Saturday, May 01, 2010

ha!

Why, hello there, internet.

It's been awhile. You know what, I just re-read my last post* and realised I actually handed in my thesis early. I said "MARCH" and it was FEBRUARY. Only 'early' by a matter of days. And only according to a schedule that was arguably meaningless, given that it was stated in the blogosphere, poor much maligned and arguably misnomered poppet that it is, as opposed to all previous more formal statements of intent. BUT DAMMIT IT IS SUBMITTED AND IT WAS SUBMITTED TWO WEEKS BEFORE MY SECOND EXTENSION ENDED.

You know something? It is May, 2010. This year is basically half gone. Which comes as a shock every year, so even I am kind of bored of hearing me say it, but this year is going faster THAN ALL THE YEARS. But. HELLO. I am now pretty much free to do what I want.

I can't tell you how good that is.


Actually, I can.

Like, last weekend, right? Long weekend, yes? [insert Last Post** here] How good are THEY when you are being paid to have an extra day? It was almost worth spending that long studying to be able to bounce off the walls in a state of brainless abandoned joy about weekends - and having a Third Day on which Nothing is Required - _well_ HELLO. I got up. I had coffee. I went to the gym. A 20 year old asked me about my current stress levels***, my "goals" for joining the gym.**** AND THEN MEASURED MY THIGH CIRCUMFERENCE. I then exercised. Did not die. Went home. Went and saw a movie. I LOVE YOU TINA FEY.



*no, not _that_ last post, I'm not musical in the slightest, one can't even imagine how I would have transcribed the trumpetty version. I was speaking chronologically, not musical-rembrancy. I'm glad we got _that_ sorted out.

**trumpetty version

*** none, I said, visibly smug

**** "Not dying." is an exact quote of my reply... "ummm, let's just put longevity, shall we?" was the exact response.*****

***** "Fitting into like a wedding dress" was one of the suggested "goals" as to why I would want to lumber forth into a world of stretch pants and HORRIBLE music.

Sunday, October 04, 2009

ah, existence

Right now I'm experiencing that particularly blesséd state of being, the Sunday night of a long weekend. The normal feeling of impending doom is lightened, delayed for a 24 hour period. This is heightened for me this evening, as despite *knowing* the whole time that this is a Long Weekend, I had experientially and thus essentially forgotten said detail. So when, mid-bemoanst that I was not going to be able to continue the fruitful work this weekend was yielding on my thesis, blue-bolt like it struck me that this, *this* is a Long. Weekend. it was like a gift from the very heavens above.

But, ay, there's the rub. You've spotted it dear friend, no? The reason for my deep, and I would certainly claim, profound, and, I can only hope, long-lasting, joy at this celestial revelation is not that it gives me time to swan about in a pair of sequinned mou-mous,* delectable beverage in hand, but, rather, spend another day working on my thesis, daunting beast that it is. Those of you given to such projects will understand the miraculous productivity that is the Third Day however - the snow ball effect after the first and second days, where Knuckle Down is Achieved and Thesis Topic is Remembered. Today, today, oh joy of heavenly joys, I had brief glimpses of the Actual Argument that is the Meat Food upon which the Thesis Feeds.

This is dangerously positive. The end, it is in sight. So much of my present and future happiness is at stake in this sensation not proving delusory that I hardly bear trust myself to think, speak, type it lest it prove a brief transitory insanity that leaves me shell-like and rocking forth and back. For, in the current state, I am currently operating on the One True Deadline: the first thesis deadline that I have actually and totally Believed In. All others have been false deadlines, but knowningly false, the 9/09/09 was poetic and palindromic yes, but never entirely faithfully enacted. And perhaps that was its ultimate vice, its downfall, but this, this, oh March 2010, you are the True Deadline, the one in which all hopes reside.

*admittedly, if one is to take, you know, accepted english definitions for words 'mou-mou' refers to the kind of one-piece robe-like garment beloved of Parliament smokers everywhere. If, however, one is to take the definitions that were determined during a morning tea break at a place I was briefly employed at some years ago, the accepted definition of mou-mou is that the term is taken to refer to those kitten-heeled fluffy-toed 'slipper' often seen on a young lady of the house who is also taken to the wearing of fluffy (ostrich feather?)-edged robe around the house. Naturally, it is this latter to which the present author ascribes.

Friday, April 17, 2009

My life: as told by my iTunes library

I’d rather waste you than the money on my phone
I’ll be back
I’ll be lightning
I’ll cry instead
I’ll never be the same.

