what I have been doing

a million to one, they say...

bus stop alien 2
Originally uploaded by etcher67

Whilst on the number 48 bus the other day from London Bridge to Hackney imagine my excitement when I spotted something which I read about months ago - the bus stop aliens!

Formed from potatoes with a variety of stickish things poked into them they rest on the tops of bus stops on Shoreditch High Street. I'm not sure whether they have any deeper meaning (are the potato farmers protesting, I wonder? ), or whether they are just plain silly, but they were a joy to behold. Potato artist - I salute you!

the dreams that you dare to dream

Private views used to excite me. The prospect of a free glass of wine and the possibility that one might meet someone really interesting, really arty, really rich who might offer to give you a one-woman show in Central London with all expenses paid: they were worth getting all dressed up for. It quickly became apparent that this is not the case. Private views are strange events where your friend the artist is too busy to talk to anyone for longer than 5 minutes because they are trying to sell their work. You hope that some of your other friends might turn up, but they've all gone to the pub/are still in the studio/wanted to watch something on TV. So you stand and look at the work you've mostly seen already and nurse your cheap white wine whilst trying to strike a balance between drinking it and leaving so quickly that it seems impolite; and holding it until it gets warm. If you are very lucky, you can stand next to the crisps and eat most of them. You begin to rate private views by the crisps on offer. Really good ones have dips.

So the prospect of a private view this evening was little more than a diversion from the terrible telly and the terrible temptation to play Ukulele until my ears bleed. It was only a short journey away, and I was flattered that the artist still sends me invitations, it's been so long since I actually went to one of her shows. There were plenty of people there when I arrived (none rich enough to offer an expenses paid show in Central London as far as I could ascertain), but I still managed to have a proper conversation with Carole, and as the evening ticked on it turned out that every person who arrived after me was someone I knew, someone I hadn't seen for at least a year, and even more gloriously; someone I liked. I spent a very happy hour and a half talking the kind of shop I haven't talked for quite some time. I was terribly pleased that I'd worn a nice necklace.

If you're in the Greenwich area, go and see the show. Unfortunately for you, I've eaten all the crisps.

I look out to my left and I look to my right

Small competencies welcome me back: ripping paper, inking a roller, slowing the press wheel with my hip. Muscle memories. The quality of work at this point is irrelevant; a state I hope I can maintain for a while at least. The light is lovely, the studio is airy (though heady with the scent of white spirit and meths) and the kettle boils quickly. There are of course no teaspoons.

I think it might be going to be OK.

just an ordinary girl

I have just realised that my left hand is on upside down. Oops.

with apologies to Marjane Satrapi*

Andre: being sensitive and a drama queen with a terrific imagination...I am never sure what is real and what is not.
Me: mate, I so know what you mean.

P: You know what you want to do, you want to draw a comic about your life, like Harvey Pekar.
Me: No I don't!**

Damian: for fuck's sake, go for it!

* I have just read Persepolis. You should too. I loved the drawing. It shows.
** As well as thinking too much I am also horribly contrary.

PS This entry wins the prize as the most linky, ever.
PPS I have quoted everyone without their permission. Please don't shout at me, boys.

the outside world beckons (2)

Bad on so many levels, but the thought required finishing, and the rule for today is 'do it anyhow' *shudder*.

no songs in my head for a week or so now. worrying.

I stood in the classroom this morning singularly failing to distract children from the falling snow. In the end I had to concede that all I really wanted to do was stand in front of the window and watch it coming straight down like heavy feathers. 'Heavy feathers' I thought to myself. 'That's how it looks.' I wanted to tell someone, but I didn't think the seven year olds would get it, and besides I was supposed to be distracting them.*

So I'm telling you. I've managed to remember it through to the end of the day, which is some sort of miracle.

I snatched three quarters of an hour in bed this evening by skipping sign-language practice. Several texted traffic updates prevented me from sleeping so instead I lay there and watched the sky get darker out of the window. How rare this is, I thought: just nothing for a moment.

