Comings and goings

So we’re back. And it feels….

Familiar.

And strange.

I’m just freewheeling with my emotions at the moment – ignoring the stunned, slightly dazed feeling that comes from a cocktail of jetlag, overwrought emotion, uncertainty and exhaustion – and focusing on the minute to minute. And the truly genuine joy at being back amongst the family.

A bout of lasts

It’s a strange feeling sitting here in our flat, contemplating our last remaining night after three and something years in shitty old Hammersmith. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved our little house and life here nearly overlooking the Thames but I ain’t going to miss this particular patch of west London.

I honestly thought I’d dread this moment but after nearly a month of packing and sorting and chucking and, let’s be honest, low-grade bickering about whether or not we really need to pack the enormous French dictionary when neither of us speak the language and realistically never will, well, I’m just ready to pull the cord.

Sookiness and Sadler's Wells

Last week was hard work.

There were tears. Yes, more tears.

There were big days and late nights, a bit of packing and a lot of melancholy conversations about saying goodbye to great people and exciting projects in pursuit of an as-yet-unclear Next Life Stage.

It’s been hard balancing the increasing, lovely, enthusiasm of our families for our increasingly imminent return with the rising tide of panic and anxiety and sadness and uncertainty that comes with calling time on five years. I’m aware of the first world nature of my problems – having to give up an amazing job and say goodbye to amazing friends to move to another pretty amazing country (despite the fuckwit running the place) where amazing family and other amazing friends live and where there will hopefully be other amazing job opportunities and if not, well at least there will be amazing beaches and amazing coffee. 

There’s lots that is amazing, see.

And yet…

First class problems.

I was on the bus this morning, on my way to work, blah blah blah, on the phone to my sister.

Her: How are you?

Me: Oh, I don’t know. Tired. Hormonal. Busy. Distracted. In need of another day of nothing but we’re away this weekend in Reykjavik and away next weekend in Paris, which I’m really looking forward to but I’m going to be so tired.

(Pause.)

Me again: I know, I know, my life is a series of first-world problems. I should just shut the fuck up.

Her: No, no. Reykjavik one weekend, Paris the next – that’s not a first world problem. That’s a first class problem. So yes. Shut the fuck up.

Did I mention I’m off to Reykjavik on Friday with Lovely Boy and his parents? Whale watching, blue lagooning, eating, wandering. If only all my first-world problems were this awesome.

Goodness me I'm almost thirty-three.

Goodness me I’m almost thirty-three.

Another birthday and what looks like being another shit faux-summer day with a teenager for a temperature #forfuckssake

But putting the weather aside for a moment, I’m excited about 33. I definitely prefer the odd numbers but beyond that, it feels like a good age, a good moment. It’s not 34-and-my-god-your-reproductive-window-is-now-officially-waning and it’s not 30-my-god-you’re-twenties-are-over. I think it’s my new Barbie age.

If only my Barbie age hadn’t been 27.

Some thoughts on art and other things

Swings and roundabouts. Last weekend I left the house once (for chocolate). The weekend before I was out and about all over the place. 

I was actually working last Saturday, overseeing the production of a short film for work, part of which involved orchestrating and participating in a walking tour around some of the lesser known art spaces in Peckham. 

Bits and Bob Bob Ricards

In between the day trips and the mini-breaks and the cocktails and the list-writing I've had a number of small but delightful moments of observation and aesthetic appreciation lately. My Peckham punk granny with her Batman-esque eye shadow delicately devouring her sandwich above being just one of them...

Oh Frieze

So I went to Frieze on Friday afternoon.

Last year was the first time I’d ever gone and the experience was timely for a number of non-art related reasons. 

But the truth is, I really grapple with the whole art fair circus. I mean, I understand its place in the wider ecology of the art world and the commercial art world in particular, and am not such a socialist as to say art should only be that which is available and accessible and interesting and rich with transformative potential for the average punter. BUT, well, I kind of don’t really like the commercial art world. And mostly, that’s because I think its values are a bit screwy.

BE THE DRESS

It's been a turbulent, rather distressing, couple of weeks. I suppose it was inevitable.

Wedding folklore dictates that someone, sooner or later, will become a nightmare. I guess I just always thought it would be me. Family dramas have been centre stage the last few weeks and the consequences haven't been pretty. Those that know me (and those with perceptive reading-between-the-lines ability who don't know me but who follow my ramblings), will concur that self-confidence has never been my strong suit. And that while my pale skin belies what is actually a bloody-minded resilience, it doesn't take much to make me wobble, however fleetingly, and question everything I've spent the last five years consciously counter-acting. Basic instincts that whisper insistently that I'm not special, that I'm not beautiful, that people will reject me, that I'm not perfect, that I don't deserve good things and good people in my life.

I don't regret my choices or paths - they have got me to where I am today in however a roundabout fashion - but the muddy path to this point now, where I am overwhelmed and humbled and excited by the love and goodness and possibility in my life, well sometimes it all still feels freshly trodden.

