The actual drawing will probably look much more cheerful.
Or so I hope
Spent all day yesterday attempting to draw ‘pool water reflections’ and somewhat failing.
Spent all morning scanning a sketch
Spent the rest of the day being indecisive about colour.
Wore a T-shirt that my mother gave me that states proudly…
“No boy friend
I must admit, it is one of my favorite tees.
and last but not least, my father sent me this link for a stupid ass game, [but I played it anyway]
When people tell you about their dreams it is entirely tedious, unless you feature in them in some way.
With this fact clearly in mind I shall now tell you about my dream last night. [Its my blog and I'll bore if I want to]
I just returned from the loo and seemed to have missed the first half of a lecture Martyn was giving the class in an abandoned warehouse. One very large wall had white paint dripping down it and Martyn standing close by with a shovel.
I asked Anna to fill me in. She didn’t seem to care very much about informing me. I deeply regretted missing out.
Martyn was teaching us how to paint telekinetically. In an attempt to catch up, I concentrated very hard and as I parted my hands, the paint moved up and down the wall like magic.
Who knew Martyn was such a wizard?
FOZ’S SEMINAR FOR THIS WEEK:
What are you Mastering?
Suggestions to think about -
*colour,composition,material quality,-(breaking down the image) [colour yes, composition yes, I think, who can say really?]
*levels of content and focused research [uhm I guess not. My research is limited to mostly nonsense]
*understanding of appropriate contexts for your work [no idea what this means. Seriously, no clue.]
*sense of touch [my work is not furry or touchable in any way, so no]
*production value/craft skills [kaching kaching!]
*independent learning ability [fuck knows if I ever learn anything]
*observation [on occasion, but probably not mastering it no]
Are there other criteria you should be thinking about? [narrative?]
You can always spot a life model within a group of people. They’re usually standing in a corner, looking a bit twitchy.
“Ok ok Go down…..but not too down…Margret Thacher Margret Thatcher….”
said Simeon, suggesting what the model might be thinking.
I’ve never had a male model before, so this was rather novel. In fact, I’ve never drawn a real penis before (that I can recall).
So verrrry interesting. (nice body too)
After the session was over and the nude tucked away his willy and scampered off, Roderick mused aloud that none of us seemed to do any narrative work. He suggested that perhaps it was the influence (i.e fault) of our tutors that we were all doing these single ‘pieces’.
Of course, all the tutors have their distinct agendas. Foz and Gary stress on contrast, ‘visual hierarchy’ within the image and seem to favour editorial illustration as Roderick pointed out.
Information design on the other hand, is just a subject of pure evil.
(Disclaimer: I have some very strong unvarnished opinions on information design, among many other things)
Their tutor (who is clearly the spawn of the devil) seems to have completely brainwashed her students. All they do now is put dots, lines or squiggles on various maps of the world.
The more pointless and anal retentive graphs they create, the more their tutor will praise them (so my informants tell me)
Soon their creativity completely drained, they shall be forced to do her nefarious bidding. Thus populating the design world with statistical charts that are neither visually stimulating nor provide useful or helpful information.
(Disclaimer: in my opinion of course, not necessarily anyone else and especially not information designers. For they long to be useful)
Such a devious scheme I have never known.
Sure, they’ll all have better job prospects and a better knowledge of software packages, but they would have sold their souls (maaan).
The lures of the dark side are hard to resist. I feel myself growing weaker and weaker
We set up the show today.
It is finally up and running. [for now]
During the mind numbing 10 hours of being bored out of my skull Anna informed me that the first gentlemen to ever walk around with an umbrella lived in Russel Square. He also didn’t believe in tipping hansom cabbies.
However because the Hanson cabbies knew he was campaigning against tipping and he was the only one at the time carrying an umbrella around, they made sure he never got a cab.
I’m not sure why I feel the urge to blog about this [but then blogs are entirely self-indulgent aren't they?], but believe me it’s far more interesting than the rest of my day.
On a side note: Foz didn’t lose his temper at all today even though he too was there setting up the show for a mind numbing 10 hours. Although I believe he came quite close to telling so-and-so studio lady to f***k ***. Well done Foz.
Adam and I [mostly Adam] then thrashed Foz and Martyn royally at pool. By far the highlight of the day aside from Anna’s trivia.
More problems with the show, one after the other.
None of the important details have been sorted out.
Georgina who once had bountiful flowing golden locks, has only a few measly strands left and even they have turned grey.
I was told that the tutors thought the mid year show would be a great asset or advert for the course, that we managed to produce it off our backs.
Little did they know what disorganized students we are.
I believe at one point Georgina actually swore.
[and Georgina never swears]
Geoff, our course leader seems like a man who once did so many drugs, his brain can no longer co-ordinate properly with his mouth.
He can ramble, mumble and stutter on the most vitally important topics until they are mutated into utterly tedious speeches…..much like this blog.
(Life drawing with Roderick Mills in the photography dungeon)
I was on the bus the other day, while trying to get to college, and for no reason, was thinking about the school reunion. I went for the first one, which only reminded me of why I was so relieved to leave school in the first place.
