Springtime

It’s a while since I posted here. I’ve actually been blogging and posting almost incessantly these last three weeks, but just not here. (I went on a trip to the Muddle East with a small mixed group of local Leeds Muslims, Jews, and Christians and I’m still processing my reflections. At some point they will work through here. Just not yet)

But today is a special day. The day I have begun in the way I think I like to begin every day but never do. The day represented by the Yellow Calendar (ideal working week template calendar) which involves leaping out of bed at dawn, scampering with the dog through the park in sunshine, catching up with the latest issue of Art Monthly and feeling as though I’ve been up for hours when I hear the 8am pips go.

Oh, and there was the 15 minute weeding session on the balcony after the run before the shower.

My reward was to notice the bench in full sunshine just outside the kitchen door, conveniently at the precise moment I’d made a cup of tea.

I’m sitting and listening to birdsong and watching the early morning violet shadows creep across the lawn. I used to be unable to sit still and “do nothing”. But a major joy of middle age (and there are many) is the recognition and appreciation of sitting “doing nothing” except listen to this extraordinary concert of nature.

Woolgather’s Art Vend

When someone from Woolgather enthusiastically invites you to participate in the latest @WoolgatherArt initiative, it’s really really impossible to say no. Even when you’re off on a big trip somewhere and have two shows happening imminently.

So last weekend saw me manically folding origami lotuses for Art Vend, which looks to reach out to a new brand of contemporary art consumer willing to drop a £1 coin in the slot of a vending machine and in return grab a capsule full of contemporary art cheer.

Art Vend launched on Monday night to great excitement. There’s a brilliant new website for Woolgather which I’d love to link to here but my phone is struggling to find it. I recommend trying though, not least for a Pythonesque coin sequence.

I was thrilled to see someone actually pull one of my capsules from a vending machine on Monday night. Above you can see his uncontainable joy and glee at the prospect of opening his purchase.

Naturally my own little effort contains adequate Warning instructions and points out the consequences of risky decision making in unfolding/not unfolding the artwork. In these H&S conscious days, I could do no less. The Art Vend collector above looked as though he was taking this Very Seriously Indeed which is a Good Thing.

So keep your eyes peeled for Art Vend when you’re put and about. There’s great stuff in them there capsules.

The Art of Delivery

Getting somewhere as an artist is not an easy matter, but there are some eternal truths guiding the paths to success, one of which is Win Prizes and Enter Big Shows.

This is sound advice, and assuming the artist is on a roll of successful art-making, it’s a worthy aim.

The biggest challenge however in Winning Prizes and Entering Shows is not doing eye-catching great work: It’s entering competitions and making submissions in the first place.

First, the psychological hurdle of “What’s the point? I’ll never win/be selected anyway.” That’s easily overcome by the counter arguments that “Someone has to win” and “You certainly won’t be selected if you don’t even enter”.

Next the delusion that it’s too much trouble to keep up with entry and delivery deadlines. I was very good at this excuse for many years. Keeping a diary isn’t a bad idea here, and I think telling myself that not keeping a dairy is good exercise for my brain is lame. Anyway, with wonderful monthly updates from Artists Competitions, the diarising is done for me.

So finally, the cost-of-submission argument. When you add up entry fees, and petrol costs and time and speeding fines and license penalty points (Jerwood Drawing Prize, 2010) or train tickets and time, or courier cost, the price of failure can be astronomical.

But I have resolved to change in 2013. My new routine of daily practice development habits with all excuses and procrastination tendencies cast aside has already brought me success in one competition, and with the annual RA Summer Exhibition on the horizon, I decided this year I would actually enter, and somehow I would do so cost effectively.

And so at 7.40am this morning I was lurking in a parking bay in a nearly deserted car park at Wetherby services off the A1, cash in hand, waiting to rendezvous with a large white van with flashing hazard lights.

Exactly on time, the van pulled in to the parking area, and like the humans drawn to the spaceship in The Day The Earth Stood Still (1951 version, obviously), we aspiring Summer Exhibition exhibitors emerged from the cover of our vehicles and glided towards the white van clutching bubble-wrapped offerings.

Picture Post, the answer to my competition delivery dreams, was in fact suggested to entrants by the RA in its exhibition entry blurb, and that’s how I decided to give it a go. It’s not got a website, but the brilliant Making A Mark blog gives a valuable review of this and other similar possibilities. And Picture Post has so far proved simple, efficient, convenient and cost-effective. Plus, I got to visit and linger in Wetherby A1 services which is a cut above most of the M1 services I’ve frequented in recent months, and it’s always nice to sit in a pleasant Services, and then drive home on an empty motorway in full sunshine.

