21 January - London jaunts

Went to the Rauschenberg retrospective at the Tate Modern.

I have a love-hate relationship with a lot of modern art. I often trawl through modern art galleries or installations swinging rapidly on the opinion vine from one side of the spectrum to the other. Bi-polar Tarzan. Few things make me feel so divided, I can really adore some of it, but feel utterly turned off and even annoyed at others. I guess it would be boring if I liked all of it. I sometimes think I am boring for loving everything Murakami writes after all.

The Rauschenberg retrospective was very interesting though, and I did enjoy it a great deal. The gallery was quite busy, full of charlie hungerford types wearing cravats & chinos; enthusiastic american students unable to keep their voices under 11; desperately desperate mothers clinging onto some hope they could enjoy the artwork despite having to drag bored kids around playing pokemon; middle aged women in a plethora of swooshy cardigans, shawls and new age sandals with their glasses on a string; and a lot of german men with serious nasa glasses, not even ironic bad sweaters and cheek bones that made them look like they were chewing T rulers.

One child was striding around the gallery happily absent-mindedly swinging a cricket bat.

A swooshy cardiganed woman struck up an in-depth conversation with a cravat cladded art critique type that was so full of hyperbole, they were practically foaming at the mouth. It wasn't until towards the end of their conversation, when the woman started a tirade against "digitialism" did I start deciphering out actual words from the foreign language. The lady then turned around and started writing notes on her ipad.

Worried for a second that I was becoming more engrossed in watching the people looking at the art than looking at the art itself, I did consider that actually, this was part of the reason I quite enjoy going to galleries. Similar to going to the cinema, there is something rather interesting about shared experienced. How different a piece of art can feel to one person to the next. I think this is what I find fascinating about a lot of Rauschenberg's work - his use of items, materials, things. They can help include you, and make you feel part of the art.

One of his collage works (titled Charlene) has a large mirror incorporated into it, and as I stood there in front of it, I was literally inside the painting. I couldn't help but think of all the people who had stood there with their reflection over the years; famous, not famous, even Rauschenberg himself. And here I was, this was my moment to be in a piece of art work. There was something very special about this, and it felt very moving. Maybe it was more a simple piece of egoism on my part.

I loved Rauschenberg's idea of a white canvas being "an airport for light, shadows and particles". Possibly because I admittedly love anything to do with aviation, but this concept was so evocative and inspiring, my mind was agog.

I spent a lot of time around the rest of the Tate Mod, including spending some quality time with the Rothkos. We had been apart too long, and I am glad we caught up again. The Rothkos are disturbing, suffocating and evocative, and yet I also love them. They speak to me more about an understanding, and because of this I feel them oddly comforting. It is this kind of love for art works that grabs me so internally it begins to clasp my very being.

It was a lighter mood at Picasso's The Three Dancers, as a mother faced a barrage of impossible questions from her two young children. "Why are they dancing?" "Why is one a hole?" "What are their names?" She coped with them admirably as only a mother can, until the child asked "Why aren't they drawn properly? Like Peppa Pig?"


The Picasso Peppa Pig

Conversely, some art work makes me pack my mental bags and jump on a mental thought plane outtathere. I know when I am struggling with art instantly. I can feel my eyes glaze over, and my mind wandering about when I can next go for a run. Suddenly my pace quickens as well as my sudden remembrance that I haven't checked my phone in MINUTES.

 It's the same kind of feeling I get when Top Gear or Strictly comes on TV. Becoming a bit distracted and always feeling cold, I approached what I thought was a radiator only to suddenly set the alarms off. Apparently it was a canvas of art and I was too close.

I had inadvertently chosen a day when thousands were swarming on the city to protest in an anti-President Trump march. Had I known before I had made my arrangements, I would have joined it. When I arrived in London, I stepped outside of the tube station into the bright sunlight bracing myself to be swamped by a sea of placard carrying protesters.

All I saw were a couple of lovely old ladies carrying a thermos of tea asking where they could buy a guardian.

Where were you when they marched against Trump Sian? I was trying to avoid swooshy cardigans, Picasso peppa pig and getting hit by a child wielding a cricket bat.

Photos from London

18th January - Hospital

Things I have learnt about A&E:

- It's one of the coldest places you can visit; not literally in terms of temperature, but in experience and feeling. Seats are pointy, hard and angular; textures are decidedly frosty. I admire the staff there for braving it. It is the antithesis of cosy.

- There are more office PC self-printed-from-Microsoft-Word-makeshift posters in polly pockets in A&E than anywhere else in the world. FACT.

- It's very faded, like someone has applied a rubbishy instagram filter onto the hospital.

- You can pretty much witness every flavour of human being from the entire spectrum of life pass through before your eyes whilst you wait; from old to young; from drunk down and outs to suited yuppies.

- Waiting for hours at A&E makes waiting hours at airports seem like a the greatest party you've ever been to.

- A&E & NHS staff in general, are heroes.

- Its a lonely and isolating experience, even though you can be surrounded by people.

- I can't think of another place where you will see so many people wearing entire outfits in one colour (either boiler suits or scrubs).

- No matter how awful it is waiting in A&E, no matter how much you're in tears the whole time, you always suffer from a form of immediate amnesia the second you leave the building and marvel at the fact the NHS is amazing.

- Life is cruel. Very very cruel.

17 January - No news day

Avoiding the news at the moment. If I go near it, I recoil away with an unseen force like two magnets put close together. It tries to hunt me down but I need to keep it away; it is nourishment for the dark side of the brain.

So I'm going to pretend that nothing is happening. And coincidentally I spotted a sign to celebrate the fact whilst my mind frolicks with the fairies.

