New Cartography

I recently had the pleasure of interviewing photographer Sohei Nishino for New Cartography, a special edition magazine from the team behind the rather fantastic New Wolf. After seeing his work at the Saatchi gallery earlier this year, I was interested in finding out more about Nishino's Diorama series, which is as chaotic as it is beautiful. 

The magazine brings fresh eyes to bear on the way we map cities, and considers the implications of cartography on our perception of the world around us. The team are also raising funds for a print run of the magazine, so if you fancy investing a few quid in a worthy artsy cause, shun that Starbucks (tax dodging) frappe and back the project here. 

Tino Sehgal at the Tate Modern

My preconceptions of Sehgal's work left me in two minds about the prospect of visiting his new exhibition - would it provide a bit of excitement during the Bank Holiday, or would his 'constructed situations' just amount to a rather bland compromise between performance and art? But hey, it was free, and there was a seasonal August monsoon raging outside.

At first, I couldn't see much in the Turbine Hall beyond the people queuing for the Damien Hirst exhibition (damn those people with money), and the hordes of families getting ratty at each other. But deep in the crowd were a few jokers, running around in sweaty spirals...they appeared to be playing some kind of chase game which I didn't know the rules to. After suppressing the urge to cry because I felt left out, I watched. And watched some more. And a little more. It soon became strangely entrancing. The chasers eventually slowed down, lines of bodies dispersed into scattered, solitary figures. Some sat, some stood, and all broke their silence. At one point, the lights in the Hall extinguished, apparently in response to oddly tribal chants of ‘e-lec-tricity’ and other such words associated with our technological age. The space echoed with these arresting sounds, creating an atmosphere less like an 'exhibition', and more like that of a vast, secular cathedral. I spent a long time sitting (risking piles), watching, listening. And not because I felt I had to, but because I genuinely wanted to soak up the meditative experience it was turning out to be.

NOT an accurate representation of Tino Sehgal.

The form of Sehgal's work isn't intended to alienate or baffle with contemporary mystique, in fact the opposite is true - it actually brings us closer to what is important about art: our unique experience of it. It was so refreshing to see something that can't be properly captured in an image or online, quantified or sold for some preposterous price. True, as Alastair Sooke points out, a work that was built on the premise (indeed, promise) of spontaneity had quite evidently been rehearsed – at times, it looked as though a bunch of dance school drop-outs and resting actors were trying to earn an easy buck, and did veer dangerously toward the contrived and cringey. Nevertheless, I was glad to have stayed for a full cycle. I left feeling incredibly satisfied (if numb in the bum), and quite smug that people were paying to see dots and poo when they could’ve seen something far more sincere for free. So don't be blinded by the star names next time you wander into the Turbine Hall - search out those strange people in trainers and sweatpants, and simply, watch. 

Makings of a Master: Picasso's Vollard Suite

There’s always a revelatory aura surrounding an artist’s sketches. They’re a reminder of the process that’s often forgotten when an artwork becomes iconic, a remembrance of the arduous steps that go into the makings of a masterpiece. Picasso’s Vollard Suite drawings, currently being exhibited at the British Museum, are no exception. Devoid of the usual strong colour palette associated with old Pablo, the forms of his work are suddenly free to speak for themselves. Those forms have been heavily influenced by Greek myths, blending classicism with his unique update on men and beasts of old. And what better place to show off these sketches than in the British Museum, surrounded by those original ancient sculptures?

Pablo Picasso (1881-1973), Young sculptor at work; plate 46 of the Vollard Suite. 23 March 1933. Etching. Presented by the Hamish Parker Charitable Trust in memory of Major Horace Parker. ©Succession Picasso/DACS 2011

Group of nude female figures, sculpted head of bearded man in the middle of room; plate 82 of the Vollard Suite (VS 82). 10 March 1934. Etching. Pablo Picasso (1881 – 1973). ©Succession Picasso/DACS 2011

Pablo Picasso (1881-1973), Sculptor working from life with model posing; plate 59 of the Vollard Suite. 31 March 1933. Etching. Presented by the Hamish Parker Charitable Trust in memory of Major Horace Parker. ©Succession Picasso/DACS 2011

Digital serfs and domestic queens

Watching The House the 50’s Built certainly opened my eyes to how technology catalysed women into relinquishing the dishes, ditching the rubber gloves and heading for the bra bonfire. Laborious, never-ending chores rapidly became tasks that could be done in minutes, thanks to many spiffing appliances that we now take for granted - shiny new refrigerators meant women no longer had to shop every day and worry about keeping food cold, whilst washing machines guaranteed that clothes could be washed in a jiffy. All of a sudden, there was time to ponder and reflect. And, the programme suggests, time to realise that the woman’s place wasn’t necessarily confined to the kitchen. I’m not convinced that increasingly affordable, accessible household technology magically ushered in feminist thinking, but it certainly liberated women previously blinkered by domestic duties, which was surely a start.