And I’ve ticked the daily good habit box.

#trinityleeds Part II

Given my obsessions with the urban environment, consumer culture and the wonderful everyday, there was no way I was going to miss first day at Trinity Leeds, the Biggest Shopping Centre Opening in Western Europe This Year, Creator of 3,000 Jobs Covering A Million Square Feet.

I almost chickened out when I saw queues stretching down the road approach to every car park I drove past as I entered the city centre, but luckily managed to squeeze in somewhere a mile away. Then sauntered through an otherwise unusually deserted central Leeds to join the pilgrimage to this latest Mecca of consumerism.

As I walked, I took advantage of unusually excellent connectivity to google the new centre and pick up Wikipaedian key facts and soundbites to impress family, friends and any roving reporters. In this way I established that a sizeable chunk of Leeds equivalent to thirteen football pitches has been missing from our inner topographical shopping consciousness for six years without us even noticing. Imagine that much land “disappearing” from a central, active, urban location without being aware of its absence!

And I was mightily impressed, despite my cynicism for all such things. I loved the arching glass megagrid and sense of real space and yet a feeling of connection and connectivity. It seems quite extraordinarily un-British in the way it seizes the opportunity to open up unfamiliar vistas and perspectives at every turn.

More fundamentally, I’m impressed by this contemporary architectural reference to Leeds’ amazing 19th century arcades, in turn quoting earlier continental arcades. I love the potential and scope for a contemporary form of 21st century flanerie and I genuinely think it adds something to Leeds. It’s not the first “new” arcade; the Light transformation did something similar, but it’s good to take these more interesting terms of reference and get away from the tedious and depressing “Leeds Look” of the late 20th century.

It’s reminded me of an interesting thing about Leeds. It’s not just another Northern city. More particularly, it’s not just another old industrial city of the North. For years, I was puzzled by the more domestic sense of scale, elegant city centre architecture and “small town” feel you find in Leeds, so radically different from Manchester, Liverpool, Sheffield, and Bradford. Then one day I happened upon a fascinating website, UKCities, which listed dates of incorporation. Scanning the 19th century cluster, I failed to find Leeds, and had to descend some considerable way down, to 1207 in fact, before I spotted it. I was intrigued by this discovery and thought that it explained much about the small town feel. Looking at the list of British cities of mediaeval incorporation, you find ones such as Wells(1205), Hereford (1189), Ely (673) and a whole series of county towns, earlier centres of administrative rather than industrial importance. Leeds acquired industrial strength during the 19th century, but was already a well established centre, and I think this goes a long way to explaining its unique character today.

Trinity Leeds

I haven’t seen anything quite like it for a while. Well, not in this area. Yellow jackets and safety helmets buzzing like a swarm of busy bees. Every week whenever I’m catching the early morning train to London these past six months, I’ve run the gauntlet of barriers and barricades and found new pathways through this side of Leeds towards the city station.

All in the cause of Trinity Leeds, which (I learned from the Radio 4 Today programme this morning) is the largest shopping centre opening in Europe this year.

Who would have thought it possible? In the murky depths of recession with businesses failing left, right and centre, Trinity Leeds stands proud, occupying a massive part of the city centre and enticing consumers with no money to come spend, spend, spend.

Or at least, nose, nose, nose. Even I, cynic and critic of most shopping malls, am tempted to enter this temple of consumerism when it finally throws wide the doors on Thursday.

I muttered to anyone in earshot yesterday that I thought “Trinity” was an interesting signifier, given the religious and ecstatic experience most of Leeds seems to be anticipating.

I also find it impossible to imagine the centre without the yellow jackets. Where on earth are they all going to go? Will they be there behind the scenes on Thursday as the big wigs bow to general acclaim? Or merging with the throngs of visitors dressed in going out gear, admiring their work in all its glory?

Anyway, out with cynicism! I’m delighted that economic confidence in the city is so strong, and I can’t wait to see a film in the new Everyman cinema. I’m happy to cheer on this latest endeavor.

Bad British Architecture

After laughing myself silly last week with the Tim Moore book, I remembered I’d picked up from the library recently another gem, A Guide to the New Ruins of Great Britain by Owen Hatherley. I found it lurking under a heap of recent acquisitions on the kitchen top behind the kettle and some running shoes. Pressure at work has resulted in a slightly disorganised household.

It’s not as side-splitting as Moore’s account, but Hatherley’s more understated wry humour is nicely supported by a well-informed psychogeographical understanding, with references to the dérive, and Baudelairean urban modernity, and post-modernity as he takes us on a journey through many of the dire building blighting the urban landscape. It’s good to have laughs within an intellectual framework. Makes the Sunday morning coffee break worthy of a triple gold star.

