Boy is back to work and I too am hard at work, trying in vain to get my part of the book as finished as I can as soon as possible. Which has meant since I began last Friday, writing the equivalent of an essay a day. We're talking 3000 words and if today is proving anything to go by, just as many calories too, and even at this rate I still don't think I'll be finished by the end of the month. It's the ultimate submersion therapy for my procrastination problem to say the very least...

I do feel inspired though and had a really positive day at the gallery yesterday with some affirming feedback and I just keep envisioning the book, finished, published and in my hot little hand. Full0time paid employment currently escapes me, not for lack of trying, but hopefully something will come up soon enough, especially if I want to get my travel plans shuffling along.

Last weekend was really lovely. LB and I went to Chinatown for dumplings and steamed pork buns and a series of serious conversations about being Grown Up and The Future (this is not code for babies by the way, fuck no, rather, an allusion to talk about life plans and where to live and how to buy a house when you have no money and, if you're me, no immediate prospects for le cashflow problem. And now that I've explained it, it isn't even an allusion. It's just a long sentence. Sigh.)

 

Anyway, the weekend. Sunday I left the B at home, because for some crazy ass reason he "hates" East London and I went back to my old stomping ground in search of flowers, flea markets and Antipodean coffee. I can't say it enough but I love the Columbia Road flower market. And I love East London because even with all its grimy grossness there is some stubborn charm in there and I miss it. Loads.

getting arty with the iphone...

I did come home laden with flowers however and a promise to myself that I would take myself on a date each week, just me and London, chillin', hanging out, seein' some Stuff. A necessary social arrangement really if I am to make this year as worthwhile as I want it to be and a date tomorrow night with some girlies from The Retail Job should be just the tonic to my floral gin.

What I do have to do tomorrow, is not eat my way through 3000 words and somewhere in there try to get to the pool for a head clearing, arm toning (?....) swim. At this moment in time a truck full of Snickers bars wouldn't get me there but tomorrow is a new day. Hopefully a sunny new day.

still getting arty...

Why hello, 2011

It's so refreshing to start the new year without a hangover. Or a hungover LBB. New Years Eve was blissfully uneventful but perfect in its mix of good food, ribald family conversation and champagne before fireworks on the television and an hour of bad eighties video clips. Couldn't have been more middle aged. Couldn't care less.

The cicadas are harmonising, the sun is shining and I am contemplating the year ahead. Resolutions for me ultimately become things to berate myself about mid-to-late year for a complete lack of application that has seen any of them materialise but despite being in much the same boat as last Christmas (read: basically unemployed and lacking any real certainty vis a vis The Long Term Plan) I feel excited about this year and am looking forward to seeing what evolves. Short of calling them resolutions, I have some Things I'd Like to Make Happen this year and with any luck I can do just that.

The post too big for a title

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That there is the line I've drawn underneath all and everything that has happened in the last two months. There's been a litany of reasons for my fall into this most epic of writing black holes and I'd be lying if I said sitting down to write now, after two months of barely an email, is easy. It's oddly a physical challenge as much as a psychological one and pushing past all the rejection and self-confidence issues that have overwhelmed me lately feels like pushing over a wall of concrete in order to stagger up a really steep hill. But because I've drawn a line and because I'm now needing to write in order to move forward I'll neatly summise the two key events that kneecapped me and then, well, draw another line:

- First: an email from the editor at an unnamed art magazine telling me my writing style was "too broadsheet for the particular kind of art journalism they were looking for." With the kicker: "but I'm not saying no-one will ever publish your work." This is the first time I've written since receiving that email and I still feel sick and ashamed and a bit beaten.

- Then: a successful job application that lead to what even I, in my most pathetically self-doubting moments, know was a good interview.... only to then have to chase the HR department to confirm that I didn't get the job and for the kind of lame reason that says "Oh no,we never intended to hire you. We already had someone lined up for the job but, because that looks incredibly dodgy, we had to waste the time and efforts - oh and emotional energy - of a bunch of strangers to legitimate what we'd already decided before we put the job ad out." It doesn't matter this was only the second interview I've managed to get in nine months or the fact I was born to do this job.

_________________________________________________

I was destroyed. Flattened. Defeated. I may have even been sobbing in an alleyway off Kings Road with snot running down my face. I was then and still rather am now just a tad exhausted. But the beautiful thing about getting to emotional ground zero, particularly in the department of all things career, is that you can't then get any lower. And once you get used to the cold, hard, dark ground on which you lie, and once you exhaust the tears and once the deafening voices in your head that scream "YOU ARE A FAILURE" simmer to a low hum, well, that cold, hard, dark ground becomes cool and peaceful. And the solitary nature of this place becomes somewhere to retreat, a place to accept and just be, a place to consider new options, re-consider old ones and to just clock out for a while on the whole "what is the meaning of my life/what can I contribute to the world/do I have any value/will I ever earn more than £7 an hour" head fuck that has been my intellectual reality for way too long now.

With confidence broken, opportunities lost and hope missing like a favourite sentimental earring, well, it's a good time to just stop. And then, slowly, begin again. And/or go to Turkey.

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Cloudy with a chance of meatballs

Apparently ten days of sunshine DOES a summer make. We've gone from hot and sunny to hot and cloudy to cloudy and muggy to cloudy and muggy with a dash, not a hint, of rain. I'm not sure where this is going but it isn't to the beach.

Stuck in the writing mud.

LB is off secret squirreling this weekend in anticipation of D-Day next Wednesday (the D in D-Day being "Doomed To Be Considered Old Always From This Day Forward") and I am across the river nannying, or, as I like to think of it, earning my next haircut.

The weather is obstinately beige and not becoming of early summer and the lethargic efforts of the sun are proving contagious. My writing has crawled to a near-halt over the last two weeks and I'm struggling to muster the enthusiasm for much beyond a bowl of Special K on the couch. I might be tempted to diagnose a case of the birthday blues - or an existential crisis of thirty proportions but in the interests of good mental health (mine and those that have to suffer me) I'm choosing to whitewash the feeling in a mash up of philosophy and sentiment about this thing we call A Milestone.