a window to the soul
Sunday, January 29, 2006
outtakes from minster lovell...
No, I'll not be making excuses. I'm merely making mistakes.
a window to the soul
a window to the soul
I noticed most of the boundary crossings had been given brand new kissing-gates (which must be a better form of access for all). This was a rare conventional stile; simple, cheap and functional. An excuse to portrait the daisies which performed remarkably well seeing as they'd spent the best part of last year neglected in the cupboard.
Despite the unfashionable nature of the things, I do like leather: something to buff and polish, rather than this synthetic stuff - which is okay in its way, but lacks soul. Wandering to me is, in its very nature, all about soul.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
let's make mistakes!
In our creativity, we should endeavour to make mistakes. There is nothing wrong in making mistakes; in fact it should be regarded as a creative virtue.
After all, success is just an accident that occurs while we are making mistakes.
*
So, it's not technically brilliant and I make no excuses for posting this shot. I kept coming across it in my little collection of files and it called to me each time. I can't explain why, perhaps it's because photos are sometimes more than satisfying display of light on a sensitive surface. Every picture tells a story, as Sir Roderick of Stewart once warbled, and I find I concur. Though I have to say I am thinking more of Taxes on the farmer feeds us all;
well, the banker says he's broke
and the merchant stops and smoke
but they forget that it's the farmer that feeds them all
it would put them to the test
if the farmer took a rest
and they'd know that it's the farmer that feeds them all
The way it happened was this: On the windrush walk, I was going down this lane with a high dry stone wall on my left and I heard excited voices and much bleating. Peering over the wall I discovered the source to be much further away than I'd imagined; the unusual topography of the landscape making a sort of natural amphitheatre, amplifying the sounds from the hollow. A chance vignette of rural working life played to the audience of one. The farmer, his wife, their two dogs and flock - an urgent discussion about the sheeps' welfare - the dog's look on expectantly, bemused, possibly, that the raised voices are, on this occasion, not directed at them.
It is often cited that prostitution is the oldest profession but I wonder what about farming? Certainly it seems that the one is given a respect equal to the other. Then again, sometimes, contrarily, we will romanticise the life of the farmer: what would we give to leave the rat-race and be our own boss, walking the fields in the morning air, growing our own produce. But I imagine it's a hard business to be in.
After all, success is just an accident that occurs while we are making mistakes.
*
So, it's not technically brilliant and I make no excuses for posting this shot. I kept coming across it in my little collection of files and it called to me each time. I can't explain why, perhaps it's because photos are sometimes more than satisfying display of light on a sensitive surface. Every picture tells a story, as Sir Roderick of Stewart once warbled, and I find I concur. Though I have to say I am thinking more of Taxes on the farmer feeds us all;
well, the banker says he's broke
and the merchant stops and smoke
but they forget that it's the farmer that feeds them all
it would put them to the test
if the farmer took a rest
and they'd know that it's the farmer that feeds them all
The way it happened was this: On the windrush walk, I was going down this lane with a high dry stone wall on my left and I heard excited voices and much bleating. Peering over the wall I discovered the source to be much further away than I'd imagined; the unusual topography of the landscape making a sort of natural amphitheatre, amplifying the sounds from the hollow. A chance vignette of rural working life played to the audience of one. The farmer, his wife, their two dogs and flock - an urgent discussion about the sheeps' welfare - the dog's look on expectantly, bemused, possibly, that the raised voices are, on this occasion, not directed at them.
It is often cited that prostitution is the oldest profession but I wonder what about farming? Certainly it seems that the one is given a respect equal to the other. Then again, sometimes, contrarily, we will romanticise the life of the farmer: what would we give to leave the rat-race and be our own boss, walking the fields in the morning air, growing our own produce. But I imagine it's a hard business to be in.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
vive le cinéma international!
Though I endeavour to regain the slender physique of youth there's always those moments when I like nothing better than to slouch in front of the televisual with a drink and nibbles, and watch a good film. 
I also like to tease the old brain with a good read; there's never been an occasion when I haven't had a book or two on the go - at least not since I was 16 and picked up the novel we were assigned to study for O level - selected passages as prescribed - and, for the first time in my life, thought 'what's this all about then? '
It was called The Gun, it was very old, yellow, dog-eared and musty smelling but - and this was a revelation - if you began at the beginning and read the pages in order, it wasn't an altogether bad experience!