I’m Alive
I’m Alright
I’m Away
I’m different

I’m going back home
I’m gonna leave you
I’m happy just to dance with you
I’m not gonna beg

I’m open
I’m so bored with the U.S.A.
I’m still faithful
(I’m) so sorry now
I’ve been a bad bad boy
I’ve got my love to keep me warm

I can’t see New York
I can see for miles


I cried for you
I don’t feel like Dancin’
I don’t like Mondays

I feel fine
I feel free
I feel it all
I fought the law

I found noise at ATP
I get high
I go to sleep
I hold no grudge
I know we could be so happy baby (if we wanted to be)

I like giants


I love your lovin’ ways
I loves you Porgy
I loves you Porgy (live)

I make hamburgers
I make hamburgers


I may know the word
I offered it up to the stars and the night sky
I put a spell on you
I really should’ve gone out last night

I remember
I see mama
I shall be released
I shall be released (live)
I shall not walk alone

I should have known better
I still miss someone
I think that I would die
I thought about you
I walk the line

I want a little sugar in my bowl
I want to be ready
I want to hold your hand
I want to hold your hand

I was alive
I will
I will
I will explode
I will not go quietly (Duffy’s song)
I will not go quietly (Duffy’s song)

I wish I knew how it would feel to be free
I wish I never saw the sunshine
I wish that I was beautiful for you
I won’t cry

Saturday, January 24, 2009

heeheehee


Star Wars: Retold (by someone who hasn't seen it) from Joe Nicolosi on Vimeo.

I probably shouldn't laugh, I really struggle remember anything about Star Wars, and I'm probably laughing that the bits that she has right.

Friday, January 23, 2009

gracious

me, OCTOBER was my last post.

What I do like though, is that every so often I get emails from the blog counter thingy, (lower right), telling me that another thousand people have viewed my blog, but that - according to the stats I so narcissisticly seek out - the only reason that people keep finding my blog is that they are googling "colouring in Jesus" and they find my post about visiting New York because I linked here while ranting about the history of Western Christian painting and it gives me a consistent ponderance as to what they think when it is my blog they find. Well, assuming they discover the link they think "well good, now I have a picture for the kids to colour on Sunday". But personally, I like to think I challenge their whole view of Western art history, the didactic nature of same, and really, everything that's happened, ever.

I hope they get those brass pin things that you can shove through paper and then spread out so that you can make cut out figures of Jesus where the arms and legs move. There are two things I remember from my early days as a Sunday School pupil and they are:
1) the metal chairs. supremely uncomfortable but with an appealing aesthetic that practically made me dance when I discovered the Exact Same Chairs at Tilley's 17 years later and a reasonably loyal - or at least repetitive - attendee of Tilley's ever since, despite hating almost everything about the place.*
2) The brass (maybe?) pins that did the splits so you could colour in and then cut out the torso & head section of Jesus (or other assorted religious figure) and then attach arms and legs, and hey presto, moving Jesus.

* Tilley's is often treated as a bit of a religion in Canberra - not inappropriate, given the stylistic heritage of their outdoor settings - but let me, if you will, rant, because, Oh My Word. The place drives me up the wall. Because yes, they have excellent, if uncomfortable chairs, that I obviously have a very personal connection with, and they have painted their ceiling red, which is always a plus, and they have velvet curtains, also good, and on occasions they have bands playing Canberra which means I don't have to see them at the ANU Bar which always makes me want to smack an undergraduate Because They Are Children And Can't Handle Liquor, and also wifi, even though they don't have enough powerpoints in the place to really make it a generous offer - and I think that's it: they promise so much, but refuse to deliver, right from the teetering brink of the cusp of we were about to single-handedly make Canberra a blissful paradise. Firstly, they set themselves up as a heavenly red roomed cafe where you can loiter for hours and study undisturbed bar for a regularly impeccable classics jazz soundtrack, but then, they can't make coffee. Just to smack you in the face: we have purpose built an ideal habitat for you, but denied you the very crux of the point of doing so: you will wait for longer than you took to gestate, order said beverage, and then we will give you a cup of bitter filth. Which brings me to, secondly, They Charge A Lot, refuse to offer table service, and frequently deliver below the standards of McDonalds. Seriously, I have had better coffee from a franchise that advertises with a clown. You have to queue with everyone in the place for AN INSANE AMOUNT of time, and then they deliver below the very proximity of goodness. Thirdle, okay, that's a typo, that I just corrected, but then had to go back and change because how much should thirdle be a word?, Thirdly, the staff. You order your beverage, knowing how truly awful it is going to be, and the staff give you the "I am doing you SUCH a favour, you should lick between my toes" attitude: if you hate working here so much - and clearly I would, so sympathy, sister (as it invariably is) - Get. Another. Job. At least up until recently, they have been around fairly plentifully. It's not like I think you have a great job and therefore should be enjoying it, but I've done jobs I haven't liked as well, but the point is: you're being paid to serve. So serve. You aren't doing me a favour, you're being paid to do this. In fact, I've just done half your job by standing here wait to ask for my "coffee" and then wait for an inordinate amount of time for you to make the damn thing, so Happy Faces. Fourthly, when you go to see a gig and they make you stand in the rain because they are incapable of managing a system whereby you've paid quite a bit for tickets and you don't have to stand in the street. Fifthly, the staff - bless their arrogant little hearts - don't ever seem to quite know what is going on, so whenever you call them, with those stumbling brainteasers: "What time does the gig start?", "What time do the doors open?", "Can we book a table?" or the brain-exploding "Will you be serving food at this event?" you get a different answer from every member of staff, none of which is conclusive, until you turn up to said event and just discover as you go whatever regime they have installed. Sixly, the imppossibility of keeping the kitchen open for an event. so: a) they are a restaurant. b) they have sold out (because, 6.i, they only put bands on they know are going to sell the venue out, and are still game enough to have that "Keeping music live" banner: long have I wanted to add a subtitle "as long as the musicians have proven their commerical value"), c) they know there is going to be an hour and a half between the doors opening and the band playing. So, in consequence, they offer cheese plates. Which sell out. And then refuse to allow you to bring additional food from the handily located supermarket "because we still have cake". I'VE JUST HAD A BOTTLE OF RED AND A WHEEL OF BRIE I CAN'T HAVE CAKE. I NEED SAVORY CARBS, SAVORY! DAMN YOU."

