A Book Survey

1. What author do you own the most books by?

Literature – Evelyn Waugh (12) Children’s books – I have about twenty ‘Just William’ titles kicking about.

2. What book do you own the most copies of?

I own two copies of the Canterbury Tales. I bought the second one by accident, and am yet to read either of them.

3. Did it bother you that both those questions ended with prepositions?

No. It’s perfectly legitimate to end a sentence with a preposition in English.

New Work

I’ve just finished my latest commission.

When I wake up, I hope I'll feel like this in the morning. (2009)

It’s going into a dark space, in a kitchen, above the crockery. Quite a dark space, so I’ve used the intense kind of colours I know she likes, strong enough to stand out in that space, yet still balanced against paler, more neutral tones.

Write or Die

I’ve started using a marvellous little tool to help me write at length without thinking too much.

Write or Die allows you to set a time limit in which you have to write near-constantly. Using the principle that the stick is better than the carrot, the program will start to automatically delete what you’ve written if you pause for too long. If you’re like me and suffer from the curse of laziness, it really does work at making you write solidly without agonising over every word. I set my first timer for 10 minutes, and came out with quite a nice little bit of writing that I could take somewhere. As every writer tells me, it’s much easier to write a lot of waffle and cut it down than try to bulk up a few overworked sentences.

I’ll definitely be using it in future. I highly recommend giving it a try!

Writing Exercise #2: A Journey

Write a description of a journey you take regularly, without mentioning street names, or directions such as right or left.

Every time I want to go into town I have to climb the steep hill that leads to the no. 26 bus stop. I walk past rows and rows of identical bungalows, each owner so proud of their little bit of earth. I feel tired by the time I reach the top, but keen to begin the real journey. If I’m in a rush I make a run for the bus stop and end up breathing heavily through my mouth, though sometimes the bus takes so long to come.

When I get on board I always try to sit on one of the front seats on the upper deck. On a dark evening I can see my reflection in the glass and secretly observe the passengers behind me. The bus moves off and down the high hill, faster and faster as it nears the bottom, then carefully swings round the small roundabout there. It is always busy. Then past tiny shops and tenement flats, occasionally interrupted by bigger houses. The zoo flashes past the window, the modest entrance concealing a vast space that stretches back into the hillside. A semi-circular office block nearby imitates an amphitheatre, all shiny glass and new stone. More cars join our route, and we pick up passengers at every stop. At one point, as the road curves, a panorama of the city opens up and the mighty castle and Arthur’s Seat stand proudly above the lesser buildings. The stadium further on, often silent, is today overflowing with merry spectators. Many jostle onto the bus, filling the space with laughter, scarves and colours. There is a noisy cheer at the back.

We pass the Jacobean splendour of the old school, nervously awaiting conversion, reflecting the dying rays of the sun. The town grows thicker and steeper around us. Workmen have torn up the streets and everything is a maze of plastic diversions. Trains smoothly slip into the nearby station with the clock high above that tells the wrong time. We are redirected through grey solemn streets unused to traffic before rejoining the bustle of the usual route. On each side of us the pavements are thick with crowds moving homewards or deeper into the city where the restaurants and bars are filling up with weary patrons. We reach the most chaotic stop and I make my exit.

From The Archives

I had a good rummage in my parents’ attic this afternoon. I was on a mission, a mission to find my old high school French notes to refresh my knowledge and hopefully impress my new night class with exciting vocabulary and perfectly conjugated verbs. I know, I’m such a swot. Anyway, after much searching, I found them at the bottom of a dusty cardboard box, along with rather more exciting things.

Much to my parents’ annoyance, I’m a terrible hoarder. I chuck nothing out unless it’s completely useless or falling apart, which means I still have nearly every jotter, folder and notebook from my primary schooldays onwards. Somehow my French notes managed to get bundled up with a couple of jotters from Primary 2, filled with wee stories I’d written and corresponding illustrations. Even when I was six it seems I was quite the little artist. If only I could still draw like I did back then, because to be completely honest, I think these are awesome and put half my art school work to shame.

I’ve not made a snowman for such a long time.

Clearly the dead worm wasn’t quite to his taste.

There had to be…what? I’m sure everyone was fine, the awesome green helicopter probably rescued them all.

Avast! Pirates! Even the sun is terrified.

Nearly 20 years later, I still think dinosaurs are the Best Thing Ever.

Lies! I never had an apple tree in my garden, but I always wanted one.

Well, there we are. A glimpse into the mind of the six-year-old Steven. I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day.

Adding to the pile

I was determined to get another entry in before January was out, but clearly that was a false hope. My poor excuse is that I have been genuinely busy. Between looking for a job, volunteer work, putting on an exhibition and starting some night classes, not to mention all my usual socialising, my weeks have filled up all by themselves.

Still, taking a little time to write about it all is nice. I’ll leave out the boring job hunting part, but everything else I’ve done has been quite interesting. For confidentially reasons I can’t say what exactly my volunteer work involves, but it’s a very worthy cause and one I feel passionately about, not least of all because the issues we’re fighting for are things I’ve personally been affected by. I’ve only started really, but I’m enjoying it and I’ve met some great people already.