Why did they only insist you read certain passages is a question I've never had answered. Mind you, to be fair to the establishment, I've never actually asked. In my school you didn't ask. Not even if you were desperate for the toilet. Maybe if you were on fire, you might. But then it's a bit of a drastic measure just to be excused and you'd have to weigh up the consequences of damp pants against the total and wanton destruction by arson of one perfectly serviceable school uniform. Best wait until break.
Anyway, from that point I devoured much of what I didn't read at school and more besides - and, as the old jazzers might say, it's too late to stop now!
Back to films (or movies as they say across the water): To be honest, I've only recently come back to films. When I was away from home and didn't have a telly, we would often troop off to the cinema in town and catch a film, usually at least one a week. Then I returned home, settled down and forgot about cinema, only catching the odd blockbuster when it was shown on telly. They were okay, but not memorable enough - not like a damn good book.
So, imagine my delight to discover foreign cinema! Here's a medium by which you can watch a movie and read a story simultaneously, at the same time, together. And the stories are usually good too - much greater profundity than the usual hollywood fodder which, after all, put the business in the film business and seems to care less for the plot. Of course, we - by that I mean the Brits - don't even have a film industry now! We knock out the odd gem now and then but mostly I feel it's just big telly - not cinema!
But foreign cinema is just beautiful. And I've even managed to stop the wife saying oh no, not another of your bloody sub-title ones again. Not so often now anyway.
The above, while true, is just an excuse to show what I got up to today, messing with Paintshop. I hope Richard Ebbs doesn't mind me nicking his pics - he's a scouser after all, I'm told. I think he's exceptionally good and I don't know why he doesn't blog. I guess he's got his reasons which I respect. Anyway, I like the portraits I found and the main one put me in mind of une femme fatale, a poster shot for a french film. I enjoyed playing around with it - well, I didn't have much on and it's all good practice.
I also like to tease the old brain with a good read; there's never been an occasion when I haven't had a book or two on the go - at least not since I was 16 and picked up the novel we were assigned to study for O level - selected passages as prescribed - and, for the first time in my life, thought 'what's this all about then? '
It was called The Gun, it was very old, yellow, dog-eared and musty smelling but - and this was a revelation - if you began at the beginning and read the pages in order, it wasn't an altogether bad experience!
Why did they only insist you read certain passages is a question I've never had answered. Mind you, to be fair to the establishment, I've never actually asked. In my school you didn't ask. Not even if you were desperate for the toilet. Maybe if you were on fire, you might. But then it's a bit of a drastic measure just to be excused and you'd have to weigh up the consequences of damp pants against the total and wanton destruction by arson of one perfectly serviceable school uniform. Best wait until break.
Anyway, from that point I devoured much of what I didn't read at school and more besides - and, as the old jazzers might say, it's too late to stop now!
Back to films (or movies as they say across the water): To be honest, I've only recently come back to films. When I was away from home and didn't have a telly, we would often troop off to the cinema in town and catch a film, usually at least one a week. Then I returned home, settled down and forgot about cinema, only catching the odd blockbuster when it was shown on telly. They were okay, but not memorable enough - not like a damn good book.
So, imagine my delight to discover foreign cinema! Here's a medium by which you can watch a movie and read a story simultaneously, at the same time, together. And the stories are usually good too - much greater profundity than the usual hollywood fodder which, after all, put the business in the film business and seems to care less for the plot. Of course, we - by that I mean the Brits - don't even have a film industry now! We knock out the odd gem now and then but mostly I feel it's just big telly - not cinema!
But foreign cinema is just beautiful. And I've even managed to stop the wife saying oh no, not another of your bloody sub-title ones again. Not so often now anyway.
The above, while true, is just an excuse to show what I got up to today, messing with Paintshop. I hope Richard Ebbs doesn't mind me nicking his pics - he's a scouser after all, I'm told. I think he's exceptionally good and I don't know why he doesn't blog. I guess he's got his reasons which I respect. Anyway, I like the portraits I found and the main one put me in mind of une femme fatale, a poster shot for a french film. I enjoyed playing around with it - well, I didn't have much on and it's all good practice.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
minster lovell and the windrush
At last, at last; a fine weekend was forecast! I took the opportunity to get the old boots out again and go off wandering - with camera.