So what has technology done for the modern woman? Has it continued to liberate us? In many ways, one could say the digital revolution has played its part in reconciling women’s dualistic aspirations, enabling mothers to work from home whilst being around to look after children. Western economies are dominated by service, computer-led sectors, easier to access for the female population than the heavy labour of manual industries. But reading Eva Wiseman’s report on body image today, it’s clear to see how digital technology has actually shackled us to a state of utter distraction. We might as well be as removed from feminism as we were in the 50’s. We despair about our bodies, picking ourselves apart and comparing ourselves to airbrushed images of flawless ‘perfection’. Adverts for nose jobs and infinite stories about celebrity diets are an omnipresent and deeply pervasive aspect of mainstream culture. The whirlwind speed of technology is gorging itself on our self-confidence, firing us images subtly and seductively, urging us to give in, throw our arms up, and admit that we hate ourselves. 

Of course, we all know that advertisers keep us dissatisfied about our bodies to sell stuff. They’ve been perfecting that old trick for decades. Indeed, just as household technology liberated women, TV filled the kitchen sink shaped whole in housewives’ lives, and together with women’s magazines, constructed the feminine ideal. But the explosion of advertising into all possible digital realms (from YouTube ads to multimedia Facebook campaigns and even stalker-ish banners through your email provider) has kept us locked to our screens and clicking away in complete alienation from the reality that surrounds us as women in the big, bad, patriarchal world. 

The assault of imagery ensures we keep our noses out of the important matters. The more time we spend contemplating the size of our own breasts, researching plastic surgery, and forking out wages on make-up, the less we ask the questions that are ultimately keeping us worse-off, psychologically, physically, financially. Why are women receiving on average 15.5% less pay than their male counterparts? Why are 64% of the lowest paid workers women? What is the government doing about female unemployment? Why are 78% of newspaper articles written by men? Why is Parliament made up of only 22% female MP’s? (Sources: Guardian; Fawcett Society). All are questions that women could and should help answer if solutions are ever to be reached. 

To compound this, the rising influence of a figure long thought dead is cajoling us back to the chores of the 50's. Emerging like a phoenix, she is quickly resuming her old guise, clad in floral print and surrounded by the smell of cupcakes and sound of singing birds. Rich, idle women have become fantastic at telling us how easy and satisfying it is to discover your inner domestic goddess. There are plenty of prevalent idols to aspire to, whether it be holier-than-thou Head Girl Kirstie Allsopp, or Pippa Middleton proving she has both brains and an ass with her upcoming book on that most pressing of subjects, party planning. Even Michelle Obama is keeping it sedate with her new book on how to grow vegetables. The exploits of these women are lovely, there’s no doubt in that. I myself enjoy a bit of baking and jam making from time to time. But where are the counterpart voices in the mainstream? Where are the inspirational women fighting all over the world for equal rights? Where are all the unemployed women and what do they have to say? Out of sight and out of mind, lost in the din of the handmade renaissance and digital serfdom. Meanwhile, we gawp mindlessly at social media campaigns, publicly pledge allegiance to brands, agonise over weight, Photoshop our faces, and think about what we can do next to keep our egos afloat. 

A poem for Jubilee, now that it's a memory

This could happen any time of the year. Yes, really.

And so the party’s nearly over. The bunting is drooping and bedraggled, the sausage rolls are passed their use-by date, and Prince Harry is ready to don his high-vis jacket to clean up the Mall. I’ve been reflecting on this momentous occasion with a little seventeenth century poetry. As one does. 

The Diamond Jubilee made for a stunning weekend of pageantry – the flotilla a modern day Canaletto, the concert a sensory feast. The quality of singing talent on offer spanned genres and generations, and Cheryl Cole was there to look nice too. The voice of cuddly huggie bear Huw Edwards assured us that this was the ‘people’s party’, whilst also reminding everyone that it was all for ‘one woman’. What a wonderful paradox that is, Huw. Now let’s eat cake! Families took to the streets, and a whole new generation of monarch lovers was born. Little cherubim faces were entranced by the dulcet passed it tones of Paul McCartney and his trippy projection. And if you weren’t already lulled into a monarchist stupor, the firework display was guaranteed to blow your Union Jack socks off. 

