love is how you spend your time
Nude Descending a Staircase is one of my favourite paintings of all time. Lately I’ve been thinking about it a lot more as I’ve been commissioned to paint a picture for some friends’ staircase and it’s an obvious reference. I’ve been inspired by so many artists over the years. They come and go as the list grows. But one of my old favourites endures. There are so few artists who stand out beyond a generation or two. Duchamp does.
There’s something about African culture through the myriad of diversity that makes great creativity. Such a wonderful shining quality. Of course this is a cliche and a gross generalisation. But do indulge with me.
This morning I read something about art saying that good art is necessarily generous. There’s a generosity in African art and culture, a rich vibrance that’s runs deep and far and maybe even beyond money. Agile, it’s often adapted, tweaked, stretched and extended from pop imports through the ages. Running back through generations and centuries. Aural traditions and story telling flow and rich rhythms are rife.
Specialist in all Styles is the title of the album of one of my favourite bands. I’m listening to them as I type from the pre-written stuff that I illegibly scribbled before breakfast in bed. They are called Orchestra Baobab. The name comes from a hair stylist poster. Their music is a rich hybrid of African rhythms, jazz and Cuban styles.
What westerners would probably laugh at and interpret as an impossibility or at least a cheeky arrogance, I think is quite literal and confident and true.
Western specialisation, following Marilyn Monroe in song, suggests a boring money making power game, albeit sung with more than a touch of occasional glamour.
The African generalisation of the term here is expressive, inclusive, fun and full of life and love.
I saw them in concert at Somerset House in the heart of London town a few years ago. It was so strange to see this exuberantly vibrant happy African band in this setting. The saxophonist was bubbling with joyful energy and could hardly contain his smile within the confines of the sterile colonial architecture.
Ok, it wasn’t quite Anikulapo at Buckingham Palace but you get the picture. To see them against this backdrop was truly surreal.
As the last note faded away it was as if the place sank into a haunted hospital and someone threw a huge bucket of disinfectant over it all.
I don’t know who had the last laugh or quite how to make sense of it all but in my memory the saxophonist’s smile endures and shines through. Somerset House remains a decaying monument to colonialism - full of security guards and overpriced, boring art exhibitions. And I don’t even know the name of the man with shining smile.
Félix González-Torres had a beautiful way of expressing love lost.
In one interview, he said “When people ask me, ‘Who is your public?’ I say honestly, without skipping a beat, ‘Ross.’ The public was Ross. The rest of the people just come to the work.”
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse
I took this rubbish picture with the messed up flash effect almost a year ago at one of my favourite places in the world. Times were shit but this made me laugh and laugh and laugh and it still does. I couldn’t agree less but it’s all true.
This is one of my favourite paintings. The hedonistic Frenchman, Jean-Honore Fragonard, painted The Swing in an exuberantly lavish style and it has since been erected as a pinnacle of silly Rococo decadence. Apparently he was rather chuffed and delighted with the commission. I would have been too. Good job he made the most of this decadent phase as the French Revolution saw the heads of most of his private patrons roll. He managed to keep his but died almost completely forgotten in Paris.
Flow is a very emotional surf movie about surfing through life, death, jail, love, etc
Would it appeal to non-surfers? I can only imagine. From my position as a religious nut surfer and complete media whore I would say yes. Of course. Absolutely. Most definitely. But from my experience of how non-receptive people tend to be to new things outside their experience and what a nauseating turn-off surf flicks are to most who do not surf, I would probably say no. But please watch it anyway. I think it’s inspiring.
It covers quite a range of contemporary surf history and board design and explores the surfer-shaper relationship rather nicely. From the legends like mystical Mr Curren to likable record smashing psycho Sl8er to smooth chilled style man Machado to super rookie Martinez to young wild crazy hotshots like Dane Reynolds, the stories center around the man who was more than just a shaper to generations of radically creative surfers. Al Merrick was a nurturing father figure to them too. It’s a love story that somehow still manages to be a cool surf flick.
Usually my biggest blogger inspiration is and has been for some time one friend.
But why did I take so long to start a blog? I’ve loved blogs and read blogs for years but somehow just took ages to get started with my own.
Earlier this year Nikola said something like “You seem paranoid about it. If you want to do it just start.” Of course this made sense and he was right. He loves being right and this is probably why he usually is.
So what the hell was I paranoid about?
- I was paranoid that it might kill me
- I was paranoid about exposing myself as I quite like to be private
- I was paranoid that I wouldn’t have enough to say
- I was paranoid that my blog would be crap
- I was paranoid that people would steal my ideas
- I was paranoid that if I started sharing my ideas they would run out
What a fucking retarded idiot I was. All of this turned out to be bullshit. But I guess that’s paranoia for you. Now I don’t really care if it’s crap any more. Most of the ideas I steal anyway and I can always steal more. The other paranoia’s are too boring to talk about.
The funny thing is that now I’ve become an addicted blog junkie and possibly as irritating to others as Nikola was to me at times. When I showed a mutual friend my blog recently the first thing he said was: “so you’ve been convinced by Nikola.” I laughed. Now I’m like a blogangelist (I just googled this as I thought maybe I invented a new term. It turns out there’s a page that says hello but no blog). I believe that everyone should have a blog and preach the dogma. Of course most people I suggest this to say no. Just the same as most people I encourage to start drawing or playing music or sport say no. What surprised me for a while was that they all said no for the same reasons. Then I came to the pathetic grand overblown conclusion that we’re all afraid of the same things, all paranoid for the same reasons.
But the arts are so surprisingly diverse. We’re all seemingly inspired by such different things. Or at least we express things in such different ways.
I found myself saying the same thing to a few people in a row and then it started to become really boring and sound silly. So I thought I’d write this bullshit down so I can just send the link instead of typing or saying the same crap and falling asleep with it in my mouth.
Anyway. Now I love blogging. Thanks Nikola.
to be continued…
I once went to Bleeding Heart Yard for a meeting but don’t remember much of what it was about. But it’s a memorable name and I remember laughing about it before heading there.
I miss lots of things about London. The rich layered history of the crowded lonely streets, the crazy mix of old and new, the wild international multiculturalism and cacophony of accents are some of the wonderful things I miss. But most of all I miss the humour. It’s everywhere buried in the life of the city and it warms the heart and chuckles the mind when it comes out to play. Lee Kern’s The A-Z of Love is the funniest thing I’ve seen in ages. So beautifully written, so shy, cool and self deprecating with a touch of gameful wickedness. Thanks to Nick for sharing.