I had this wandering book for christmas: a pathfinders guide to 28 walks within the cotswolds - of course, I thought I'd begin with page 1, walk 1 (3.5miles - est. time 2 hours: effort: easy) well, what better place to start...
The first thing I come across after leaving the car is yet another critter!
The Windrush is a sprightly little river; the swan's graceful demeanor belies the fact that it's legs are going ninteen to the dozen just to stay in the same place. As long as they don't kid themselves they can actually fly, swans are the epitome of avian cool.
another critter. a very big critter (actually, two very big critters but the other insisted on showing her bad side, which was her backside).
Familiar readers will be forgiven for thinking that I was attempting to be arty with the old photoshop cropping tool again, but you'd be wrong! Usually I can't get close enough to the animal to get a half decent compo but, in this case, I couldn't get far enough away from the amorous beast! The reason: velcro on the camera case. It makes an enticing noise when pulled apart, and in the equine world means something like; ''dinner is now being served''...
ian russell's unreliable potted history of old England: church, originally part of a 'daughter house' belonging to a Normandy priory, confiscated by Henry V during the 100 years war and who later starred in the Shakespeare play.
Hall built by William Lovell in 1414 and while he had his sleeves rolled up, he rebuilt the church. 1747, the family moved oop north and the squatters moved in straight after. DIY stores and the UK Home channel had yet to be invented so the hall gradually fell apart through want and ignorance.
Monday, January 16, 2006
good neighbours
wherever you end up in this world, it's good to have friendly neighbours. I must say, we've been blessed every time we've put down roots.
I'm not sure what happens in other parts but there's a tradition in England for neighbours to chat over the garden fence, exchange a friendly word or a snippet of gossip - or just look out for one another. Each Sunday at early light, I limber up for my weekly run and our neighbour here pops her head up to see what's occurring - and each time I dash in to get my camera and by the time I come out, she's scarpered! But not this time.
Monday, January 09, 2006
hello... hello...
Don't you hate it when you venture to try something new in communication, feeling a bit awkward, unsure how it works, all fingers and thumbs with your typing - and then, in the middle of it all, you find you've split your pants? (Trousers; I'm using the american usage. To be precise, jeans). Actually, I'm not sure how universal 'pants' is - it might be used only in the USA!
Well, they said they were laughing at me - but if only they knew. I was trying to assess the extent of the damage while attempting to be cool and composed...not easy but I think I might have got away with it. It turns out it was only a small tear, the size of a penny piece, along the seam with the back pocket. They're a very old pair, I mean years old and at that comfy stage, and worn thin, the sort my mum would declare you could shoot peas through. Why anyone would want to do such a thing, only mother knows...
My typing skills are next to useless. I've never learned, see? I still use two fingers and, even then, never at the same time. I'm a mouse man - mouse to icon, click. one finger only. I'm notorious for my mouse pointing skills, I have the fastest setting known to man. Bill Gates hasn't invented the setting too fast for me - I'm off the scale! I'm seriously considering rechristening my mouse, Speedy Gonzales, and installing go faster stripes.
Dexterity on the keyboard however, always remains elusive.
Well, they said they were laughing at me - but if only they knew. I was trying to assess the extent of the damage while attempting to be cool and composed...not easy but I think I might have got away with it. It turns out it was only a small tear, the size of a penny piece, along the seam with the back pocket. They're a very old pair, I mean years old and at that comfy stage, and worn thin, the sort my mum would declare you could shoot peas through. Why anyone would want to do such a thing, only mother knows...
My typing skills are next to useless. I've never learned, see? I still use two fingers and, even then, never at the same time. I'm a mouse man - mouse to icon, click. one finger only. I'm notorious for my mouse pointing skills, I have the fastest setting known to man. Bill Gates hasn't invented the setting too fast for me - I'm off the scale! I'm seriously considering rechristening my mouse, Speedy Gonzales, and installing go faster stripes.
Dexterity on the keyboard however, always remains elusive.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
adam and eve it
This week I have discovered some new and interesting truths - well, they may only be interesting to me but I'm banking on them being possibly useful to others;
Last weekend I used some of that I Can't Believe It's Not Nails that I'd picked up at Homebase. Well, I'll tell you straight: it isn't anywhere near a reasonable replacement for old fashioned nails and a good hefty hammer.
