We go to Tina, We Salute You for a coffee, on the way to Dalston. Its a freezing day, a greyness that gets to you. The first time we went in we were intimidated, like pushing the door into someones living room, you could feel it sticking in the frame and you wanted to just give up, not bother. But we went in and it was good and they had bon soy in yellow and lilac cartons.
We order coffees and we sit on the leather sofa which is cracked and slack underneath us. On the opposite wall, behind a group of friends in bright wool, eating toast and marmite, is Ben Slow's painting. Its painted right on the wall, all over the wall, a girls face. She's painted on the wall but it looks like the wall is painted around her, like she was there all along and they just discovered her, peeled back the paintwork and there she was with her giant, heavy eyes, eyes looking to the side, not looking at us, not interested in us, not interested in whats out there either, the grey street and her grey face and her grey eyes and she gets to you too.
here: http://benslow.tumblr.com/
16th January 2011 - Norman Rockwell's America @Dulwich Picture Gallery
You have to get the bus from Brixton tube station. The P4 from across the road. The streets of Brixton are crowded with folk ignoring Sunday, barging into you, their shopping bags stretched full, dirty coats on their backs, hard looks on their faces. They fill the grey sky.
Over the road, the P4 stop. After a few minutes we see the bus coming, a single-decker. A relief; it’s cold, windy. I’m shivering under my coat. I’m looking forward to being inside. But it’s never coming. It’s stuck at the back, behind an awkward parade of double-deckers packed with folk, arms leaning against high windows. More dirty coats. We watch our P4 edging slowly forward, no hope of getting past the buses queuing, unloading, filling up. Then, it stops to wait. A woman tries to get on, hauls her Primark bags past 4 buses to the P4. She bangs a cold fist on the windowed door. Waves to the driver. He shakes his head. She makes her way back to us and we wait until it’s time.
Dulwich village is empty. The sky grey as woolwire. We get off the bus alone. Go into the gallery, which is busy, but calm. The visitors are old, well turned out. Ladies that look and dress like the queen. Like they are going to church. Gents in suits, eye glasses, double-chins smiling.
The exhibition is in several connecting rooms that go in a straight line, a tunnel inside Norman Rockwell’s head. Exaggerated faces, long necks, adam’s apples, ruddy cheeks, bright colours that don’t disguise the darkness he felt inside.
Over the road, the P4 stop. After a few minutes we see the bus coming, a single-decker. A relief; it’s cold, windy. I’m shivering under my coat. I’m looking forward to being inside. But it’s never coming. It’s stuck at the back, behind an awkward parade of double-deckers packed with folk, arms leaning against high windows. More dirty coats. We watch our P4 edging slowly forward, no hope of getting past the buses queuing, unloading, filling up. Then, it stops to wait. A woman tries to get on, hauls her Primark bags past 4 buses to the P4. She bangs a cold fist on the windowed door. Waves to the driver. He shakes his head. She makes her way back to us and we wait until it’s time.
Dulwich village is empty. The sky grey as woolwire. We get off the bus alone. Go into the gallery, which is busy, but calm. The visitors are old, well turned out. Ladies that look and dress like the queen. Like they are going to church. Gents in suits, eye glasses, double-chins smiling.
The exhibition is in several connecting rooms that go in a straight line, a tunnel inside Norman Rockwell’s head. Exaggerated faces, long necks, adam’s apples, ruddy cheeks, bright colours that don’t disguise the darkness he felt inside.
January 2nd 2011 - Mona Hatoum - Keeping it Real @Whitechapel Gallery
We go to the Whitechapel Gallery, which is right next to Aldgate East tube, practically on top of it. This is presumably so that all the middle class people who go there dont have to experience any of the other things Whitechapel has to offer.
We see Mona Hatoum's "Current Disturbance" which is Act 3 of Keeping it Real.
It is a collection of wooden cages, kind of like battery chicken cages, built into a large wooden square which sits in the centre of the room. In each little cage is a single lightbulb. The lightbulbs go on and off, fade in and out at different times, accompanied by a single sound effect, which is meant to be the sound of electricity. It is like you might hear electricity in a cartoon. It groans as the lightbulbs go on, it quietens as they go off.
We watch the lightbulbs go on and off. It is timed so that most of the time around half of them are on. Most of the time the room is half in darkness. But then for a short time the room is completely dark, and for a short time, it is completely bright.
It reminds me of my day. There's a brief amount of time when I'm awake, bright, lit up. But most of the time I'm only half there.
see it here
We see Mona Hatoum's "Current Disturbance" which is Act 3 of Keeping it Real.
It is a collection of wooden cages, kind of like battery chicken cages, built into a large wooden square which sits in the centre of the room. In each little cage is a single lightbulb. The lightbulbs go on and off, fade in and out at different times, accompanied by a single sound effect, which is meant to be the sound of electricity. It is like you might hear electricity in a cartoon. It groans as the lightbulbs go on, it quietens as they go off.
We watch the lightbulbs go on and off. It is timed so that most of the time around half of them are on. Most of the time the room is half in darkness. But then for a short time the room is completely dark, and for a short time, it is completely bright.
It reminds me of my day. There's a brief amount of time when I'm awake, bright, lit up. But most of the time I'm only half there.
see it here
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