Just when I was feeling like a loser for missing out on it all, I read this on the Guardian. And suddenly, I realised that I'd been seduced by the show. I concluded that it’s not actually necessary to celebrate cake and flags and Pimms and Britishness with the Queen. I realised, shock horror, we can do it without her. We don't even need to invite Kate, though she does wear hats exceedingly well. And heck, maybe we could even pay people to help run our party. At best, the Diamond Jubilee made for a very pretty blindfold, behind which we celebrated the pinnacle of inequality. And didn’t we wear it well?

So, for a hangover cure from this sugary sweet kir royal, here are a few words from Andrew Marvell to remind us that no one needs a house as big as Buckingham Palace.

From Upon Appleton House

Cheryl Cole absolutely smashing it with Gary Barlow

…

ii

Why should of all things Man unruled

Such unproportioned dwellings build?

The beasts are by their dens expressed:

And birds contrive an equal nest;

The low roofed tortoises do dwell

In cases fit of tortoise-shell:

No creature loves an empty space;

Their bodies measure out their place.

    iii

But he, superfluously spread,

Demands more room alive then dead.

And in his hollow palace goes

Oooh. Prettyyyy.

Where winds as he themselves may lose.

What need of all this marble crust

T'impark the wanton mote of dust,

That thinks by breadth the world t'unite

Though the first builders failed in Height?

Andrew Marvell, 1651

Will Gatbsy be great?

Well doesn’t this look truly scrumptious? I must admit I’m pretty darn excited about 2012's The Great Gatsby. The Luhrmann stamp isn’t to everyone’s taste, and that's probably because it borders on the tasteless. His oeuvre seems locked in a perpetual circus, a whirling carousel of sequined glamour on an almost sickening level of gaudiness. His take on the old Fitzy classic is bound to induce a marmite-like divide. But love it or hate it, one can’t deny that Luhrmann does more than most directors to bring the essence of texts from page to screen - I can’t help but think of Romeo and Juliet without recalling his 1996 version, the decorated guns, the chintzy porcelain angels, the use of water, all strong visual motifs that suddenly brought Shakespeare alive for an image-driven generation. Too often adaptations of great works fail because they make a pallid comparison to their original source, with little done to make the most of the cinematic medium. It may be gaudy, but Luhrmann at least attempts to bring the colour back to age-old masterpieces.

Tobey Maguire, Leonardo DiCaprio and Carey Mulligan star in The Great Gatsby

And what better opportunity to deploy this fetishized focus on the image than in recreating Gatsby, the original great pretender, to whom façade is everything and the truth is veiled by the most opulent of masks? The trailer gives a tantalising taste of what’s to come, featuring a snapshot of all the gorgeous ecstasies and tragic agonies experienced by the mysterious man and the atomised characters around him. Nothing will ever come close to the lyricism of the novel, but I can’t help but feel The Great Gatsby going to be Luhrmann’s biggest hit yet.

Teensy tiny fiction

Hoorah! It’s National Flash Fiction Day! In case you’re confused, it doesn’t involve any indecent exposure of books as they’re stripped of their covers in some perverse fashion. But it does involve very short fiction, great for lazy readers and lazy writers alike. Ok, not lazy, just Twitter obsessed and short on time. To do my bit, I put together this little offering that some readers may find slightly off the wall. Thanks to David Gaffney’s article in the Guardian, I thought I’d delve into a disregarded idea lying around on my laptop and attempt to hone it into something small yet palatable, an amuse-bouche of sorts, like those tiny burger canapé things. The beauty of flash fiction is the immediacy with which little pieces of life that usually go unnoticed are revealed – in the case of this piece, I was thinking about all those things that you don’t realise someone else has spent time creating…the names on Dulux colour charts, the designs on ‘essential’, expendable toiletries…  

All dreams start somewhere in the hidden roots of reality. The boring biscuit-fuelled bits that no one sees once you’re rich and famous and talking on daytime TV about how you overcame addiction which was brought on by divorce which was induced by an affair which, in the end, was all your fault considering the drink and the drugs. 

Towering high in the silicon kingdom, I nurtured my start-up from glorious inception to not-so-immaculate conception; through traumatic gestation tottering into early, fumbling maturation. My company specialises in making female hygiene products look prettier. That’s because women like pretty things, even if no one else knows they’re there.  

I look down onto the city from the boardroom play pen, mulling over my latest design. I finished it on the tube this morning – the lines wriggled and got carried away with themselves at every stop, just like the tumbling fools around me. But the team love it. “They look so spontaneous”, they cry with delight. I give a knowing nod and supress giggles of honesty.  The swirls and swishes, my little masterpieces, unveiled by lovely ladies and binned soon after. What fleeting temporal installations! It’s not a bad life, decorating this secret ritual. But I can’t help but wonder, swivelling in my Swedish ergonomic seat, about those roots of mine…how far they’ll go on for, if and when they’ll have their time.

Coming soon: tiny fiction about tiny food.