from www.tamarinnorwood.co.uk
Resonance fm is broadcasting a new audio work of mine this afternoon as part of Digestives, the ongoing art writing radio series from antepress. It’s going to be be aired on today at 4:30pm and repeated Friday 20 November at 7:30pm.
You can listen live by clicking the ‘Listen Now’ mp3 stream at www.resonancefm.com, or tune in to 104.4fm inside London. Afterwards it will be available to download as a podcast at www.antepress.co.uk/digestives.php.
Allan Kaprow again. One characteristic of the lifelike art that was emerging in the sixties:
The Real Experiment (1983)
I recorded this short commentary as an addendum to What The Matter Is, a 60 minute audio play I created for Resonance 104.4fm.
The things are back where they came from now, only red. There’s a nasty hierarchy now among my things. The painted things indicate the nakedness of all the other things. Are the red things fake, or are they the only things that are real, because they acknowledge themselves? They look smug about it.
The picture below shows the framework of a discussion we held last night at the Vyner St space. We talked about LIKE WHEN YOU in connection with Claire and Altair’s Empty Studio Interviews project, as a way to think more about correspondences between studio and gallery spaces.
A number of practising artists came along and talked about how they use their studios, and many of them didn’t feel the space of the studio presented any specific problems. Read the rest of this entry »
I showed Elizabeth what I’ve been working on lately, beginning with the Vampyr text and moving on to Accretions and some of the notes I’ve written to go with them. I also showed her these photos of things I’ve made over the past year, and we talked mainly about the relationship between the objects, the notes and the accretions.
I told her I don’t like making the objects because it feels fraudulent. I told her the clay one was worst of all because at least the other ones are made from real things, that real people can really use too. Even glue is suspect, I said, because it’s hidden, and so I prefer to use string. These measures make me feel less guilty to make things, and less like it’s all a con. (I’ve often thought about this, and I still haven’t worked out quite what kind of conning might be going on – and among whom or what – when I make these things. Last year I made bunches of wool and clipped them onto the ends of the blinds in the kitchen to stop them hitting against the window frames noisily in the breeze, and I didn’t feel guilty about that.)
I bought a second-hand book on Saturday called Cooking in a Bedsitter. (The plan was to mark it up like Language in the Modern World but it isn’t quite suited after all.) I don’t live in a bedsitter now, but I used to, and I used to relish the solitariness and the makeshiftness of everything. It was one room, and in the corner of it was a sink with one working tap (the hot tap, which only ran cold) and a very bad immersion heater above it which ran either cold or steamingly, hand-scaldingly hot. Next to the sink on a knee-high table was an unhappy baby belling, and next to that on the floor an indifferent fridge.
I write a diary every day, usually in biro, always in some kind of a hardcover A5 book. I’ve been writing them since 1995 with about ten books each year, so now I’ve got shelves of them. They take up quite a lot of space, and as physical things they’re very important to me. If there were a fire in the house I’d throw them out the window first and jump after them. I stick things in, I monitor my handwriting for mood, I put new covers on them, I shelve them, I browse their spines, I leaf through them.
Rather than writing about what’s happened every day, the important thing is that there’s something there to mark my participation in each day, or my presence during it. The days in the books have to bear witness to the living days. When I was working with Nick the other day trying to treat things like words and vice versa, I started to wonder how I could produce a diary by making daily things instead of writing them.