So whenever someone suggests we have brunch at Tilley's on the weekend I have to make alternative arrangements.

*deep breath*

Saturday, October 04, 2008

Pleased to meet you...

My name is Tape Boise Palin.

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Friday, August 08, 2008

Give us this day our daily cheeseburger



unknown artist, Armenia
Forty Martyrs of Sebaste
Late 17th century
tempera on wood panel
Queensland Art Gallery

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

it's the magical leopleurodon that makes it gold



shun the non-believer

Friday, June 27, 2008

Lego art!


Jan Vormann, 2007

So cool!

See more

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

I hereby tender this apology to Todd McKenney.

When the story broke that Todd McKenney had been found in a Kings Cross park, semi-conscious, and if I recall rightly, bashing his head against a fence, I responded erroneously, jumping on the bandwagon of public mockery and, I believe, inferring that I did not believe his story that his drink had been spiked "because of Tall Poppy Syndrome".

Now, however, that newspaper of great repute, the Sydney Morning Herald, has published his side of the story, I can only stand ashamed, as the full facts are coming to light:

"Later in his record of interview McKenney told police he had been to a party at an apartment in Macleay Street, Potts Point, on Anzac Day eve and had danced so much that he began to overheat and had taken his pants off to continue dancing.

McKenney, who has pleaded not guilty to the charge and has been on police bail, allegedly told arresting officers that it was while his pants were down that someone at the party must have put the drug into his pocket." [full story]

Let s/he who has not removed their pants so that they can keep dancing cast the first stone.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

this kills me

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

my new bestfriend

is Book Depository - cheaper than UK Amazon and Free. Worldwide. Shipping.

I have found nirvana.

I ordered books last Wednesday and they arrived yesterday.

[swoons]

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

rusty

It's been awhile. Ages in fact. I keep realising that it's June and spluttering expletives. The calendar in my room is still on January, as mentally, that's where I'm at. This thesis writing is a slow business, and I'm the living proof. How can it be two in the afternoon and I've written a sentence? I mean, I've done other things, some of them productive, and even thesis related, but only one sentence has yet resulted. Gah and double gah. I hope my thesis weighs more than the weight that I've put on while writing it. It may need to be printed on vellum and bound in lead.

I have, and as a result of the thesis no less - and hence justifying this posting - become somewhat intrigued by T.S. Eliot. Specifically the Dry Salvages. An excerpt:

It seems, as one becomes older,
That the past has another pattern, and ceases to be a mere sequence—
Or even development: the latter a partial fallacy
Encouraged by superficial notions of evolution,
Which becomes, in the popular mind, a means of disowning the past.
The moments of happiness—not the sense of well-being,
Fruition, fulfilment, security or affection,
Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination—
We had the experience but missed the meaning,
And approach to the meaning restores the experience
In a different form, beyond any meaning
We can assign to happiness. I have said before
That the past experience revived in the meaning
Is not the experience of one life only
But of many generations—not forgetting
Something that is probably quite ineffable:
The backward look behind the assurance
Of recorded history, the backward half-look
Over the shoulder, towards the primitive terror.


