Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
Techno Ate My Brain. Thank You Mum!
Ever since moving to Techno capital I’ve had a problem with going home.
It seems that here the club always wins. I was quite happy in the UK, the set would finish, the club would close and, of course there were the initial moans of not wanting to leave, but those quickly passed as I knew it was the end. In Berlin it’s a different story.
The clubs here adhere to a different set of rules. There is no specific closing time. The club closes when the last person leaves. It’s potentially infinite. So you have to be quite disciplined and remember to leave at some point. Now this could be quite dangerous for those with a hedonistic streak, those who cannot discipline themselves. But the reasons cannot just be tied down to wanting to stay out. There must be a deeper understanding of this phenomena and its effects on the brain. So what it is about the nature of the clubbing scene here that is so infecting? Lets talk about techno.
I decided to look into this matter after fruitless attempts at googling such phrases as “the influence of techno music on the brain”, “repetition in techno and the brain” etc etc which left me frustrated. Most of the writing tells the same old story; it’s the drugs, drink and smoke, blah blah blah. This doesn’t paint a very good a picture of the clubbing scene. And for gods sake, can we please abandon this “clubs are all about drugs” stereotype. Thousands of people attend clubs, travel continents to go to festivals, dance for hours – the appeal must be more than just substance abuse. Techno is actually a very delicate and intelligent form of music. Do you know anyone who can listen to salsa music for 15 hours and not get bored?* This is what fascinates me about techno. The potential depths its infinite nature offers (Black hole anyone?)
So I’ve been in Berlin for a few months now, and as I said before, I am still struggling with the going home issue. But at Melt festival I had a bit of a revelation (and it did come when the sun was rising, a very appropriate pathetic phallacy my Literature teacher would say. Ok its a bit cheesy but revelations are always beautiful, especially when the sun comes out.). I realised I never want to go home because the music doesn’t let me. Techno is based on repetition. Its constant beat grabs hold and doesn’t let you go. While most music is linear, say a rock song with lyrics or a symphony, ie it has a start, middle and an end, techno tracks are built on another measuring scale. They are building blocks in a potentially never ending set which oscillates, grows, diminishes, breathes, but in theory can go on forever, and ever and ever. That is because repetition is endless. It is a different dimension. Under the influence of techno time ceases to exist, you enter a different reality where there is no start or finish. What dimension it is, I don’t know, but it definitely has a very strong hypnotic power on the brain. Not everyone likes the constant banging of course.
According to my mum, it is highly dangerous for your mental health. “If I listen to it for longer than 10 minutes I’ll go mad.” Hey Mum, did you never think it was you who first infected me with the techno beat? Being in your womb for 9 months and listening to the constant beat of your heart, must have left some sort of techno imprint in my brain.! So those who enjoy it, probably find they have similar problems. It is like a love-hate relationship, which is easy to develop, based on the never satisfying pleasure which techno provides, as you crave more and more and more…
But as with all forms of intelligent music, techno has a very strong healing factor I believe. For me it is my meditation, my exit from reality and thoughts and worries of every day (it is also my gym. Dancing for 10 hours once or twice a week beats any gym goer, I’m sure. Tests should be carried out accordingly. Those interested please get in touch). In the presence of techno, the mind becomes free as the repetitive beat switches something in the brain and puts you into a state of trance. A direct relationship between the beats and the body follows. I love dancing to techno because I do not dance consciously, my body sort of moves by itself, it feels the beat and it feels as it there is no bypass between the music (which enters the ears) and the brain. It’s a direct route from ear to muscle. Nietzche did say that music is the most direct form of art, precisely for this reason. That the brain doesn’t get involved. There is no thoughts, just feelings. Try it, it can be revelationary experience (particularly if you are on 2 hours sleep and have been dancing for about 10 hours and the sun comes out) but don’t forget to go home.
*I do not intend to offend salsa music, or any kind of music in any way. I simply use it as a comparison, between linear and non-linear types of sound. You have to admit, 15 hours of salsa would be a b it of an overdose...
It seems that here the club always wins. I was quite happy in the UK, the set would finish, the club would close and, of course there were the initial moans of not wanting to leave, but those quickly passed as I knew it was the end. In Berlin it’s a different story.
The clubs here adhere to a different set of rules. There is no specific closing time. The club closes when the last person leaves. It’s potentially infinite. So you have to be quite disciplined and remember to leave at some point. Now this could be quite dangerous for those with a hedonistic streak, those who cannot discipline themselves. But the reasons cannot just be tied down to wanting to stay out. There must be a deeper understanding of this phenomena and its effects on the brain. So what it is about the nature of the clubbing scene here that is so infecting? Lets talk about techno.