All winter, my eye had been offended by the sight of the bird feeder in our garden. It leaned at an angle so acute that it looks like it arrived in the garden by a passing javelin thrower rather than your conscientious author armed with a dibber, a stout mallet and a well-calibrated spirit level. I don't know whether it was cats, squirrels or just really fat birds, but I guessed, whichever it was, the soft ground wasn't up to the job.
Now the birds didn't seem to mind but it did make refilling inefficient. So I thought let's fire the dirt and go for a heavy stand instead - this would also facilitate moving the feeder around the garden, maybe allowing me to get some photos from the patio windows or something. I had some fence post offcuts which were perfect and after I'd cut them to size, chamfered the ends and chiselled out some cross-halvings the whole thing began to look pretty good, even if I say so myself.
So naturally I chose to reject coarse nails in favour of the more aesthetic adhesive and reached for the glue gun to applied it to the cross joint with gusto. It spread remarkably easy, a bit like toothpaste, and as I clamped the pieces tight it looked exactly like toothpaste oozing out from the joins. After 4 hours left drying, I realised I might as well had used toothpaste. It showed an astounding reluctance to do the slightest amount of setting.
Of course, being male, it was only at this point that I consulted the fine print on the tube to discover Hard As Nails takes 24 hours to cure before handling. Who in their right mind is going to stand there holding the timber to a ceiling for a whole day, waiting for it to dry and support itself? Further investigation of the tube revealed it was Not suitable for use in damp environments, so, as a garden bird feeder stand it was hopeless from the start.
Half an hour and four no. 8 slot-head screws later the whole assembly was up and dinner was being served.
Last weekend I used some of that I Can't Believe It's Not Nails that I'd picked up at Homebase. Well, I'll tell you straight: it isn't anywhere near a reasonable replacement for old fashioned nails and a good hefty hammer.
All winter, my eye had been offended by the sight of the bird feeder in our garden. It leaned at an angle so acute that it looks like it arrived in the garden by a passing javelin thrower rather than your conscientious author armed with a dibber, a stout mallet and a well-calibrated spirit level. I don't know whether it was cats, squirrels or just really fat birds, but I guessed, whichever it was, the soft ground wasn't up to the job.
Now the birds didn't seem to mind but it did make refilling inefficient. So I thought let's fire the dirt and go for a heavy stand instead - this would also facilitate moving the feeder around the garden, maybe allowing me to get some photos from the patio windows or something. I had some fence post offcuts which were perfect and after I'd cut them to size, chamfered the ends and chiselled out some cross-halvings the whole thing began to look pretty good, even if I say so myself.
So naturally I chose to reject coarse nails in favour of the more aesthetic adhesive and reached for the glue gun to applied it to the cross joint with gusto. It spread remarkably easy, a bit like toothpaste, and as I clamped the pieces tight it looked exactly like toothpaste oozing out from the joins. After 4 hours left drying, I realised I might as well had used toothpaste. It showed an astounding reluctance to do the slightest amount of setting.
Of course, being male, it was only at this point that I consulted the fine print on the tube to discover Hard As Nails takes 24 hours to cure before handling. Who in their right mind is going to stand there holding the timber to a ceiling for a whole day, waiting for it to dry and support itself? Further investigation of the tube revealed it was Not suitable for use in damp environments, so, as a garden bird feeder stand it was hopeless from the start.
Half an hour and four no. 8 slot-head screws later the whole assembly was up and dinner was being served.
teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher.
never let it be said that you don't learn anything sculpting with soup.
observant listeners will note that the bird is saying this.
(no, not ''never let it be said you don't learn anything etc.'' what have we been smoking? - go and listen to the clip again!)
so, it's an aide-memoire when out in the field or garden. if you hear singing, demanding the teacher, it'll be the great tit.
and another thing...
Yeah! All that song and dance over improving the feeder's stability and now the birds don't wanna know?
So, the truth is: We might be concerned at the perpendicularity of the world but birds just want their nuts, and if the nuts disappear for a mere half a day, the birds off somewhere else for their three squares a day. That's gratitude for you!
Maybe I should introduce a loyalty scheme...
The third and final truth I found is the interesting, though trivial, fact that if you take a photo of your camera in any regular mirror, no matter what angle you hold the camera - say, for that extra lomo-ic effect - the image always shows the camera square and true. Huh! If only it could have a word with the bird feeder...