The exhibition was something I’d been planning for a while. It’s wasn’t a huge event; in fact it took place in a friend’s flat, stripped of his own collection and displayed on freshly-painted walls. It was the first artspace2let event of the year; a not-for-profit art organisation I’m helping to get off the ground. It was a fun day and well-attended by a variety of different people. I overindulged on the wine, but it certainly kept me chatty over the course of the afternoon. I exhibited a few new watercolour drawings I’d rather hoped to sell – instead I gave them to my mother – as well as a selection of older works that I hadn’t shown before. Well, my biggest piece I had, but this was the first time it had been seen by more than a handful of people.

Everyone I've Never Slept With (Almost) 1984 - 2007

Those vaguely familiar with the work of Tracy Emin will likely recognise that this is a bit of a parody of two of her more famous works, namely Everyone I Have Ever Slept With 1963-1995 and My Bed. I have to say that since 2007 I’ve grown to like Miss Emin’s work a little more than I used to, but the works I’m exploiting here aren’t exactly among my favourites. I like showing this work to people, though it’s sometime a little embarrassing to show to people I know, as the names I selected here often include those of my friends and aquaintances, who stand side-by-side historical figures and contemporay celebrities. Oh well, what the hell.

Finally, the classes I’ve been taking. Last week I began an intermediate French class to refresh my schoolboy knowledge, as well as a creative writing class to make myself tackle a subject I’m equally fascinated and terrified by. Both classes were very enjoyable. One problem. Owing to a lack of students, the creative class has been cancelled. There is a chance I may be able to get onto a similar class elsewhere, but otherwise I’ll just have to take my refund and deal with it. I don’t plan on giving up either way. I have a stack of ideas that I intend to work through. I’m thinking that if I set myself a little task each week and post it on here, I’ll improve my writing and keep my blog alive, and perhaps even get some (constructive) criticism. Seems like a sensible plan. Let’s see if I keep to it.

Camp Extravaganza

I spent most of the afternoon comfortably seated in plush red velvet, surrounded by the faded Edwardian grandeur of Edinburgh’s Cameo cinema and utterly enthralled by two of my very favourite films: Priscilla, Queen of the Desert and Hedwig and the Angry Inch. An appropriate setting for such fabulous films you might say, and you’d be right.

What to say about these two that hasn’t been said a hundred times? Okay, so they both feature drag queens, question sexuality and treat the ears to bloody good music, but do they offer more than a voyeuristic glimpse into a world of camp excess? I think so.

Priscilla: Queen of the Desert (1994)

Priscilla is the story of three drag queens making their way across the Australian desert to Alice Springs. Along the way we’re treated to elaborate impromptu performances, high drama and some of the best quotes in any film, ever:

• [to Tick about Felicia] ‘One more push, I’m gonna to smack his face so hard he’ll have to stick his toothbrush up his arse to clean his teeth!’ – Bernadette
• ‘It’s nice, in a hideous sort of way.’ – Tick
• [to Shirley] ‘Now listen here, you mullet. Why don’t you just light your tampon, and blow your box apart? Because it’s the only bang you’re ever gonna get, sweetheart!’- Bernadette

Then there’s Hedwig. A hilarious, tragic, beautiful masterpiece, this was the film that turned me on to John Cameron Mitchell, my now favourite director (psst, John, make some more films; Shortbus was brilliant but I need another fix.) While Priscilla gyrates to the sound of camp classics, Hedwig and the Angry Inch features wholly original music and a solidly put together band. The entire rock n’ roll soundtrack is fantastic, but my favourite song has got to be ‘The Origin of Love‘, a clever modern twist on Aristophanes’ theory of Love in Plato’s Symposium. Even if you don’t watch the film, at least watch this.

Booklist 2008

One of the ways I mark the passing of each year is to compile a list of every book I’ve read in that time. This year is no exception. Happy New Year everyone!

1. The Flower Beneath the Foot – Ronald Firbank
2. Arctic Summer – E. M. Forster
3. Gentlemen and Players – Joanne Harris
4. The Longest Journey – E. M. Forster
5. A Rebours (Against Nature) – Joris-Karl Huysmans
6. The Fall – Albert Camus
7. Dolls in Danger – E.W. Hildick
8. Historic South Edinburgh Vol.1 – Charles J. Smith
9. Five Have A Wonderful Time – Enid Blyton
10. Historic South Edinburgh Vol.2 – Charles J. Smith
11. Jennings as Usual – Antony Buckeridge
12. A Passage to India – E.M. Forster
13. According to Jennings – Antony Buckeridge
14. Madame Bovary – Gustave Flaubert
15. Les Liasions Dangereuses – Choderlos de Laclos
16. Jennings’ Little Hut – Antony Buckeridge
17. The Diaries of Evelyn Waugh – Evelyn Waugh
18. The Secret History – Procopius
19. The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald
20. Ready To Catch Him Should He Fall – Neil Bartlett
21. The Go-Away Bird and Other Stories – Muriel Spark
22. Concerning The Eccentricities of Cardinal Pirelli – Ronald Firbank
23. The Happy Prince and Other Stories – Oscar Wilde
24. A Wild Sheep Chase – Haruki Murakami
25. The Ugly American – William J. Lederer and Eugene Burdick
26. Brand Failures – Matt Haig
27. The Swimming Pool Library – Alan Hollinghurst
28. Breakfast of Champions – Kurt Vonnegut
29. A Handful of Dust – Evelyn Waugh
30. A Clockwork Orange – Anthony Burgess
31. Mother Night – Kurt Vonnegut