I decided to look into this matter after fruitless attempts at googling such phrases as “the influence of techno music on the brain”, “repetition in techno and the brain” etc etc which left me frustrated. Most of the writing tells the same old story; it’s the drugs, drink and smoke, blah blah blah. This doesn’t paint a very good a picture of the clubbing scene. And for gods sake, can we please abandon this “clubs are all about drugs” stereotype. Thousands of people attend clubs, travel continents to go to festivals, dance for hours – the appeal must be more than just substance abuse. Techno is actually a very delicate and intelligent form of music. Do you know anyone who can listen to salsa music for 15 hours and not get bored?* This is what fascinates me about techno. The potential depths its infinite nature offers (Black hole anyone?)
So I’ve been in Berlin for a few months now, and as I said before, I am still struggling with the going home issue. But at Melt festival I had a bit of a revelation (and it did come when the sun was rising, a very appropriate pathetic phallacy my Literature teacher would say. Ok its a bit cheesy but revelations are always beautiful, especially when the sun comes out.). I realised I never want to go home because the music doesn’t let me. Techno is based on repetition. Its constant beat grabs hold and doesn’t let you go. While most music is linear, say a rock song with lyrics or a symphony, ie it has a start, middle and an end, techno tracks are built on another measuring scale. They are building blocks in a potentially never ending set which oscillates, grows, diminishes, breathes, but in theory can go on forever, and ever and ever. That is because repetition is endless. It is a different dimension. Under the influence of techno time ceases to exist, you enter a different reality where there is no start or finish. What dimension it is, I don’t know, but it definitely has a very strong hypnotic power on the brain. Not everyone likes the constant banging of course.
According to my mum, it is highly dangerous for your mental health. “If I listen to it for longer than 10 minutes I’ll go mad.” Hey Mum, did you never think it was you who first infected me with the techno beat? Being in your womb for 9 months and listening to the constant beat of your heart, must have left some sort of techno imprint in my brain.! So those who enjoy it, probably find they have similar problems. It is like a love-hate relationship, which is easy to develop, based on the never satisfying pleasure which techno provides, as you crave more and more and more…
But as with all forms of intelligent music, techno has a very strong healing factor I believe. For me it is my meditation, my exit from reality and thoughts and worries of every day (it is also my gym. Dancing for 10 hours once or twice a week beats any gym goer, I’m sure. Tests should be carried out accordingly. Those interested please get in touch). In the presence of techno, the mind becomes free as the repetitive beat switches something in the brain and puts you into a state of trance. A direct relationship between the beats and the body follows. I love dancing to techno because I do not dance consciously, my body sort of moves by itself, it feels the beat and it feels as it there is no bypass between the music (which enters the ears) and the brain. It’s a direct route from ear to muscle. Nietzche did say that music is the most direct form of art, precisely for this reason. That the brain doesn’t get involved. There is no thoughts, just feelings. Try it, it can be revelationary experience (particularly if you are on 2 hours sleep and have been dancing for about 10 hours and the sun comes out) but don’t forget to go home.
*I do not intend to offend salsa music, or any kind of music in any way. I simply use it as a comparison, between linear and non-linear types of sound. You have to admit, 15 hours of salsa would be a b it of an overdose...
Friday, 15 May 2009
The Greenman Politiks.
The Germans never cross the road when the man is red. A small detail, which you wouldn't normally pay attention too, until you are stuck in the situation. It goes something like this... I stand at the crossing. There are no cars around for miles in site. I stare at the red man. I look around and everyone is waiting patiently. I try to out stare him, kind of hoping that if I focus all my energy he will turn green quicker. But nein. After a few seconds of stressing myself out in this manner, I give into temptation and cross. But the feeling isn't too good, I feel like I've broken some serious laws.
It's funny to observe how some people, the daring few, follow, once you've taken initial action. That can say a lot about people. Do they quitely grin to themselves afterwards, having done something naughty? I wonder. These guys are so subtle that you have to look extra hard to find that smile. But these trivial details can actually reveal a lot about culture.
In London, traffic light crossing is a completely different story. People just don't have the time to wait, even if they wanted to. Sprinting from A to B with Tesco's sandwich in one hand, Blackberry in the other, Londoners don't even have the time to sit down to eat their lunch. Or if they do, their companion is their beloved laptop. Sad.
In Russia things are even more extreme. Its war. The drivers find it fun hitting the gas pedal instead of the breaks when approaching pedestrian crossings, while the street-crossers get their kicks from jumping on the road the second the light turns red. If you ever visit, I suggest you use the underground crossings, especially in winter, when the roads are pretty much like ice rings.
The Germans on the other hand, stand and wait patiently. It seems like they have all the time in the world. And they don't question the law. Its kind of relaxing, handing over control. Red stop, green go, and you don't have to think much for yourself. Its all been drawn out for you. But nein. I just cannot do it. And it's not even because the opportunistic Londoner inside me cannot resist the temptation to disobey, but more the frustration that I am wasting my time waiting around. I got places to go, people to see, things to do, rush rush rush rush. And here I got this red dude, who is, I am sure, programmed to last much longer than normal, or that's what it feels like anyway, prohibiting me from crossing a completely empty street..! It's all a conspiracy.