So let's just say there's been an inadvertent detour back down some of those roads the last two weeks. But I feel like I'm nearly back to me. And us. Poor Lovely Boy has been out in his own wilderness while I've struggled with all this emotional shit but thinking about the wedding, talking with friends and family, ticking fun things off our list like "Buy Lovely Boy A Suit" and "Post The Bloody Invitations Already" are helping to bring things back to where they were. That and my new mantra. Be The Dress.

I had my first fitting a couple of weeks ago and it verged on the disastrous. A make up stain that said "someone else has tried on this dress which happens to in fact be mine already so WHAT THE FUCK?!" didn't help, nor did said missing confidence or the overwhelming reality of wearing this dress during an enormously important, highly emotional, very public, almost certain to be photographed moment in my life. It was all a bit much so thank god for the presence of sensible, patient mothers and the supportive, reassuring words of dear girlfriends. Basically the dress out-psyched me. And now I have to be the dress.

Before I even knew what I wanted I knew I wanted a dress that was several things: glamorous, sexy, different, confident and effortless. It was an ambitious brief and to be honest, one I didn't think I'd ever fill. But I have. Effortlessly in fact. And now, I have to Be The Dress. I have to be all those things for myself. Because I'm never going to get this time again and I'm sensible enough (just...) to not let a frock or a family drama get the better of me.

What's funny though, thinking back over the last two weeks, is how much art I've sought out. Let me explain.

Five years ago I was in a pretty dark place. I was also in London visiting my sister. And one afternoon I traipsed all over the city with an old friend who also happened to be in town, seeing all kinds of art at Tate Modern, in the east end and somewhere else I can't remember and the things I saw inspired me - I felt giddy, happy, sad, uncomfortable, inspired, amazed and curious. And the experience set me free. I appreciate it might sound totally ridiculous but realising that art could make me feel these things made me realise that my feelings were just feelings - and not me. I felt sad, I myself wasn't sad. I felt lost, I myself wasn't lost. These were my feelings but these too would pass in time. They didn't define me and they weren't a permanent part of me. It was a ridiculously small revelation but it changed my life. And I sobbed for hours with relief at the realisation. Much to the consternation of my sister I might add.

Inside Frieze Art Fair, 2011

There's been quite a bit of sobbing the last two weeks too but in traipsing around Frieze, visiting the Pipilotti Rist exhibition at the Hayward, sitting in the dark Turbine Hall of Tate watching Tacita Dean's new commission FILM, well it steadied me somehow. It's not art therapy - it's just another way of looking at and coping with life. For me anyway.

Pierre Huyghe, Reflection, 2011. Frieze Projects

Pierre Huyghe's Reflection - a hermit crab taken up residence in a cast of Brancusi's bronze Sleeping Muse from 1910 - was whimsical and strangely poetic, I like the idea of art as a place of refuge, while Pipilotti Rist's chandelier of knickers was cheerful and intimate and celebratory.

Pipilotti Rist's underpants fairy lights on the Southbank

Video art in the loo at the Hayward...

Pipilotti Rist, Massachusetts Chandelier, 2010

And Tacita Dean's FILM was just a lovely visual balm. Gentle, strangely hypnotic, free of intellectual taxation. The perfect place to sit in the dark with a friend and talk of home and homesickness and the restorative powers of accessories and red wine.

Tacita Dean, FILM, 2011, Unilever Series
Commission, Turbine Hall, Tate Modern

It's only Monday but I'm exhausted. A poor nights sleep meant the imbibing of Red Bull at 9.30am this morning and a Milky Way and a diet coke at 4.30pm but hopefully I will sleep soundlessly tonight. No dreams of weddings, no dreams of drama, no dreams of Downton Abbey.

My Seven Links

Some weeks ago my Lovely Friend (also known as Tori of eat-tori fame) tagged me as part of a blog project called My Seven Links organised by website Tripbase.

It's my kind of project - an opportunity to trawl back through the endless reams of my navel gazing to find seven posts I think fit the following categories....


My most popular post
This was a tie between two posts but for obvious sentimental reasons I've decided to nominate this one. A trip to Turkey and the small matter of a proposal...

Turkish Delights

A post whose success surprises me
I have no idea why this post has been as popular as it has. It's a fairly standard post, I mean scintillating, but just regular scintillating with some art pondering, some east London eating and the usual work wobbles and thoughts of home.

Pinch me moments and friends from home

My most beautiful post
This one is very personal to me. Not written for any other reason than to articulate my grief about the death of my grandmother. I didn't write it to be read so much as write it to make tangible and articulate a knot of overwhelming feelings. I still feel her absence and I miss her and love her always.

84 and a day and 31 tomorrow            

My most controversial post
This frankly is as controversial as it is nasty. Thanks to a rambling introduction that ranged from Chanel lipstick to caffeine-supported exhaustion and the need to kick my own arse this post came up - repeatedly - when someone typed into Google Arabic - repeatedly - "lipstick on girls arses". Coco would be horrified.