Although this comes as a frustrating surprise at first (15 seconds tops, honest!), it isn't difficult to work out why. You still feel a bit of a numpty though.
So, the truth is: We might be concerned at the perpendicularity of the world but birds just want their nuts, and if the nuts disappear for a mere half a day, the birds off somewhere else for their three squares a day. That's gratitude for you!
Maybe I should introduce a loyalty scheme...
The third and final truth I found is the interesting, though trivial, fact that if you take a photo of your camera in any regular mirror, no matter what angle you hold the camera - say, for that extra lomo-ic effect - the image always shows the camera square and true. Huh! If only it could have a word with the bird feeder...
Although this comes as a frustrating surprise at first (15 seconds tops, honest!), it isn't difficult to work out why. You still feel a bit of a numpty though.
I felt like having an avatar to liven up the top portion of the sidebar, up there with the name and profile bits.
I wanted to include the camera as its responsible for the better part of the blog, hence the mirror. I've now got several bad shots of me and ixus - I'm not keen on self-portraits, but who is? By accident, I attempted to use the unsharp mask to pull it into focus - something the camera wasn't doing too well, confused by the reflected image perhaps. For some reason the unsharp mask was set way up the scale when I turned it on but the effect was really interesting, almost like this lomo stuff.
Everything altered, the edges darkened, the hues shifted - but the best bit was the dull grey camera body went almost silver making it stand out more - ah, do I need to explain why I didn't use the flash? The only lighting coming from the bulb on the ceiling...
anyway, it'll do for now untill I get the others sorted...or find a more suitable image.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
oktokino: u freaky movelet
When I was very small I had this recurring dream...
I had this dream over and over for many years and then this one night...
I dreamt it for the last time.
It's difficult to describe the events inside my recurring dream, it wasn't conventional as such (I've had a few dreams to compare it with since then). There weren't many images and absolutely no sound. It was more of a silent sensation, a sensation of moving, floating almost, through darkness, as if along a dark tunnel, and always ending in the same room full of shapes. I mean regular shapes, geometric shapes. It was weird, yet somehow reassuring in its familiarity. It was dark, disturbing but not quite nightmarish.
Dreams are strange, other-wordly experiences. I wish I could believe they meant something, contained some profound message for the sleeper but I can't. They're just unconscious thought-loops.
I have two new links in the sidebar, both from the same source.
The 10 Golden Rules of Lomo :erasing all traces of your photographic education
and OKTOKINO which immediately reminded me of my odd recurring dream...
I had this dream over and over for many years and then this one night...
I dreamt it for the last time.
It's difficult to describe the events inside my recurring dream, it wasn't conventional as such (I've had a few dreams to compare it with since then). There weren't many images and absolutely no sound. It was more of a silent sensation, a sensation of moving, floating almost, through darkness, as if along a dark tunnel, and always ending in the same room full of shapes. I mean regular shapes, geometric shapes. It was weird, yet somehow reassuring in its familiarity. It was dark, disturbing but not quite nightmarish.
Dreams are strange, other-wordly experiences. I wish I could believe they meant something, contained some profound message for the sleeper but I can't. They're just unconscious thought-loops.
I have two new links in the sidebar, both from the same source.
The 10 Golden Rules of Lomo :erasing all traces of your photographic education
and OKTOKINO which immediately reminded me of my odd recurring dream...
four bottles and not a drop passed these lips
Two old photographers' adages;
A good photographer never shows his bad photos.
A good digital photographer never deletes anything, however bad.
so much for old photographers and their adages.
Actually, I've only heard the second one once - on a quite good BBC series about photography last year, primarily aimed at the novice and presented by the professionals. I have thought about the logic of this rule and I've not been entirely convinced but I've saved everything I've taken nevertheless. (Apart from the time I took the blurred outline of my thumb instead of the beautiful blooms along cecily hill - rule one defeated rule two, no contest, on that day.)
And as well as not deleting the crap, I also back it up! Why? Who knows!
Well, I suppose the logic follows that a digital image takes up little space and I now have a huge and empty external hard-drive to fill and it's easiest to just dump in whole folders rather than individual images.
Now I think I have found a good use for those iffy images - photoshop experimentation. I haven't a clue what I'm doing with it so playing with images that start off bad can't get any worse. But if they do, it doesn't matter, does it?