But then I stop and think. Isn't that one of the major reasons I moved to this city? To get away from the chaos that is London? Precisely. Berlin is chill town, with an amazing beat. It's really not what I expected of a German town before I came here though.* When I thought Germany, I thought strict rules and regulations. But nein. People here can pretty much do whatever the hell they like. The did try to implement the smoking ban, but you can pretty much smoke everywhere still, eat your own food at bars and restaurants, drink your own beer. Clubs just don't close and you can get away riding the metro for free most of the time. At first it seems like no body cares. But after a close study of the behaviour at the traffic lights , I think I am starting to tune into Germanness.
They don't need the laws, the law comes from within. Its like they were born with a sense of correctness, so no need for external oppression, Big Brother style. People will buy the metro tickets anyway.
A slightly different case in London though. A no there is a no, and they will turn it into a big ban. No this, no that, and extortionate prices for half a cucumber wrapped in cling film. No wonder people disobey. It's quite ironic really, but its true; deny the people something and they want it more. They don't just drink, they get wasted.
No so many cocaine addict neurotics here thank god. And sure, maybe here people won't get as many things done, seal as many business deals (if you calculate the amount of seconds lost each day waiting for the man to turn green) but at least they are not stressing. And probably end up living longer as a result. It might take me a while to adjust, lawlessness and opportunism is just too tempting, but then so is relaxing. Maybe its a healthy alternative for the body and mind to wait for Mr. Green after all.
*Berlin is unlike any other German town however, so will have to travel around and get back to you on the traffic light situation there.
It's funny to observe how some people, the daring few, follow, once you've taken initial action. That can say a lot about people. Do they quitely grin to themselves afterwards, having done something naughty? I wonder. These guys are so subtle that you have to look extra hard to find that smile. But these trivial details can actually reveal a lot about culture.
In London, traffic light crossing is a completely different story. People just don't have the time to wait, even if they wanted to. Sprinting from A to B with Tesco's sandwich in one hand, Blackberry in the other, Londoners don't even have the time to sit down to eat their lunch. Or if they do, their companion is their beloved laptop. Sad.
In Russia things are even more extreme. Its war. The drivers find it fun hitting the gas pedal instead of the breaks when approaching pedestrian crossings, while the street-crossers get their kicks from jumping on the road the second the light turns red. If you ever visit, I suggest you use the underground crossings, especially in winter, when the roads are pretty much like ice rings.
The Germans on the other hand, stand and wait patiently. It seems like they have all the time in the world. And they don't question the law. Its kind of relaxing, handing over control. Red stop, green go, and you don't have to think much for yourself. Its all been drawn out for you. But nein. I just cannot do it. And it's not even because the opportunistic Londoner inside me cannot resist the temptation to disobey, but more the frustration that I am wasting my time waiting around. I got places to go, people to see, things to do, rush rush rush rush. And here I got this red dude, who is, I am sure, programmed to last much longer than normal, or that's what it feels like anyway, prohibiting me from crossing a completely empty street..! It's all a conspiracy.
But then I stop and think. Isn't that one of the major reasons I moved to this city? To get away from the chaos that is London? Precisely. Berlin is chill town, with an amazing beat. It's really not what I expected of a German town before I came here though.* When I thought Germany, I thought strict rules and regulations. But nein. People here can pretty much do whatever the hell they like. The did try to implement the smoking ban, but you can pretty much smoke everywhere still, eat your own food at bars and restaurants, drink your own beer. Clubs just don't close and you can get away riding the metro for free most of the time. At first it seems like no body cares. But after a close study of the behaviour at the traffic lights , I think I am starting to tune into Germanness.
They don't need the laws, the law comes from within. Its like they were born with a sense of correctness, so no need for external oppression, Big Brother style. People will buy the metro tickets anyway.
A slightly different case in London though. A no there is a no, and they will turn it into a big ban. No this, no that, and extortionate prices for half a cucumber wrapped in cling film. No wonder people disobey. It's quite ironic really, but its true; deny the people something and they want it more. They don't just drink, they get wasted.
No so many cocaine addict neurotics here thank god. And sure, maybe here people won't get as many things done, seal as many business deals (if you calculate the amount of seconds lost each day waiting for the man to turn green) but at least they are not stressing. And probably end up living longer as a result. It might take me a while to adjust, lawlessness and opportunism is just too tempting, but then so is relaxing. Maybe its a healthy alternative for the body and mind to wait for Mr. Green after all.
*Berlin is unlike any other German town however, so will have to travel around and get back to you on the traffic light situation there.
Sunday, 3 May 2009
In Starbucks.
" A double expresso, but can I have it decaf please?"