The whole thing is remarkable writing, and every time I read it there is something else, some other image, that emerges from it. Because I have a gnat-like concentration span, I tend to phase in and out of actually paying attention to what I'm reading, so each time I read that poem I seem to come across a different part of it, which on the previous occasion I had momentarily paused in my absorbtion to ponder some other vital subject, like whether my car registration has expired yet. Speaking of which...

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

they're stealing my mind...

huh, I'm fictional afterall. Has anyone read it? Am I good?

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

rantpost: How art made the world

I’m a shocking hypocrite when it comes to arts broadcasting, happy to rant and rail that the yarts doesn’t get enough coverage on tv, but scathingly critical whenever anyone attempts it. I was pondering this as I ranted away, watching “How art made the world” this evening, a documentary, about how art made the world. One of my problems with such documentaries is the pace of them. It seems to take an unending length of time to actually get to any point, and you really don’t need to provide any detailed evidence – the occasional reference to an ancient text and a Californian academic, and you’re right as rain to assert how the ancient Greeks felt about realism.

Tonight’s episode discussed the question of why humans distort the body when they depict it.

This practice apparently started with Venus of Willendorf, 25 000 years ago, one of the earliest sculptures ever discovered. It’s strange how things are talked about has having “started” with the earliest example we’ve yet found, the implication being that we found the very first one ever. And it just happened to be in Europe, entrenching the notion that that is where civilsation in any meaningful sense truly took flight. It was entertaining to hear the description of it as a complete figure and then have the reveal and see a figure with no arms, legs that stop below the knee and who seems to have a crocheted beanie pulled down over her head. Of course, he meant complete as in the figure was complete as it was made, hence its interest to the topic of the program: why the omissions of some parts of the figure and the exaggeration of others (breasts, hips, genitals)? Which I thought was stunningly obvious, but that’s where the opportunity arose to bring in seagulls, so who am I to comment?

This required endless footage of seagulls, just in case you spent the past couple of years melding with your toilet, and don't remember what they look like. Why, in a program about art, is so much time devoted to showing us seagulls and imagining a time line of world history by looking at a row of trees? Anyway, because seagulls recognise the red stripe on their mother's beak as the thing to bash for food, and will also bash sticks with a red stripe on them in an attempt to get food, and hence if seagulls were to open an art gallery they would put a stick on the wall with a red stripe and be strangely drawn to contemplate it. I thought that they would be drawn to bash it with their faces, but there you go. It is demonstrated therefore, that the human propensity to exaggerate the physical aspects of female bodies in early sculpture is a fertility thing. Well, just lucky they did that study about seagulls in the 50s or heaven knows when we could have ever figured that out.

I paraphrase: After a 100 000 years or so, of humans being nomads, there was a bit of weather, and sustainability became an issue. No one came up with the idea of Earth Hour, so instead they settled around the Nile, and founded Egypt. By 5000 BC Egypt was one of the first fully settled cities on earth with a stable agricultural and government systems. The first to use images of the body in art. Instead of exaggerating physical features as they did in Willendorf they created a stylised figure that was depicted according to a proportional grid that governed Egyptian art for millenia. To understand what this must have been like, we were asked to imagine that Picasso's works were the only image that we saw of the human figure depicted ever. A strangely irrelevant comparison, and one that seemed to imply that Egyptians were entirely muddled by only seeing people represented in one way, and could not read them as bearing particular meanings. It seemed strange to just discuss the human figure isolated from any other aspect of their art, especially hieroglyphs.

Ancient Greek statues would answer the question of why we depict people, if anything possibly could. Now there’s a shock. I paraphrase again: Ancient Greeks were fixated with the body, and they had very set ideas about what the body should look like. The more physically perfect you were, the more godlike you were seen to be. The Greek artists did something that no one had ever done before: they used their eyes. And came up with a greater realism than anyone ever had before. After going to Egypt and discovering that sculpture could be lifesize, or even larger! Although undoubtedly the Greeks came up with technical innovations and extraordinarily beautiful sculpture, to say that no other artists had ever used their eyes before is just bizarre. Realism perhaps became a goal that it had not been before, thus realism in their work is an expression of that, in the same way that the "Venus" is an expression of its maker's value of fertility. Anyway, they achieved realism, looked at it, and decided it was dull. Polyclitus figured out how to make it more interesting again by moving things around to depict a sense of movement in the figure. Everything had been leading to this! They created something more human than human! And so they went back to exaggeration! A strangely circular argument: earlier "primitive" art used exaggeration, the Greek's took us where we had never been before... and so they went back to exaggeration! Then the 5th century bronze warrior statues were declared the best sculptures ever. Quite a claim. I haven't seen them, so maybe when I do I'll have a bit of a Damascus, but although I can see they're stunning, to say that they are the pinnacle of sculpture seems at a tad hyperbolic.

