Critique Ettiquette Sequel

Foz just emailed us asking the 2nd years to give a small lecture in front of our work to the first years

He claims our pearls of wisdom are so great the first years must know them.

I have no pearls of wisdom.

I,

am,

an,

idiot

But I do have some additional rules for acceptable Critique Ettiquette.

18. Drawing during a crit to while away tedious hours is tempting but must be resisted at all costs.
To do this in front of Foz would be like eating peas with a knife in front of the Queen.

19. It is possible to amuse yourself instead by giving invaluable [hah!] feedback to thy peers.

20. Chewing innumerable packs of gum helps stave away both hunger and boredom. Thou shalt be rewarded by minty fresh breath as thou hurls venom at thy classmate.

21. Caffeine is not thy friend if thou art clumsy. This rules applies to any liquid.

22. Learn Indesign & Flash for it shall save thy lowly life when thou has not found freelance illustration work and have just realized paint is inedible.

23. ‘Nice’ and ‘cool’ are still forbidden words and thou shalt be socially ostracized and flogged for such heresy.

Friends and Family Day

i.e P.T.A day

I woke up early on Friday morning after the private view to drag myself off to the gulag (Savoy Tailors Guild) tired, hung over and with a mouth of cotton wool. That night I had a vivid dream where Anna & I were manning the Mall reception desk/shop. There are people crowding around like rush hour on the tube. Someone comes running up to me and says excitedly

“Oh my god your prints are just selling out! There are so many people!! Its amazing.”

I woke up bemused, thinking or hoping it was real.

It was not.

I am so pathetic.

Even my sub-conscious isn’t subtle. Pathetic.

As friends and family surged around everywhere, I vaguely remembering having a brilliant epiphany about my work that was crystal clear, made perfect sense and I suddenly knew exactly where it would go with absolute clarity. Within 5 minutes the timely arrival of more wine destroyed this brief, sparkling vision of the future and now I can’t remember any of it.

Mark my second cousin’s husband slightly criticized the show in his mild, cheddary sort of way, but I am willing to absolve him completely since he was emotionally blackmailed into buying one of my prints. My mother said I ought to have given it away but he works in the BBC and I sit on a couch blogging. It’s only fair game.

I was hardly expecting any to sell frankly but Uhr also coerced his dad into buying a print. God bless that Slovenian and his dad. Mark really set the ball rolling so I shall forgive every slight.

It was a really relaxed day compared to the hectic tension of the Private View. I had no family to babysit fortunately but Charis and Kardo kept disappearing, skulking around corners and then walked so slowly with their long English umbrellas to the Chandos I lost them again. Two days later I got a belated voice message from both Kardo & Charis begging for directions.

The college being as highly organized as it is, forgot to order drinks for the PTA day which the tutors only realized after getting hammered the evening before. They had to run around in the morning looking for a wholesaler but were forced to buy from various corner shops instead and drag them to the gallery in Foz’s granny trolley bag type thing.

The ex showed up for friends and family day late. I had invited one of the ex’s exs and she was nice enough to show up on time. The ex called me up cranky and irritable saying there were errands to do etc. 3 o clock became 4 o clock which in turn become 5.

I had humbly requested if it was on the way could I get some sleeves or large plastic bags to put my remaining prints in? Perhaps this made it later, perhaps it was my fault. It was well past 5 o clock when the ex finally showed up. The gallery shut an hour early so the show was missed but met us in the pub where the ex’s ex, Kardo & Charis (both looking very mafioso and Italian which is odd since one is an Iraqi, the other a Greek), Foz (with his granny stroller), Fernanda (in her best ‘good-girl’ outfit), Dan & Ruth and I were continuing the afternoons boozing.

For the past few weeks all my posts have ended with

“….and then we all went to the pub.”

It is both a sign of poor writing on my part and an indication that we are creatures of habits, us illustrators. (See how I generalize with such confidence? It’s so MA darling).

I finally had a long semi drunken conversation with Dan and his lady Ruth and it was highly entertaining. It was about time after 2 years but at least on this occasion there was no yelling with regards to my DIY incompetence.

Ruth explains that she too would prefer it if the drawing/photography would start and stop 9-5. It’s the lack of attention she explains. I still can’t understand the problem though. If you’re sitting in the same room, sitting on the same couch, watching TV, doing exactly the same thing (i.e nothing) whats wrong with maybe doodling in a sketch book or working or just fiddling with something (anything).

I can’t just sit there and watch TV. Drawing relaxes me. What makes it any different for whatever relaxes someone else i.e cooking, doing your nails, reading?

I don’t know, it doesn’t matter anyway I suppose. I suspect that this sort of relationship problem will never go away (for me at least) unless I date my clone (I’m such a narcissist but we’d probably kill each other).

Owen’s very large Irish catholic family were there with his heavily pregnant house mate. As I’m sure anyone can predict, they hated my work. That made me more happy than I can tell you (they are clearly my target audience) but being a shameless coward I avoided a lynching by staying well out of sight.

I hid behind the table while this lady stood for nearly 5 minutes staring at this one particular drawing.

It is the most brilliant picture and a piece of amazing good luck.

Mexican just ready to board her grandpapa's Yatch on the south coast of France dahling. I love the little 'toilets' sign just above her head especially since she seems to avoid them at all costs

Mark mocking my lovely amazing brilliant fantastic super amazing work.

I said amazing twice but its only because I'm an MA artist now that I'm now allowed to be so full of it.

The Private View

 

The Private View

 

Had the exam board meeting at 2 o clock today (Just re-read this – What? I don’t remember any exam board! What have I written? – It is now Sunday the 24th of June) followed by the long-awaited Private View at 6 p.m.