Wow. What's the point of that? People have way to much choice today.
Wow. What's the point of that? People have way to much choice today.
Thursday, 23 April 2009
Epiphany on a Sunday.
Erlend Oye is a god. And I am not just saying that because his music rocks. You know all those positive energy and laws of attraction theories, the vibrating molecules that draw in positivity, harmonic auras or unexplained magnetic pulls, well when Erlend’s around they all suddenly make complete sense. Perhaps it is his calm composure and completely understated cool; quite tall, he appears permanently dazed and floating in blissful thoughts, or the oversized geek glasses* and stripes, which radiate a happy healthy glow that make him instantly likeable. Here is the complete antithesis of the pierced, studded tattoo freak and all round junkie rock star type, which your parents have nightmares about. This guy actually looks like he would be equally happy taking care of an old people’s home as he is performing. I want to give him a hug already and we haven’t even talked about his music.
His latest project, The Whitest Boy Alive, like pretty much most of his work, is not just another band that make great music and tour to promote their new stuff following the usual formula: come on stage- play to fans from elevated stage (or fenced off in extreme celebrity status cases)- let fans go wild by themselves- get off stage – go to private party. Oye and the boys actually get involved. They want to party with you. Clapping, dancing, singing, and rotating positions like in a volleyball match, they might stop to make a comment, or jump for a dance into the crowd. All loony as one another, these boys from the small town of Bergen in Norway don’t take themselves too seriously. Playing around like children in their bubble, it makes you wonder whether they’re actually having more fun than the crowd. The best part is that the bubble spreads.
When they came on stage, every little puzzle seemed to fit into place. And that’s not only because of Erlend’s voice. Yes, it is incredible. and the songs, and words flow extremely well making every bone in your body tingle. But this tingle is caused by so much more than that. It is the product of that highest level of harmony achieved when everything is in such a state of equilibrium that you don’t need drugs. When endorphins rush around your body just like that, through sound. It’s a simple formula – its pure and it works. Close to nirvana? Perhaps. But all I know is that finally I understand why people go to see gigs. Sure I went to plenty before but always left with a feeling of slight disappointment. Something along the lines of “I could have listened to them at home and not been crushed by thousands of people and spent loads of money.” I must have seen the light. Happiness is contagious.
* You could spot the dedicated fans easily in the appropriate oversized spectacles attire – a trend that has taken London by storm. Whether they are prescription pieces is highly doubtful, yet I wonder if Oye is the unassuming icon who started it all..
His latest project, The Whitest Boy Alive, like pretty much most of his work, is not just another band that make great music and tour to promote their new stuff following the usual formula: come on stage- play to fans from elevated stage (or fenced off in extreme celebrity status cases)- let fans go wild by themselves- get off stage – go to private party. Oye and the boys actually get involved. They want to party with you. Clapping, dancing, singing, and rotating positions like in a volleyball match, they might stop to make a comment, or jump for a dance into the crowd. All loony as one another, these boys from the small town of Bergen in Norway don’t take themselves too seriously. Playing around like children in their bubble, it makes you wonder whether they’re actually having more fun than the crowd. The best part is that the bubble spreads.
When they came on stage, every little puzzle seemed to fit into place. And that’s not only because of Erlend’s voice. Yes, it is incredible. and the songs, and words flow extremely well making every bone in your body tingle. But this tingle is caused by so much more than that. It is the product of that highest level of harmony achieved when everything is in such a state of equilibrium that you don’t need drugs. When endorphins rush around your body just like that, through sound. It’s a simple formula – its pure and it works. Close to nirvana? Perhaps. But all I know is that finally I understand why people go to see gigs. Sure I went to plenty before but always left with a feeling of slight disappointment. Something along the lines of “I could have listened to them at home and not been crushed by thousands of people and spent loads of money.” I must have seen the light. Happiness is contagious.
* You could spot the dedicated fans easily in the appropriate oversized spectacles attire – a trend that has taken London by storm. Whether they are prescription pieces is highly doubtful, yet I wonder if Oye is the unassuming icon who started it all..
The Whitest Boy Alive @ Digital.
The support band. Fellow Bergenians, The New Wine
They must have grown up together or are extreme fans of WBA, because they sounded pretty much the same minus Erlend.
They were cute too.
la la la la
The crowd leads the way
Getting mischievous...
Lets play!
Presents for everyone
Brighton Shores.
This would not be possible in London.
You can never have too much sauce.
Red shoes hanging out on the beach.
The ex- pier. Now a piece of contemporary sculpture.
Monday, 20 April 2009
Assistance Needed.