My name is Steven, and I’m an Artist (maybe)

Ever since I graduated, I have always been in two minds about calling myself an artist. Before I graduated I had the same doubts, although at least I could say ‘I’m an art student’ which back then seemed so optimistic, so open and so full of possibility.

When people ask me what I do now, a niggling part of my brain tells me that introducing myself as an artist is akin to declaring myself an alcoholic. A bad example perhaps; the two often go hand-in-hand. There are other doubts too; am I really an artist? I graduated six months ago, and in that time I seem to have avoided making much art at all. I go to exhibitions, sure. I worked in a gallery during the Edinburgh Festival, I’m fascinated by all kinds of visual culture and keep my sketchbooks up to date, filling them with doodles and notes. I’ve even sold some work; not enough to pay the rent, but enough to give me an occasional financial boost. But making work…I don’t seem to have done much of that.

Certainly the degree show burned me out to an extent;  I graduated with little desire to paint again and fearfully curious about the future. I know I’m not alone; the majority of my friends and peers at college stopped making work when I did, and while many of them have since started working Proper Jobs, few seem to be working in the art world in any capacity. A worrying state-of-affairs, but a common one.

Yet things are improving. I have started to hear of friends acquiring studios, collaborating on projects, selling work at various art fairs. My own creative drive is something I’m rediscovering again, though perhaps not in the way I thought I would. Rather than pure fine art, advertising as a career has become very interesting to me upon realising how well the key concepts meshed with my own artistic interests; celebrating pop culture, embracing humour, and exploring the worlds of commerce and communication. Advertising was always a source of inspiration to me at college, but it is only now that I’ve realised that perhaps I could make the ads.

Of course, getting into such a notoriously competitive industry is easier said than done. Ad agencies ironically tend not to advertise their creative positions, so the best way to get in seems to be to put a damn good portfolio together and get as much experience as possible. The portfolio is something I’m working on now; the experience is somewhat harder to come by. However, with well thought-out letters and good old-fashioned pushiness, I’m hopeful I might get some short placements with local agencies that may even lead to a paid position in the near future.

I’m tired of maybes. It’s going to be a stuggle no doubt, but I’m looking forward to 2009. No matter what direction my career goes in, creativity will always have its place, and this is the year I’m going to make things happen.

Improving My Writing

Neglected though this poor blog is, I actually want to write it far more than its infrequent entries would suggest. Writing however is something I’ve always found more difficult compared to my prolific reading habits, and yet the creative drive to do it is still there. My problem is that writing can still feel like a chore; when I set myself down to do it I often feel it’s a piece of English homework I’m being forced to do, rather than an activity for my own pleasure.

When I was in high school, reading lost its appeal when every book I studied was sucked dry of joy in an attempt to deconstruct it with scientific precision. Creative writing itself always seemed to take a back-seat in favour of these deconstructions, and I had little opportunity or inclination to write for myself. Though I managed to rekindle my love of reading in time, writing has always remained more difficult. So why do it? Simply because it seems that the only way to overcome the difficulty is to shake myself out of it with practice, practice and more practice.

Slowly but surely, it does seem to work. I’ve kept a pen-and-paper diary since my early teens; on-and-off certainly but it’s always been something I’ve gone back to, and while there’s not much in there I’d want to make public, comparing the old entries with the new has shown my confidence and ease in writing has improved. Writing sporadic entries for this new blog too has encouraged me to concentrate on communicating as clearly and concisely as possible.

Reviewing is useful. As well as focusing my own thoughts on a subject, a review is a potentially useful thing for others to stumble on. The few things I’ve reviewed here so far (a book, a video game and a couple of art exhibitions) have stuck in my mind because I made myself think more deeply about them than I might otherwise have done. I still don’t find it easy to write them, but each new attempt is less difficult than the last and fills me with some small sense of achievement.

Creative writing however is something quite different. It’s certainly something I’ve enjoyed working with and improving through in my art practice, revelling in glib phrases and jokey one-liners, but full scale stories or poetry…that’s something I haven’t done that since puberty. When I consider that fact, I can’t help but feel a little resentful that that part of my education was undernourished; uncared for by a school determined to have its students learn the exam rather than than the subject.

Nevertheless, the drive to write is still there, and I like to think I’m not a completely lost cause. There’s a lot to be said for self-determination and practice, and with time, perhaps, I’ll produce something I’m proud of.