But, this is why bodies in art look the way they do, because we humans don’t like reality. What we choose to exaggerate is "where the science gets left behind and the magic comes in."

Throw forward to a glimpse of Michelangelo & Henry Moore, and we're done.

Motivating the whole show seemed to be the idea that where art ended up, in say, 1950, was some how inevitable in 25 000 BC, rather than it being based on looking at what was around in 1950 and reading back into history, based on available, surviving examples. That isn't necessarily a bad way to discuss what artists in 1950 were doing, afterall, they were looking at those examples, but sweeping generalisations bug me. Particularly because what artists were doing in Papua New Guinea in 1950 had nothing to do with Ancient Greece, and distorted the body in specific and unique ways, and somehow they were "made" by Egyptian and European art... It's not impossible that I'm slightly overexposed, but the examples to make his case were so Art History 101 I couldn't really understand the point of making another documentary about it.

The ABC then proved me wrong by showing a great documentary about art half an hour later, about a community of Aboriginal people who started painting in 2002. They were forced to leave their traditional land in the 1960s by a drought, and had never returned. Last year a trip was arranged and the community travelled the four days it takes to return to their homeland. It was incredibly moving to see their return to the place they had been yearning for, and I found it fascinating to see how they painted in a contemporary form (ie acrylics on canvas) in their traditional visual language, to respond to this hugely emotive event.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

flickr me timbers.

I woke up this morning and thought "What a beautiful day, I should go take some photos."

Actually, that's a lie, I woke up and thought "gurrrahaughf wine bad water good."

After several coffees and half of the SMH - travel good weekend tres good, except incites travel need, bad - thought I should leave the house and take some photos.

Which reminded me that I've been meaning to sign up to flickr since forever, and now it's three and two thirds hours later and here I sit, the now-owner of flickr page, despite my reservations regarding the stupidity of the name and spelling of 'flickr'.

Anyway, you should visit it, it will make me happy. Here 'tis.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

me! me! me!

Right now I'm sitting in the foyer of the NLA, waiting for a coffee to arrive, nursing one sore ankle caused by my car and I not being ergonomically compatible, and another caused by the uneven paving outside NLA. Wandering in such a state of vaguenss from the carpark to the entrance that I neglected to note the pavers incorporate a drain and my ankle didn't see why it should offer any resistance. Which does make me ponder how nerded I have become that I cannot even exert the physical effort required to get into a library without doing myself an injury.

In happy happy other news I have a pleasing pile of books with details of who taught what in the Technical Colleges of Sydney in the years relevant to my research sitting on a desk inside the library. A certain amount of irony prevails in the detail that I scoured Sydney for this info and ultimately found it in Canberra. But, thems the breaks when you're a dolt.

I spent the last couple of days in Sydney, where, aside from sharing a serious dumplinapalooza and some well-needed hilarity with mine hosts, I went to the AGNSW library and the State Library; reading other accounts of art education in Sydney at the time, which was also useful. The tendency of teachers at ESTC to write extensive memoirs of their time there is really quite a useful one. While I was in the library my phone, all of ten days old, decided that it had had enough and killed itself. While sitting quietly on a desk, all on its own. In a manner that suggested that I had inflicted the damage and voided the warranty. I promptly ranted and moaned to all and sundry and well and truly attired myself in the grumpy pants. My ranting took me to the Optus shop this morning who politely offered me nothing, except the address for the Nokia shop, who happily agreed to fix it under the warranty, despite the screen not normally being covered. So I can start dismantling the mental voodoo dolls of the Nokia people, despite not entirely being in a state of gruntlement that this is the second Nokia phone in two weeks that has started behaving in varied fashions to which I desire to not become accustomed. I know the age of getting a phone with every new contract doesn't inspire the manufacturers to make phones that aren't disposable, but this is getting ridiculous.

I celebrated by going and getting a manicure. And whilst admitting that it was a very cheap one, I still want to know how, when I nodded my head in response to the question "You want square?" I managed to convey the idea that I would just love it if you filed several of my nails on particularly jaunty angles. Wow did she do a crap job. So I don't recommend New York spa and nails in the Canberra Centre.

Back to my desk!

Thursday, December 06, 2007