Waitrose finally hit Islington and positioned itself right in between two other big boys of the food chain game; Marks & Spencers and Sainsbury’s. (Approx. length from the start of M&S block to end of S.’s with W. in the middle – 100 metres.) A bit of supermarket O.T.T? That’s what I thought. It is quite a tight fit and a hint of competition is definitely present in the air. But lets not jump to conclusions just yet. In its slick campaigns, Waitrose promises difference. Quality. Exeptional Customer service. It is the luxury supermarket after all and as Wickipedia informs “has a Royal Warrant to supply groceries, wine and spirits to, her Majesty, the Queen.” Promising stuff.
From the outside I wanted to give the ex-Woolworths space the benefit of the doubt, starting with the location. Perhaps it is all part of the new order in urban planning, a breakthrough means in fascilitating the food hunt with customer in mind of course, inspired by the system from within, and titled something along the lines of “Supermarket within the Supermarket Scheme” in the Islington Council books. Three supermarkets lined up one after another – exactly like having all those different types of tropical juices in one aisle, which definitely makes it an easy find. Whether the selection process is just as easy is another question however... So now you know if you want food in Angel, you’ll find a wide selection between no.5 and no.31 Liverpool Road, catering for all kinds – from basics to the finest options. Plus, the newcomer promises to help solve the acute cattle crowding at rush hour, which was actually becoming quite serious. The madness would start just after 5:00 with the anxious post-work-to-tv-and-couch mob and go on for a good few hours. Not the best setting if you want to spend some quality time choosing the perfect carton of juice.
But no need to worry now, with Waitrose you can shop in peace and get some real quality stuff. Or so their advertising department says. Not particularly a diehard supporter of the supermarket system, I do use it of course, not too much realistically cost effective alternatives around. So I decided to swap my usual Sainsbury’s route a few weeks ago and pop into the new neighbour (rival?) for a peak and some quality food. And..
You will not believe it, but within 5 minutes I was out of there, seeking refuge in Sainsbury’s next door with a warmth in my heart and a newfound admiration for this store which has been faithful to me for quite some time now. It was not that satisfaction of being back in the comfort zone, on familiar terrains or anything like that. I find novelty extremely appealing. Here the problem lay not in what the store was, but what it wasn’t and it definitely wasn’t what the adverts promised!
It was dirty, chaotic and completely random, with maze like aisles too thin to fit two way basket carrying traffic (forget trolleys), no where near enough food selection to justify calling itself a supermarket (I mean real food, like carrots, potatoes – not the ready made pre-packed box dinners with fancy names which they have plenty of in fact) and undersupplied shelves. I mean I know that we are living through dark times with the recession and all, but when Waitrose staff cannot refill the shelves in time or clean the floors yet have the cheek to charge extortionate prices for ‘quality and customer service’, we know we have a problem. Like the winning hero, Sainsbury’s orange seemed to glow more orange in comparison.
Today, feeling good, I decided to give the newcomer another chance. I walked around, and round and round again to familiarise myself with the contents and felt the definite bias for quick cook, ready made box meals instantly. I did contemplate leaving my basket and running off to Sainsbury’s again, but considering the time – 7:00pm – prime time food shopper frenzy, I thought best get it over and done with quickly, and actually have the satisfaction of dealing with a real person at the cashier.
Yet, even then I was badly let down. After spending quite a long time trying to scan in my loose watermelon (one of those rare unpackaged food types, a.k.a without a bar code, a.k.a not in system, a.k.a should be weighed at counter but built in scales, now seem like defunct technology), the cashier dude eventually managed to type in a code. After his supervisor made a phone call. When payment time eventually came, I decided to use actual cash -- a rare action in transactions these days. The damage was £21.98. I handed over the exact in a variety of notes and coins and waited the polite few seconds for the cashier to approve my math skills. After a considerably longer time than normal of counting and recounting the case was still not closed. Instead, the cashier looked up at me blankly and said, “How much is this then?” Unbelievable. Perhaps those self-service checkout tills next door, periodically shrieking “assistance needed” are not so bad and three is a crowd after all.
From the outside I wanted to give the ex-Woolworths space the benefit of the doubt, starting with the location. Perhaps it is all part of the new order in urban planning, a breakthrough means in fascilitating the food hunt with customer in mind of course, inspired by the system from within, and titled something along the lines of “Supermarket within the Supermarket Scheme” in the Islington Council books. Three supermarkets lined up one after another – exactly like having all those different types of tropical juices in one aisle, which definitely makes it an easy find. Whether the selection process is just as easy is another question however... So now you know if you want food in Angel, you’ll find a wide selection between no.5 and no.31 Liverpool Road, catering for all kinds – from basics to the finest options. Plus, the newcomer promises to help solve the acute cattle crowding at rush hour, which was actually becoming quite serious. The madness would start just after 5:00 with the anxious post-work-to-tv-and-couch mob and go on for a good few hours. Not the best setting if you want to spend some quality time choosing the perfect carton of juice.
But no need to worry now, with Waitrose you can shop in peace and get some real quality stuff. Or so their advertising department says. Not particularly a diehard supporter of the supermarket system, I do use it of course, not too much realistically cost effective alternatives around. So I decided to swap my usual Sainsbury’s route a few weeks ago and pop into the new neighbour (rival?) for a peak and some quality food. And..