Redbull and lipstick

My most helpful post
This one, like my 'most beautiful' post is a testament to the cathartic powers of word vomit. This post is the written equivalent of forcing my fingers down my throat.

The post too big for a title

A post you feel didn't get the attention it deserved
This one is kind of tricky as I've never really thought of my blog as a means for attracting attention but something about this post has always appealed for some reason. I think I think I'm especially witty or something...

Fit and you know it

The post you are most proud of
I'm going to take liberties here and post three links. I'm not sure why these particular posts appeal to me or why I'm most proud of them but I think they are the kinds of posts I imagined my blog to be when I moved to London to travel, immerse myself in art and write and reflect on everything I learned along the way - about myself as much as the world at large.

A trip down memory lane with my 18 year old self... Brighton Rock(s)!

A trip to Berlin, my most favourite European city... I (heart) Berlin

A trip to the British Library and a little bit of art... Some ish and some art

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.

Welcome back woollens

It's cold. The clocks don't change for another two weeks, winter doesn't officially start until November 1 but today was the first day I felt it in my toes. That numbing, achy cold that says, "Hello, I think I need socks. And probably some sensible leather shoes in the form of smart boots." I was anticipating this day. Last week I pulled out all my woollens - the chunky knits, the cute cardies, the accessory scarves, the functional scarves, the v-necks, the roll necks and my three pairs of knitted bed socks. And still I left the house today in fabulous but totally inappropriate slip ons...

The grey is steadily making itself known, mopping up the last occasional blue days and sunshine with a moody sort of melancholy that will eventually see it settle in until March. Which feels like forever away and too soon at the same time. Not too soon for sunshine mind, more too soon for a new year with an old broken plan. But one thing at a time.

LB and I had a lovely weekend, armed with little more than a plan to do "Something" that involved leaving the house. Something turned out to be a stroll through Portobello Road Markets, the purchasing of an exquisite, totally insane necklace (for me, not LB) and a visit to Hyde Park to see the new Anish Kapoor sculpture exhibition. It's been a while since I dragged LB somewhere in the name of Art but we had a great time and I am now earnestly in love with Kapoor's work. His Sky Mirror appeared to me like an alchemic dish of lost souls and moments, with the stainless steel disc angled skywards and thus reflecting the shifting grey clouds and silent thoughts of the world above. It was just exquisite.

 

To write about it or not write about it however remains the question. Pithy, self-indulgent observation is one thing, sitting down to extol my MAsterful opinion on contemporary art is quite another. I still haven't written anything for myself since the knee-capping of my confidence and honestly, it feels just like that summer in 2006 when that stupid big wave at South Bondi landed on me after a moment of hesitation (FYI dive, don't think) and I came away with a mouthful of sand and an inability to go beyond knee deep for the rest of the summer without having a serious anxiety attack.

I'd like to imagine that my triumphant career version of the conquering of my oceanic panic by successfully swimming the Bondi to Bronte 12 months later was somewhere in the non-wave near pipeline but I'm not holding my breath. Basically, my convoluted point is that I think I have to learn to swim again, artistically speaking. And without the help of that patient Bronte lifeguard. 

I'm trying not to over-think overthinking it but giving up on my career - momentarily, temporarily or forever, whatever it is I'm doing right now - is basically me on the beach, refusing to get my feet wet. Or unable to. I don't know. Whatever the case, Anish Kapoor on a cold, grey day in Hyde Park made something inside me want to get back in the water. 

I guess I just have to trust that whenever I'm ready, I won't sink, despite the conditions. Though speaking of conditions, I probably shouldn't be waiting for a warm day either.  

The post too big for a title

_________________________________________________

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.

__________________________________________________________

Vintage

So turning 30 was actually quite wonderful but you'll have to get back to me about BEING 3o because I'm still not entirely sold on that concept. TURNING 30 is about LB-made chocolate ganache for breakfast and presents and surprise bunches of flowers from my sister and pedicures and rooftop dinners. Even the skies were blue.

BEING 30 is about being undeniably no longer young. It's about contemplating a lack of career while friends at home are literally in labour with their first child, it's about realising some things in life probably just aren't going to happen - flying to the moon, cuddling baby pandas in China, learning to drive a manual car in a competent fashion - and realising that time is for the now. It's part-trepidation, part-excitement and part-philosophical headfuck... oh, you're not sure you want to be 30?... Well how exactly do you plan on changing that... apart from turning 31?

Yesterday was such a special day and by far and away the greatest gift was realising that however imperfect I am my life is full of thoughtful, generous, loving people and job or no job, wrinkles or deep facial trenches, I am loved for exactly who I am. For that, and so much more, I am forever grateful for the people in my life. And when they give me jewellery that looks like this...

... and that come with a holiday to Turkey, well you see what I mean about being loved. Spoilt even. It is truly humbling.

Today, BEING 30, it is about job applications and overdue art reviews and nannying and Real Life. But there is still ganache for lunch I suppose.