I say photoshop but there is also paintshop pro which is cheaper and aimed at the amateur with no pennies. The bottle that follows is me playing with paintshop pro;
I discovered the bottle on Pope's Seat in Cirencester Park...
...Alexander Pope, that is...
...the famous poet, I suppose he liked a quiet drink...
...you're my besht friend, you are...
A good photographer never shows his bad photos.
A good digital photographer never deletes anything, however bad.
so much for old photographers and their adages.
Actually, I've only heard the second one once - on a quite good BBC series about photography last year, primarily aimed at the novice and presented by the professionals. I have thought about the logic of this rule and I've not been entirely convinced but I've saved everything I've taken nevertheless. (Apart from the time I took the blurred outline of my thumb instead of the beautiful blooms along cecily hill - rule one defeated rule two, no contest, on that day.)
And as well as not deleting the crap, I also back it up! Why? Who knows!
Well, I suppose the logic follows that a digital image takes up little space and I now have a huge and empty external hard-drive to fill and it's easiest to just dump in whole folders rather than individual images.
Now I think I have found a good use for those iffy images - photoshop experimentation. I haven't a clue what I'm doing with it so playing with images that start off bad can't get any worse. But if they do, it doesn't matter, does it?
I say photoshop but there is also paintshop pro which is cheaper and aimed at the amateur with no pennies. The bottle that follows is me playing with paintshop pro;
I discovered the bottle on Pope's Seat in Cirencester Park...
...Alexander Pope, that is...
...the famous poet, I suppose he liked a quiet drink...
...you're my besht friend, you are...
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
seriously though...
Hamish Fulton is an artist currently exhibiting his work in England. Hamish Fulton is 60 and a lifelong sculptor, photographer and conceptual artist though now he describes himself as a 'walking artist'.
I was interested to learn about Hamish Fulton's work yesterday on Radio 4's PM show. Essentially, it entails going on a purposeful journey by foot and returning to the studio to assemble a conceptual representation of that journey. This may comprise a few carefully selected images, symbols or, more incredibly, recordings of certain songs he kept in his head throughout the walk. No, he didn’t play those songs on a walkman or iPod, nor did he admit to singing them as he went but simply repeated the melody over and over inside his head.
Occasionally he will leave his ‘mark’ somewhere along the route and this is recreated for the exhibition.
Now I have no doubt that this is intended to fall into the ‘Is This Art?! What Is Art?’ category – not least because the PM show is a ‘news and current affairs’ programme and not an arts show. This was intended to tease the indignant sensibilities of Mr. Angry of Mayfair and the tabloid hoi polloi alike. Everyone’s initial instinct is to cry rubbish! If that’s art then I must be an artist too!
And therein lies a fundamental truth. Not the obvious, but the counter obvious: Everything is art and therefore we are all artists.
Because art isn’t so much in the creation as in the perception.
Understanding art can be a metaphor for understanding life. Better still, it can be a metaphor for appreciating life because, like art, it isn’t necessary to understand it to enjoy it. In fact I would say to attempt to understand it is often counter-productive to enjoying it.
Especially if you can’t fathom why Tracey Emin’s unmade bed is worthy of the Tate while your own child’s is an utter disgrace. Or how a two hour walk by Mr. Russell could be regarded as mundane, unproductive self-indulgence while the same event by Mr. Fulton awards him both fame and probably not an inconsiderable fortune? I mean, there’s not a lot of material difference here, is there? It has to be the perception.
Of course, it helps immensely if at least one of your appreciative perceivers has contacts in the right places and can start the wheel of fame and fortune spinning… but that is missing the point. Appreciating art is appreciating life is the road to happiness, and that, surely, is more reward than fame and money.
So, when we next get asked to consider ‘Art’, don’t start evaluating it straightaway. Throw out your preconceptions and allow it fill your senses, look on it with wonder. Be inspired. Be the artist. Appreciate what your senses are giving you and love life.
And if you walk, walk slowly and be sure to smell the roses…
[The author is giving up walking for the new year and taking up art instead.]
a chance to post an older walking picture: crossing the ford at duntisbourne rouse
I was interested to learn about Hamish Fulton's work yesterday on Radio 4's PM show. Essentially, it entails going on a purposeful journey by foot and returning to the studio to assemble a conceptual representation of that journey. This may comprise a few carefully selected images, symbols or, more incredibly, recordings of certain songs he kept in his head throughout the walk. No, he didn’t play those songs on a walkman or iPod, nor did he admit to singing them as he went but simply repeated the melody over and over inside his head.