You will not believe it, but within 5 minutes I was out of there, seeking refuge in Sainsbury’s next door with a warmth in my heart and a newfound admiration for this store which has been faithful to me for quite some time now. It was not that satisfaction of being back in the comfort zone, on familiar terrains or anything like that. I find novelty extremely appealing. Here the problem lay not in what the store was, but what it wasn’t and it definitely wasn’t what the adverts promised!
It was dirty, chaotic and completely random, with maze like aisles too thin to fit two way basket carrying traffic (forget trolleys), no where near enough food selection to justify calling itself a supermarket (I mean real food, like carrots, potatoes – not the ready made pre-packed box dinners with fancy names which they have plenty of in fact) and undersupplied shelves. I mean I know that we are living through dark times with the recession and all, but when Waitrose staff cannot refill the shelves in time or clean the floors yet have the cheek to charge extortionate prices for ‘quality and customer service’, we know we have a problem. Like the winning hero, Sainsbury’s orange seemed to glow more orange in comparison.
Today, feeling good, I decided to give the newcomer another chance. I walked around, and round and round again to familiarise myself with the contents and felt the definite bias for quick cook, ready made box meals instantly. I did contemplate leaving my basket and running off to Sainsbury’s again, but considering the time – 7:00pm – prime time food shopper frenzy, I thought best get it over and done with quickly, and actually have the satisfaction of dealing with a real person at the cashier.
Yet, even then I was badly let down. After spending quite a long time trying to scan in my loose watermelon (one of those rare unpackaged food types, a.k.a without a bar code, a.k.a not in system, a.k.a should be weighed at counter but built in scales, now seem like defunct technology), the cashier dude eventually managed to type in a code. After his supervisor made a phone call. When payment time eventually came, I decided to use actual cash -- a rare action in transactions these days. The damage was £21.98. I handed over the exact in a variety of notes and coins and waited the polite few seconds for the cashier to approve my math skills. After a considerably longer time than normal of counting and recounting the case was still not closed. Instead, the cashier looked up at me blankly and said, “How much is this then?” Unbelievable. Perhaps those self-service checkout tills next door, periodically shrieking “assistance needed” are not so bad and three is a crowd after all.
Monday, 2 March 2009
Dear Darkness.
I take off my boots. And I wonder. Its so sunny outside. why am I inside? this darkness. maybe its cos pj harvey is on and its that time of day... but still. i wonder. the industrial sounds of building sites are reverbarating in my ear, along soothing synth notes. and its a monday, and WYS on a sunday just seems so wrong. because its a monday. and things are serious on mondays. stern faces on the tube. all those jackets. where are you going? why the rush.. can u stop and think, for a second..about where you are. in this crazy spaceship tinned beans space and going. where are you going? but who am i to say. mondays are the serious talk. the beginning of what society calls sobriety. when no one is kind. and those outside this vicious circle of mondays feel like intruders on the train. smiling. but guilty and wondering whether they should get into the monday thing. because everyone does. and its what you're supposed to do, right? can we function any other way? can monday be a sunday really. its hard to process. no matter how much u want it. it just feels wrong. and that voice of reason is scary actually, becauase it makes you realise just how encoded you are.
Friday, 27 February 2009
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Little demons: Voodoo, Hoochie-Coochie and the Creative Spirit.
The Riflemaker is one of those few galleries that make you feel at home while simultaneously accommodating for a plethora of sensory stimulation all within its cosy Victorian layout. Ring ring, creak creak -- this time its little door opens up to the mystery land of voodoo.
Now, voodoo is not just about sticking pins into grimacing evil dolls. It is a universe of spirits, a creative act unleashing the fire and forces within primal man, and a religion practiced by over 30 million people. Packing psychedelic paintings, centuries of sacrificial practice from the deepest corners of the world, beeswax cauldrons, repetitive rhythms of beating drums, Adolf Hitler and more, the gallery becomes something of an educational centre, a chemical lab and your grandma’s attic in one.
On the ground floor I was greeted by an influx of information about the mystical practice; stories and histories written and displayed, slave trade routes mapped out, piles of diaries and books- a whole library of seductive knowledge and a very friendly gallery assistant ready to fill in the gaps. A true feast to my spell-starved curiosity. Ooooh. After a few big gulps of historical facts however, I noticed the ‘The Crucifixion’ triptych in the corner and all literary interest subsided. I stood entranced in front of this psychedelic tree of life filled with an overabundance of tangled bodies, like branches, recreating and sprouting, in all sorts of imaginable and unimaginable positions. Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’ in comparison is children’s book illustration. Definitely a wise curatorial move to hang it by the assistant’s desk – there is enough action here to keep you entertained for days. But let the show go on.