15 January - Banksy

Desperate to escape Cardiff, which seems to be a kryptonite shackle to my brain at the moment, the other day I went on a Banksy art trail around Bristol. It was like Treasure Hunt, only without Anneka Rice.

I love graffiti art. And I do think graffiti is art. The skill for detail graffiti artists show at times is incredible - I have looked at some artists work and have sometimes felt I have been looking at some kind of photograph. Often the sheer scale is a thing to behold. It is the same stirring of admiring awe I get when gazing at paintings in galleries - the only difference is that these are straight onto brick walls and with spray cans, not a nice neat canvas with oils or watercolours. Different materials. Same effect. Maybe not all art should be behind doors or inside.

Banksy has always interested me, because I have always thought his work was current, relevant and clever. And of course, the anonymity randometer of it all gives it an extra teaspoon of intrigue.

I was lucky enough to visit Dismaland and came out of it incredibly conflicted and unsure. It was not unlike some actual-not-even-trying-to-be-dismal seaside 'resorts' I had been to in the UK, and many of the incredibly upper middle class people there were completely missing the point. I couldn't help feel that he was taking us all for one massive money making ride. But maybe thats what he was aiming for.

Dismaland

However, I decided I wanted to try and photograph some of his works across Bristol that I could find in a day. A bit like a Banksy Pokemon Go. There are not volumes to find, but when you don't know the city, nor sure of what state you would find them in if any, it seemed like a fun challenge.

I enjoy photographing graffiti; not only do I just like finding it and admiring it, but I like the idea of photographing something that may well not even exist in a number of years, months, even weeks. Often graffiti does remain, tattooed onto the streets, but very often it gets removed, vandalised, weathered, painted over, and eventually worn away by time itself. Photographs become the documentation of something that seems endangered. Indeed, some Banksy works are now worn or barely visible, like faded prints when the ink cartridges are running on empty:

January 2017 - the masked gorilla is looking decidedly sorry for itself

To focus solely on Banksy does a disservice to the many other fantastically talented street artists practicing on the streets in the city.  What struck me was how much incredible graffiti Bristol is blessed with. Compared to Cardiff especially.

Cardiff has become monotone and 2D to my wary eyes.
Banksy Bristol art trail
Other Bristol graffiti

12 January

Brain cataracts have been particularly troublesome the past couple of days. There are probably one or two particular causes for this, of which I will not diverge here.

When this happens in winter months, as now, the worst part is that I can't hide behind my sunglasses. Those glorious cheap H&M soul protectors of mine, shielding my raw self from the outside world. Conversely I do wear at least three snoods or scarves so can mummify my face as much as I can, it just steams up my glasses. First world problems.

Sometimes I wish I was the web browser chrome, and had an incognito mode I could switch on. And that's probably one of the most geekiest things I've written in a while.

It annoys me inherently that I am not some sort of robot or software. Why can't I just re-programme my brain and body to behave like it used to. Or go to Maplin and buy a new part to replace the crappo broken version. Other stores available.

Each trough seems more and more difficult to climb out of.

9th January

I saw La La Land last night which is a film that broke my brain. Aside from jokes about it being a film about teletubbies, I'd probably enjoy it more when not already feeling in a strange flux of no man land life when it comes to failed aspirations.

Tested holding the new iPhone 7+ in one hand today in work; it was like what I can only imagine trying to contain a rhinoceros in your palm. And I have giant hands (they often get mistaken for those huge foam hands audience members in gladiators used to brandish). Maybe the size is not a bad thing- it will encourage me and others to stop using their phones so much whilst out and about.

 I often worry I do this and don't take enough notice of the world around me; getting too engrossed in bombarding my (poor suffering) friends with text messages about how I've seen a su pollard 45. Maybe it's worth remortgaging a kidney to get an iPhone 7+.

I then mashed my laptop keyboard to enter a long string of random 38636363937262839483 sianz numbers (testing data inputs- there was actually a genuine reason) only to somehow inadvertently activate Spotify - next thing I knew, an obscure Japanese version of Video killed the radio star starting playing from my computer like the hard drive was possessed by a cheesey japanese pop ghost. If I was to be haunted by anything, aside from bouncer the dog, I think the random kitsch obscure cover version spectre would be my choice.

7th January

Spent all day with one of my best friends bombing around mid Wales and the borders on an inadvertent great antiques hunt. Or perhaps more a vinyl records expedition plus occasional minor extras. It was ridiculous fun, despite getting annoyed at the over-pricing of a Treasure Hunt board game. But then sifting through flea markets and antique shops is one of my favourite things.

I've always liked antiques, even as a kid. Old before my time, I secretly loved it when we ended up getting 'dragged' around antique shops - when we weren't getting trawled around castles in the pouring rain that is. And its the same now as it was then - I love the idea of things ending up in this one place before you - and a whole cornucopia of stories it might bring. It could of course, have no story whatsoever. But its the possibility that ignites a spark of excitement from within. Who owned that pair of cricket pads? What happened to them? Why did that old tin sign advertising shag end up on the wall of an antiques shop? What countries did those salt and pepper sellers from concord visit, and what people touched them? Like ice cracking a spidered web across a frozen lake, the limitless stories and connotations spread out afar. And thats what I find so inherently fascinating about every item.

The complete randomness of these pursuits brings an extra dimension. I hate shopping to the extent that it bores me senseless and turns me into Basil Fawlty on acid, unless I am shopping for things I don't know I'm going to find.

Forest Gump's mother never stopped rabbiting on about chocolate boxes, but it's flea markets where it's really at  - you truly never know what you're going to get. Even if it does mean you might get a Max Boyce record and a babycham beer mat.

One person's trash, is very much another person's gold mine.