An artist needs mental space, I thought. A space to find the creativity. A teacher is always engaged, whether in answering a hundred identical questions or breaking up conflicts or explaining something again or pursuing a cup of tea or teaching, even. The two things do not go together very well, really.

An image popped into my head, words in a thought bubble. I'll draw that later, when I have another moment, I thought. I'll post it to my blog. I worried briefly that people might think I was plagiarising. I considered several other images, about engaged teachers and constantly chasing sleep and spending all my spare time rushing from one place to another. They wait in my head now, for some time to get them down on paper.

I'd do it now, but I'm in a rush.

*We gave up in the end, and made snowmen. It was fun.

good intentions

1. I'll go for a lunchtime walk around the park. God knows I need the exercise and the fresh air is good for me too. Only I have stinking period pain and it was cold and I was on duty this morning so maybe tomorrow. Though it might snow; so maybe next week.

2. I'll eat fruit when I get in from work instead of toast. The toast thing must stop. Then after the fruit I will eat bread and marmite. Oops.

3. I will do at least one drawing a day. Or a week. Or something. Goddammit, I'll draw. Maybe I'll just check my email reply to some comments write some comments have a bath do the washing up cook some dinner write a daft post and there's something on TV I want to watch.

There's always tomorrow.

you can count on me

'So....in 459 there are 9 units. That's the same as nine ones. How much is nine ones altogether?'

Long and considered silence.

'.....ten?'

Long intake of patient (ha: who am I kidding?) breath.

'No, Not ten. Look again...nine ones....'

Personalised learning. That's what we need. Please be aware that engaging me in conversation about this may result in screaming and the renting of hair. Yours, probably.

My staff meeting was cancelled tonight. I was on the playground playing 'it' with seven year olds in a rainless moment this afternoon. It almost killed me, but I still managed to leap into the air with happiness when I heard.

I come home and spend some quality time with my bed. A day's relentless cheerfulness has worn me out but half an hour heading down towards sleep helps. At the point where I would fall asleep were it late I wake up, then spend a groggy 30 minutes resurfacing.

I force myself to draw, because I have this strange idea that I might go back to the print studio and begin to work again, at last, and I want to. I really, really want to. I have had long, sensible, optimistic conversations with several people about how I will have to 'bibble about' (Jones) and 'produce shit' (P) for a while until I am back in the habit of being an artist. It all makes perfect sense. I completely agree. I might have even introduced the idea. The only problem is, the work is utterly horrible and it makes me want to cry and throw things. It's not unreasonable to expect that I should be brilliant all of the time, is it? Don't answer that.

your bassline is shooting up my spine

There are an awful lot of beans in my life right now. It seems as though every time I turn my back on the bean plants for five minutes, another four beans appear. I am not complaining. I like beans. I am a fan of the bean.

Go and see the BP portrait award at the National Portrait Gallery. It's amazing. I don't exactly agree with the first prize (for no reason other than it's black and white and a bit small), but the standard of all the painting (except perhaps one which I thought looked a little...greasy) is exceptionally high. It's all very skillful, some of it photographic to the point where I had to push my nose 3mm from the canvas to ascertain that it was indeed a painting. I admire this enormously, as I couldn't possibly paint like that. Personally I think that the march of technology makes these paintings all the more amazing, as one would have to be so tremendously obsessive to make them when you could do a similar job in less than a second with a cameraphone. I love portraits, as you have not only the painting to admire, but also the reason for the portrait and the personality of the sitter to contemplate. Sod conceptualism.

Mole and I sat post-sushi in Soho square this afternoon and criticised the pigeons. Things have come to a pretty pass when the only thing one can find to criticise is pigeons, but really they were a fabulously dishevelled lot. It's all connected with the ennui of the British, dontcha know. (Oh, apart from the portrait painters). Even the bloody pigeons can't be bothered...what is the world coming to.