Occasionally he will leave his ‘mark’ somewhere along the route and this is recreated for the exhibition.
Now I have no doubt that this is intended to fall into the ‘Is This Art?! What Is Art?’ category – not least because the PM show is a ‘news and current affairs’ programme and not an arts show. This was intended to tease the indignant sensibilities of Mr. Angry of Mayfair and the tabloid hoi polloi alike. Everyone’s initial instinct is to cry rubbish! If that’s art then I must be an artist too!
And therein lies a fundamental truth. Not the obvious, but the counter obvious: Everything is art and therefore we are all artists.
Because art isn’t so much in the creation as in the perception.
Understanding art can be a metaphor for understanding life. Better still, it can be a metaphor for appreciating life because, like art, it isn’t necessary to understand it to enjoy it. In fact I would say to attempt to understand it is often counter-productive to enjoying it.
Especially if you can’t fathom why Tracey Emin’s unmade bed is worthy of the Tate while your own child’s is an utter disgrace. Or how a two hour walk by Mr. Russell could be regarded as mundane, unproductive self-indulgence while the same event by Mr. Fulton awards him both fame and probably not an inconsiderable fortune? I mean, there’s not a lot of material difference here, is there? It has to be the perception.
Of course, it helps immensely if at least one of your appreciative perceivers has contacts in the right places and can start the wheel of fame and fortune spinning… but that is missing the point. Appreciating art is appreciating life is the road to happiness, and that, surely, is more reward than fame and money.
So, when we next get asked to consider ‘Art’, don’t start evaluating it straightaway. Throw out your preconceptions and allow it fill your senses, look on it with wonder. Be inspired. Be the artist. Appreciate what your senses are giving you and love life.
And if you walk, walk slowly and be sure to smell the roses…
[The author is giving up walking for the new year and taking up art instead.]
a chance to post an older walking picture: crossing the ford at duntisbourne rouse
no, seriously...
I have long given up on any dreams of fortune – I don't even bother with the lotto – and the thought of exposure to fame fills this very private person with dread. But I would be lying if I said I don’t seek any approval in anything I do, or that I don’t feel the positive affects of a little praise now and then. However, though I can’t say I’m the happiest bloke alive 24-7, I now realise that happiness is the ultimate measure of success in life, and not fame and fortune. People are still able to laugh even though they have nothing and those that seem to have it all often appear unsatisfied with their lot.
I knew nothing of Hamish Fulton other than the news report. It inspired the previous post but it wasn’t necessary to discover anything more about him, his art or the thinking behind it. I wasn't intending to knock Hamish Fulton.
Anyway, afterwards I did a bit of googling and imagine my delight in finding I wasn’t too far off the mark…
Art: How you view life and not necessarily the production of objects.
[next week on Sculpting with Soup: Travelling Light; A Rant Against Materialism on the Journey to Happiness]
…only joking.
(no, seriously)
of course, biking is walking first class...
(thanks to Barry Hines: A Kestrel for a Knave)
I knew nothing of Hamish Fulton other than the news report. It inspired the previous post but it wasn’t necessary to discover anything more about him, his art or the thinking behind it. I wasn't intending to knock Hamish Fulton.
Anyway, afterwards I did a bit of googling and imagine my delight in finding I wasn’t too far off the mark…
A central characteristic of [his] practice was a direct physical engagement with [the] landscape. Fulton's time as a student at St Martin's College of Art in London (1966-68) and his journeys in South Dakota and Montana in 1969, encouraged him to think that art could be 'how you view life', and not tied necessarily to the production of objects. He began to make short walks, and then to make photographic works about the experience of walking.
Tate Online: Hamish Fulton
Art: How you view life and not necessarily the production of objects.
[next week on Sculpting with Soup: Travelling Light; A Rant Against Materialism on the Journey to Happiness]
…only joking.
(no, seriously)
of course, biking is walking first class...
(thanks to Barry Hines: A Kestrel for a Knave)
Sunday, January 01, 2006
first post of the year...
will the cat no get a job?
so, sudden and loud noises are like green kryptonite to cats but apart from that what could they worry about - mortgage, bills, health, the hereafter?
it's a lifestyle I could embrace if it wasn't for all that sleeping...
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