I’m particularly grateful for Hatherley’s book directing me to Bad British Architecture, a fascinating and insightful blog analysing the worst of our daily environment. I’m thinking of submitting some contributions: the Leeds Arena leaps to the forefront of my mind as I cruise past every time I drive to the city centre.

But I find all these books curiously uplifting in a very British way. Delighting as I do in the absurdity of the everyday, I’m thinking of abandoning this year’s holiday in Mauritius in favour of a trawl around Bad Britain in pouring August rain. On second thoughts, I did that throughout my childhood and you can have too much of a good thing. Certainly, though, I’m now desperate to visit Cumbernauld and other oddities, and I’ve suggested a day trip to the girls to Runcorn New Town because I really rather fancy getting lost in a maze of bus lanes.

The joys of shocking design. As long as you don’t have to live with it.

You Are Awful (but I like you)

Some things are just too good not to share, and Tim Moore’s You Are Awful (But I Like You) is one of them. For my international readership, the title quotes a catch-phrase of a cross-dressed character in a popular 70s British telly comedy sketch show. To any survivor of that enchantingly awful but harmless culture, the title incites a surge of mildly hysterical nostalgia. And I’m delighted to say the book delivers nostalgic hysteria in spades.

It’s one man’s journey to experience the awfulness of contemporary Britain in all its glorious mundane absurdity. You can see immediately why I was irresistibly drawn to the book in Waterstones. The author sets off in the worst car he can find (fondly named Craig) accompanied by the dulcet quaverings of Ozzy Osbourne on the satnav -and the worst British music EVER pumping through Craig’s sound system- and heads off to small town destinations and hostelries guided by Trip Advisor’s most discouraging reviews.

The book should come with a social embarrassment warning. This is not a tome to be read quietly and reverently in cafes and other public spaces. “Paedo Tim” talks of feeling himself to be an object of mildly threatening curiosity in his suspiciously lonesome maleness rattling around in his quaintly repelling Austin Maestro. But his antics leave the solitary reader equally exposed to allegations of weirdness. I defy anyone to sit and read this book and not end up choking on contained spluttering laughter accompanied by shoulder shaking. Not a good look in my local cafes. Or anywhere, really.

I have emailed entire paragraphs to the Prodigals, desperate to share my joyful amusement. Moore’s impeccable transcribing of regional accents led to a great email quiz of “guess the dialect”. Rather than use bizarre spelling, he takes advantage of absurd word combinations along the “four candles/fork handles” lines of another famous sketch from another famous 70s comedy duo. Pure genius.

Best of all, I can accompany him on all his wanderings thanks to my iPad with Google Streetview on tap. Google Streetview has transformed much of my reading experience generally. Yes, a good writer can convey a picture to delight the imagination, but the joy of finding a grim pub on a back street at the tap of a screen is pure 21st century joy.

A Few Minutes’ Worth of “Customer Service”

Some days it just all gets a bit much. As with all email exchanges, you need to start at the bottom and work your way up through the thread. I can heartily recommend emotional outpouring by email after a call-centre experience. It’s a sort of cathartic re-connect with reality. I have anonymised the service provider. Needless to say, “Customer Services” don’t think my latest missive worth replying to.

[Extract]

“Thank you for your unhelpful response.

The number you gave me was for broadband customer service, who it seems had no authority to cancel my contract. I made it clear that this was the only thing  I was interested in my email. I was transferred to another department and put on hold. You will recall that I requested a direct phone number for a real human being, but I’m still holding as I type. You cannot begin to imagine my frustration. I am condemned to waste valuable time hanging on to sort this out, because if I don’t, despite the hundreds of pounds you have received from me for no service over the last few years, you threaten me with debt recovery.

The mindless pop music is still playing, and I’m still hanging on as I type. What a wonderfully productive time I’m having. I may as well make use of it to vent my feelings on you, your call service and call centres in general. By the way, I don’t need to be shown the way to Amarillo.

I’m interested now to see how much I can type as I hang on mindlessly. Hmmmm. Is there anyone else I can copy this to, I wonder? What do other people do as they hang on… and on…

Call answered finally.

Enjoy your day. I’ll be enjoying mine now.

On 14 Feb 2013, at 23:26, CustomerSupport@%^&$£*!!.co.uk wrote:

Thank you for your e-mail.

I have forwarded your e-mail to our Broadband Customer Service Team who will be in contact with you shortly regarding your query.

Should you wish to contact them in the meantime, you can do so by calling them on Freephone 0800 0132282.  Alternatively for help with any queries you may have please visit our Online Support Centre at http://bit.ly/I%^&$£*!!support

I hope that this will be of assistance to you.