I made a silent vow to my new loved one on the wall to return after exploring what the rest of the terrain had in store and made my way up the creaky darkened stairs into a darkened musky room. I wasn’t sure whether it was the dimmed lights, the gentle melodies of Chopin flowing from the gramophone or the peculiar silent inhabitants of this little room that got to me – perhaps a combination of all, but the effect was immediately sedative. I felt a warm calm inside, the sort you get when in a nursery, tucked away somewhere in the safe corner of the house.
The rosy serenity did not last long however as my eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings and I saw the two little children-dolls in the far corner of the room. There was something very eerie about this work -- their little bodies, dressed in innocent frilly nightgowns were turned away, facing the corner. What are they hiding? Are they afraid? Or have they been naughty little demons perhaps? A more aggressive sculpture, made out of babies’ heads confirmed the slightly chilling ambiance, which began to infiltrate the room, as I started to take note of the other presences; a rucksack made in the shape of the all seeing Masonic eye, a miniature coffin with a dead doll next to that, a dark figure playing with a marionette, and a life sized totem-like structure made out of hair. This was one twisted little nursery. I wanted to stay and play.
Two floors down, the basement, with its sterile white light was a completely different experience all together. Actually it didn’t offer much compared to the attic, only foul smells of bubbling beeswax, which seemed more like burning plastic and a few works on walls. Its not that they were bad; the works themselves can be appreciated in their genre, but rather it was the experience, or lack of it that I found dissatisfying. I did not want to stand back and look at pictures. Hooked on sensory stimulation, all I wanted to do was go back upstairs, to the warped womb of a room, and feel. There should definitely be more little rooms arousing the senses around.
Whether it is visual, mental or nasal stimulation that you seek, the show fulfils that role with sensory tricks and spooky twists along the way. You can even practice a bit of hoochie coochie in the communal wishing machine provided, without having to invest in one yourself like William Burroughs. Concerned with the mystery of the creative act, achieved through heightened states of consciousness (and unconsciousness) the rich variety of work on display encompasses the term art in all the senses of the word. Satisfaction guaranteed.
Jan 19th - April 4th 2009, Riflemaker, Beak Street.
Now, voodoo is not just about sticking pins into grimacing evil dolls. It is a universe of spirits, a creative act unleashing the fire and forces within primal man, and a religion practiced by over 30 million people. Packing psychedelic paintings, centuries of sacrificial practice from the deepest corners of the world, beeswax cauldrons, repetitive rhythms of beating drums, Adolf Hitler and more, the gallery becomes something of an educational centre, a chemical lab and your grandma’s attic in one.
On the ground floor I was greeted by an influx of information about the mystical practice; stories and histories written and displayed, slave trade routes mapped out, piles of diaries and books- a whole library of seductive knowledge and a very friendly gallery assistant ready to fill in the gaps. A true feast to my spell-starved curiosity. Ooooh. After a few big gulps of historical facts however, I noticed the ‘The Crucifixion’ triptych in the corner and all literary interest subsided. I stood entranced in front of this psychedelic tree of life filled with an overabundance of tangled bodies, like branches, recreating and sprouting, in all sorts of imaginable and unimaginable positions. Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’ in comparison is children’s book illustration. Definitely a wise curatorial move to hang it by the assistant’s desk – there is enough action here to keep you entertained for days. But let the show go on.
I made a silent vow to my new loved one on the wall to return after exploring what the rest of the terrain had in store and made my way up the creaky darkened stairs into a darkened musky room. I wasn’t sure whether it was the dimmed lights, the gentle melodies of Chopin flowing from the gramophone or the peculiar silent inhabitants of this little room that got to me – perhaps a combination of all, but the effect was immediately sedative. I felt a warm calm inside, the sort you get when in a nursery, tucked away somewhere in the safe corner of the house.
The rosy serenity did not last long however as my eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings and I saw the two little children-dolls in the far corner of the room. There was something very eerie about this work -- their little bodies, dressed in innocent frilly nightgowns were turned away, facing the corner. What are they hiding? Are they afraid? Or have they been naughty little demons perhaps? A more aggressive sculpture, made out of babies’ heads confirmed the slightly chilling ambiance, which began to infiltrate the room, as I started to take note of the other presences; a rucksack made in the shape of the all seeing Masonic eye, a miniature coffin with a dead doll next to that, a dark figure playing with a marionette, and a life sized totem-like structure made out of hair. This was one twisted little nursery. I wanted to stay and play.
Two floors down, the basement, with its sterile white light was a completely different experience all together. Actually it didn’t offer much compared to the attic, only foul smells of bubbling beeswax, which seemed more like burning plastic and a few works on walls. Its not that they were bad; the works themselves can be appreciated in their genre, but rather it was the experience, or lack of it that I found dissatisfying. I did not want to stand back and look at pictures. Hooked on sensory stimulation, all I wanted to do was go back upstairs, to the warped womb of a room, and feel. There should definitely be more little rooms arousing the senses around.