Thinking of the reunion then reminded me of Karishma – the class drama queen.
Karishma is a girl who once fainted when someone told her that her boyfriend (at the time) happened to be swimming in the Lokhandwala Gym pool with so-and-so girl.
She also tried to commit a phony suicide out of a barred window. (I know. We all rolled our eyes too. So heartless.)
When she turned 13, she threw this big themed party on the terrace of her Lokhandwala building.
The theme was ‘hot shorts’, so everyone, including myself (*shudder*), were wearing, tiny tiny minuscule shorts, tight tank tops and platform heels.
We then stood around in a circle dancing awkwardly.
Leo was not invited.
(And now that I’ve got a ‘Leo’ in my post, the self involved bum that he is, is far more likely to leave a comment. What a slut.)
I vaguely remember feeling naked and then checking out Shahana’s legs. (Which I imagine the boys, who were dressed completely normally, were doing as well)
We thought we were the height of fashion.
But now when I think about it we just looked like little whores. (I was also wearing these giant owl glasses. *Double shudder*)
In any case, I never made it to college. I sat on the tube for about 30 minutes before we were kicked off and they shut the station.
By then it was already so late that catching a bus and then 2 more tubes would have been totally useless.
So after spending a substantial part of my morning on public transport, all I did was leave my house, waste 45 mins and then go back home again.
Foz was really pissed off. Only 6 people showed up at college. He fired off a furious email that was psychotically titled in the third person.
‘FOZ IS ANNOYED‘ it declared, in bold caps.
I sent back a groveling apology, as did a few others quaking with fear.
The next day his email was titled ‘HAPPY FOZ‘ (again, in bold caps).
Note: It’s always vital to stay on the good side of someone who refers to themselves in the third person.
It is always a pleasant surprise when you walk to a bus stop and there are people there you happen to know.
It is even pleasanter when those people happen to be Onnalin and Martyn holding 4 dead chickens and a bag of potatoes.
Kingsland road is a scary place.
I don’t fucking care if it’s in zone one, it’s a fucking ghetto (and this is where Camille lives).
So Onnalin, Martyn and I are buzzed in and we drag the chickens up to Camille’s, which is a massive loft flat in this warehouse.
After about 3 hours of basting, stuffing and poking by Onnalin (class chef and resident foodie) the chickens were finally done. Everyone was fairly plastered by then, and much like a Natural Geographic Special, we attacked the poor chickens like ravenous hyenas. They were gone in minutes.
In between Martyn raving about Georgina’s digital camera
“WOW! These pictures are fantastic! Another one! It’s fantastic!! They are all fantastic!!”
he was also drunk enough to admit,
“I have to say actually, Foz does have a really lovely smile…”
He now denys this.
Bruna insisted Uhr was stalking her because when ever she turned around he was there.
She then spent 5 minutes petting my head. (Yes, I think she was a bit pissed)
I have a small related whine here: Delusional iPod DJ’s.
Highly annoying. Halfway through a song, some idiot thinking they can do better and wow us all with their taste in music, will change it. This happened continually at the party. My poor iPod was cast aside and plugged in, alternatively every 5 minutes or so until it’s battery died in protest.
Most of the class was at the party, including a whole bunch of random people who turned up at 1:00 am out of the blue. Camille suddenly and mysteriously disappeared, turning up the next day in the flat on the first floor.
She walked into her flat the next morning and instead of viewing a very lovely mess of cigarette butts and garbage, everything had been cleaned by Georgina and Mike who felt too guilty to leave without cleaning.
I’m so glad I left at 2:30 I must admit. Cleanup duty is really rotten.
Anyway, at about 2:30 I began the trek to the ex’s flat (The ex refused to accompany me on grounds of general lethargy).
Right next to Camille’s front door is a club with a que of drunken, dolled up people.
A little further down the road a group of girls were crying and screaming as 2 boys chased and beat each other up right in the middle of a traffic filled road. Two cops arrested them promptly. (Don’t you just love the East end at night?)
I mistakenly ran to catch an over crowded bus full of pasty red faced ‘lads’ while the very surly buss driver cursed, swore, muttered to himself and refused to let me off at my stop.
I had to take another bus back 5 stops.
The bad tempered bastard.
I hate winter.
Leo and I just finished watching Stanley Kubrick’s ‘The Shining’. It is 4:57am. He swore he had to leave at 2:30 so he could get some shut eye and go to work semi-coherent.
Leo doesn’t watch frightening movies and the last time I watched this by myself I woke up at 5 with nightmares.
“Riddhi..” he said “Promise me one thing…”
“Whaaaat doode?” she replied, irritably
“Promise me that you’ll drop me home after the movie”
“Shut up maaaan.” she said even more irritably.
He then wanted me to drop him to the main road, the plan being that he’d make the rick drop me back down the road.
Luckily he didn’t make me do this.
For some unknown reason he insisted I hang on to the DVD for the night.
Perhaps he didn’t want to be left alone with it on the way home.
What a sissy.