Regards,

Chris Z

%^&$£*!! Customer Sales and Support.

At %^&$£*!! we strive to deliver exceptional service. We want to hear from our customers so that we can continue to improve the service we deliver. If you would like to share your feedback on your correspondence with us and be entered into our prize draw to win £500 of %^&$£*!! vouchers, please visitwww.%^&$£*!!-cssc.com?certcode=011

[THREAD ID:1-24CLQZ]

—–Original Message—–

From:  gilliankempner@me.com

Sent:  14/02/2013 10:23:19 PM

To:  customersupport@%^&$£*!!.co.uk

Subject:  a/c 1292449

Dear Sirs,

I have received a few threatening letters about my broadband account. Every time I’ve tried to get through by phone, the queue has been ridiculously long, or the “24 hour service” is closed. As now, at 22.22 hours.

I have not actually used my %^&$£*!!  account now for over two years. It was a complete nightmare; the worst service EVER. I transferred to a new broadband provider; stupidly  I omitted to cancel the account then and have now clearly wasted a fortune.

I’m getting stressed by the whole ridiculous telephone set-up and by the stupid letters you are now sending.

I would like to talk to a human being without going through the phone options or a long queue.

Please advice me how I can erase you from my life.

Gillian Kempner.

**********************************************************************

Flood Tide: 31 January 1953

I wasn’t even alive, but the story of the horrendous North Sea storm tide on the night of 31January 1953 loomed strangely large as a story in my childhood. The flood waters which surged out from the North Sea sixty years ago across the East coast of Britain and over the Dutch dykes caused a massive loss of life and damage, but I only found out about it all through a child’s book.

One of my best ever birthday presents was a subscription to a children’s monthly book club. The service was pretty dire; the books frequently failed to arrive but the ones that made it through became the basis of my reading for many years. They always had attractive and intriguing dust jackets, and in an era where paperback Armada and blue, red and green Dragon books dominated the shelves in our bedrooms, a hardback with a picture cover was a special treat to be treasured.

One of the more memorable adventure stories was Flood Tide, pictured above. I probably reread it a dozen times. It was a gripping tale of the survival of two Dutch children in the ensuing floods, and few other books in those days came anywhere near impacting my imagination in the manner of Flood Tide.

This morning on Radio 4, I listened to a couple of men recollecting their experiences of the floods in East Anglia. I immediately thought of Flood Tide, and was compelled to charge off in search of it. In this house of books in hidden places, it was no simple task, but I eventually unearthed it in Middle Daughter’s room.

I like to think it’s there because she picked it up and decided to read it, but it’s more likely I waved it in her face ten years ago and insisted she have a look at it.

At least there’s no doubt whose book it was and remains.

Hotel… Art?

It’s easy to be churlish and disparaging about artwork in hotels. Often I’m pleasantly surprised (perhaps not unsurprisingly given my subterranean expectations) by what’s on the walls (a great hotel in San Diego last summer immediately springs to mind) but more usually I can bask in familiar re-encounters with stuff so dire, it’s positively reassuring.

In the depths of last weekend’s snowfall, and child-free for 24 hours, Himself and I decided on a spontaneous getaway for ourselves and the dog.

The dog’s destination was the local kennels. Ours was the best hotel in a nearby town.

We had secured a fantastic bargain deal for a veritable suite of rooms (including our own personal emergency exit) and it was perfectly delightful.

Except I was overcome by a desire to submit a proposal to the hotel management for artistic redesign of the interior. Unusually, there was hardly any thing on the walls at all, save for the ubiquitous frosted glass wall lights. And one truly stupendously bad “artwork”.

Actually, I may have got it wrong. Maybe it was just a framed homily-sort-of-thing with no pretensions to post-modernist conceptualism at all. But somehow, I don’t think so.

Remaining open to positive critique, perhaps the atrociously badly laid-out phrases and sentimentalised choice of font were an ironic contemporary take on Victorian framed embroidered aphorisms. But again, I don’t think so.

It was all too sadly serious. This was clearly not the Bonaventure hotel of North Yorkshire; on the contrary, it appeared the least likely place to go in for a bit of postmodern irony. So I was forced to conclude this was a seriously bad bit of Art: so wonderfully and intriguingly dreadful that I wasted at least five minutes trying to capture it with my iPhone.

I don’t know what disturbed me more. The odd triptych sectioning of Beatles lyrics? The lay-out? The font? The slightly off positioning of the frames? Oh, lighten up, Gillian. It’s only a piece of Hotel Art.

Maybe I won’t bother with my proposal for a redesign. Maybe it wouldn’t be the sort of thing they’d want after all.