Whether it is visual, mental or nasal stimulation that you seek, the show fulfils that role with sensory tricks and spooky twists along the way. You can even practice a bit of hoochie coochie in the communal wishing machine provided, without having to invest in one yourself like William Burroughs. Concerned with the mystery of the creative act, achieved through heightened states of consciousness (and unconsciousness) the rich variety of work on display encompasses the term art in all the senses of the word. Satisfaction guaranteed.
Jan 19th - April 4th 2009, Riflemaker, Beak Street.
Tuesday, 17 February 2009
Friday, 6 February 2009
Do not despair, it won't come to get you. Axel Hütte: Out of Darkness
Waddington Galleries could not have timed this one better. Featuring endless inhospitable tundra and caverns with sharp icy fangs, “Out of Darkness” by Axel Hütte presents nature at its rawest at a time when London is being hit by a natural disaster firsthand. Let not the recent blizzards scare you away however. If you have survived, and bagged a day off work with that, you will appreciate Hütte’s travels into obscure corners of the Earth in search of the sublime in some of the most untameable environments, all neatly tamed within the gallery frames.
A graduate of the Hilla&Bernd Becher school of thought, and former studio mate of Andreas Gursky, Hütte definitely retains the emphasis on sobriety. Despite their monumental scale, his photographs are intensely meticulous in detail; each twig is defined in the tangled green cobweb of the forest floor, creating a state of endlessness and sheer proximity. (Nitihant-2, Canada 2007) It is frightening to think what would happen if the bus broke down here… Devoid of people and narrative, Hütte’s landscapes are like rare white tigers in the zoo-- best appreciated through the safety net of the fence.
Yet despite the aggressive realism, there is also something very romantic, and almost soothing about Hütte’s work. It is like the mild tranquilising effect you get from starting at a Caspar David Friedrich, and never wanting to look away. Is it the common German Geist that knows how to hit the melancholic buttons? Perhaps it is the combination of both; Hütte’s choice of traditional equipment as well as subject matter which emanate such an intense effect. It is rather refreshing to see such large images produced via analogue means, in which one man attempts to conquer the forces of nature single-handedly. Aesthetically, Capulin Fire-1 Diptych 2007 is particularly pleasing; the dancing fiery flames let loose accompanied by drifting smoke are immaculately preserved. This is thanks to the Ditone process, in which the image is developed onto natural paper, allowing the fibres to add texture and emphasise the organic structure of a fire.
From the murky depths of forest foliage to flaming hot fires, to piercingly cold tundra, Hütte’s landscapes surely do not lack in geographical abundance. I left the exhibition with a longing for more. Isolation has never felt so alluring. Finally, for a complete visual kick, try compare and contrast, and before embarking on the Hütte’s travels, check out the new National Geographic collection-cum-store next door on Regent street first – the traditional travel photography on offer there, in the conventional A3 size, seems like coffee table literature compared to Hütte’s mammoths.
A graduate of the Hilla&Bernd Becher school of thought, and former studio mate of Andreas Gursky, Hütte definitely retains the emphasis on sobriety. Despite their monumental scale, his photographs are intensely meticulous in detail; each twig is defined in the tangled green cobweb of the forest floor, creating a state of endlessness and sheer proximity. (Nitihant-2, Canada 2007) It is frightening to think what would happen if the bus broke down here… Devoid of people and narrative, Hütte’s landscapes are like rare white tigers in the zoo-- best appreciated through the safety net of the fence.
Yet despite the aggressive realism, there is also something very romantic, and almost soothing about Hütte’s work. It is like the mild tranquilising effect you get from starting at a Caspar David Friedrich, and never wanting to look away. Is it the common German Geist that knows how to hit the melancholic buttons? Perhaps it is the combination of both; Hütte’s choice of traditional equipment as well as subject matter which emanate such an intense effect. It is rather refreshing to see such large images produced via analogue means, in which one man attempts to conquer the forces of nature single-handedly. Aesthetically, Capulin Fire-1 Diptych 2007 is particularly pleasing; the dancing fiery flames let loose accompanied by drifting smoke are immaculately preserved. This is thanks to the Ditone process, in which the image is developed onto natural paper, allowing the fibres to add texture and emphasise the organic structure of a fire.
From the murky depths of forest foliage to flaming hot fires, to piercingly cold tundra, Hütte’s landscapes surely do not lack in geographical abundance. I left the exhibition with a longing for more. Isolation has never felt so alluring. Finally, for a complete visual kick, try compare and contrast, and before embarking on the Hütte’s travels, check out the new National Geographic collection-cum-store next door on Regent street first – the traditional travel photography on offer there, in the conventional A3 size, seems like coffee table literature compared to Hütte’s mammoths.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
