Atropa Belladonna

Holidays

tète

 track-list for the day:

 Bloodstain- Unkle  listen

 Sometimes I feel like a motherless child- Clarence Smith listen

 Live my life with you-Corinna Joseph listen

 Kill 100- X-Press 2 feat Rob Harvey listen

 100%- Sonic Youth listen

Lords of Hawthorn

I'm on the steps.

tell tale

I'm trying to remember where the front door is. while listening to a Black Dog mix. or may be I'll stay in the shed. look, look, look again.

Particulars of shares

slow motion

 The other night, a friend was telling me how she had been inspired by a dead mining town in America, and we agreed that anything decaying and derelict held much  drama and grace. Andrew Moore Detroit Disassembled is a perfect example of how powerful an image abandonment can create. I grew up in a street perpendicular to the rue Lavoisier (Chemist 1743-1794) and his discovery that matter may change its form and shape but its mass remain the same, abbreviated in the famous statement that" nothing is created, nothing is destroyed, everything is transformed", has become my motto. I remember discovering photographs of abandoned cars in America and Cuba, their carcasses devoured by vegetation and feel a shiver ran down my spine, and the terrible scenes of Jan Saudek end of the world imagination whose poster hang on my wall for most of my teenage years, were the ticket to  the world of adulthood, so much more than the glossy cover of Photo and Zoom magazine  that my father used to buy. Those dark and dusty scenes always had more appeal to me than Andy Warhol's Campbell Soup Cans even-thought the two are intrinsically linked. I am still lusting after that aluminium foil tape so.

yellow

et voila, I'm back from 6 weeks in the south of France. There are tons of digital images to sort out, a wedding to shoot on monday, the 10th issue of Cream, Creammier to read through, the bike to dust, the rant to have at Saatchi Young British artists exhibition  and the éloge of the Arles Marin Karmitz Collection display of Michael Ackerman to write. Poor me.

the power of now

exhale

I do

                                    

FlashBack

I saw last night on a bbc iplayer a 93 year old man crying about the father he lost over 80 years ago. Then I watched the Alan Yentob: Imagine: Louise Bourgeois from 2008. It was late so I slept on it. This morning I partly listened to radio interviews of women who made the punk scene of London in the early 70s. I finished the washing-up and started thinking. the women liberation, the so-called Feminist Movement had nothing to do with women. The human race was ready to express its anxiety as to its coming about. Sex was just a way of demonstrating that all links could be sectioned off at any time while new one could be created. I think men wanted to shout at the established order too. That's why they invented the electric guitar and the synthesizer, no? anyhow, I am not going to talk about what I don't know. It's just that I got my comforter out of its box and dusted  this small piece of rusted metal found on the side of a railway 20 years ago. At time it can look like human feces. So when at look at this picture for example, I wonder what made artists use pooh to express themselves. Last year I saw an excellent show of Luke Fowler at the Serpentine and I could watch his fascinating documentary shown on multiples screens with some photographs of rebel psychiatrist R.D. Laing' s refuge Kingsley Hall in London. One of the most disturbed resident spent 3 months smearing the walls of her room with her shit. She felt better for it and started recovering slightly. Not particularly that bit but I adored that film. I'm going to befriend this rusty metal part again. As an homage to Louise Bourgeois.

         "I had a flashback of something that never existed"

Then I will work at something in homage to Martin Kipperberger. And may be then I will have find a way to do something for my beautiful Grand-mother. Not scatological! May be something with chicken feathers, old cast irons and quince. Roll on Pan F.

solaire

more human

Friday morning, despite a bright sunshine, I stayed home and finished reading Kazuo Hishiguro Never Let Me Go. Sometimes a work of fiction can impact on ones life with full force. that force can bring growth, can release an action hence its expansion. We create  to be more human. Art is not meant to be a representation of what makes us more human but a transcendency of the real toward the spiritual. This Mark Rothko kne. I am just starting to understand. Yippee!

Togetherness

As I'm fighting my little fight with bitterness and regrets, I really needed to recall times when taking photographs was just about experimenting and having fun and never never think about what the purpose was and where it fitted in the grand bal masqué of self-criticisms. We do not look like it on that picture, but we were having fun that day, we were king and queen of the highway, having a rest in the corner of our eyes. We were really together, it was always about being together. Now the photo is there to remember that. This is what Patti Smith talks about in Just Kids, her and Robert Mapplethorpe being together. Nothing can beat that.

don't give up

I saw this sad sad sight last week when walking along the Regent's canal. I guess the 7 inch had been damage by water in one of the barge before being left to melt in the sun. I wished they had been covered by a white cloth rather than seeing their decaying soul exposed to the glare of foreign tourists. I was never a 7 inch kind of girl, but hey, a groove is a groove.

all the things these hands have done

10 000 hours

For Edward

      

of no interest

in all aspects evenly

Louise Bourgeois and some 140 000 others died yesterday.