Our ‘Big Day’ was discussed among the women purely in terms of shoes and clothes. Forget art darling, what the hell are you wearing?

At the very last-minute I had an absolutely ingenious idea to iron my skirt on the floor of my room. Being a first-rate nitwit I dropped the hot iron on the carpet and burned it slightly thus leaving the lovely residue of melted beige carpet on the iron which I then expertly placed on top of my black skirt.

Decided it would be an even better idea to then scrub carpet cleaner on my skirt with a loofah. To cut a long story short all the burning and panicked attempted mending fucked in no particular order:

1. My skirt
2. My carpet
3. My punctuality

Then decided to send a badly worded text message to both Georgina & Onnalin apologizing for my lateness and explaining my accident with the iron. I say badly worded because then everyone, including the external examiner, was concerned that with my past arson history I had somehow burned myself badly. Disillusioning them to the lamer truth was slightly embarrassing. I almost wish I had burned myself just to save face (I’d probably have enjoyed the sympathy).

The external examiner spoke to Ed, Alex and me in a little group. He was far easier than F&G. I found I spoke much more clearly about my content than I did at the assessment (again, what a dolt). The external examiner was very nice, very calm, lots of open ended questions. He also asked about the blog (which I made into a book since a lot of the rants were related to my drawings.)

Alex opened the first page of his portfolio (not being in the Show), showed nothing else and blamed everything on

“Not finding a subject I’m interested in.”

What a load of….

Anyway aside from Martyn (a gentlemen of great sense and discernment) everyone is beginning to take the stupid trite on my blog far too seriously.

Adam came up to me the other day and said in a vaguely threatening manner

“Hey! I was reading your blog the other day………..*pause for effect*…… and I WAS NOT CUDDLING THAT GIRL!! I WAS NOT!!”

Georgina shrieked at me like a harpy

“You wrote untrue things about me! I never used the stethoscope to eavesdrop on Foz’s crit with Alex!”

Just in case people assume it’s also the truth, I’d like to confirm that harpies are indeed fictional. Nor did G. shriek, she said everything in the politest, mildest way possible.

After being so wired for nearly 3 weeks we were getting slowly but surely smashed as the evening wore on. At 9 the Mall shut and all networking or selling prints was over (I sold nothing, nada, zilch *sob sniff sniff*) we went to the ICA to continue drinking.

Not only did this piece of shit excuse for a bar charge us £1.50 entry (what the fuck? It’s a fucking shitty bar, not even a good bar. A bloody average canteen). But clearly catering to all the stuffed old fogies that regularly haunt the ICA they had banned smoking early (what fucking nerve). Being a bunch of first-rate rimmers to boot we were also banned you from drinking outside.

So, either you smoke or you drink, but never both at the same time. Nothing infuriates me more than this type of stupid-ass fucking thumbs-up-their-arse rules. I hate nagging non-smokers. They piss me right off. Go fucking live in a vegan, non-dairy, celibate, organic hippie carbon free commune you healthy self-righteous fucks.

*deep breath*

Foz looked fairly sober to me so I was slightly taken aback when he went on a mildly disturbing anti-Foz spiel about when he’s reads the stuff he says in crits he thinks: I’m such a twat, what I say is so rubbish, ought to give up teaching all together, throw in the towel, I’m such a bastard, so harsh, I’m as subtle as an ax, everything I say is wrong, I’m just going to quit, too blunt, fucking sledge-hammer and all that self-critical nonsense. (basically a load of ‘Lisa’)

I really don’t know what more this man wants.

He had girls draped over him all night, sobbing and crying melodramatically in their low-cut, eye-level tops, cleavages collectively smothering him, while every now then, amongst the sea of heaving bosoms, his little head would bob into view, before going under once again.

“Foz we love you, we’ll miss you. Will you miss us? You’d better miss us! I bet you’ll forget us. Will you? Will you miss us? Sob sob sniff sniff boo hoo”

they all wailed in unison.

Roderick stands on the edge of this little circle, ignored. He shakes his head and calls us a bunch of groupies (his jealousy is transparent).

If all of this doesn’t validate Foz’s teaching skills I really don’t know what will. I’m so definitely becoming a tutor if it’s the last thing I do.

The mood swung from fairly festive to downright maudlin. All the mauling and whirlwind emotions seem to leave Foz semi-suicidal, sitting at a table with his head in his hands. So I go out for a cigarette hoping to alleviate, at the very least, my mood.

While Fernanda is in the midst of a flood of tears on Foz’s shoulder’s, she suddenly turns, punches me in the arm and yells

“You never fucking cry! You’re a fucking stone cold bitch woman!”

I was trying very hard not to look at all this hideous display of tears.

“Look to the left, look to the right, on the floor. Think of Venice yes I’m in Venice la la la tra la la I’m on a gondola, we’re sailing along, moonlit sky….”

before Fernanda yanked me out of my emotional avoidance.

I rather resent all the crying these days, it dampens the atmosphere every time. Why can’t these women just be emotionally repressed and in denial like the rest of us stone cold bitches?

I join Amalia outside for a smoke. The bouncer refuses to let her back in because she took her drink outside. Amalia decides to battle it out against the brutish 6ft, 3 tonne, female giantess.

“How can I be deeeeenied entrrrrrry for a fucking drrink? It was my friends drink out of the bottal and eet was’nt even from in this stupid fucking bar okaaay?. Eets rrrridikulus. Eets ridikulus! Well I’m not going to move frrrom herrre so why don’t you jaaaast call the police then. No, I’m not going. You think you caaan physically rrrremove me? You can’t no you can’t because I’m not going okaaaay?”

Eoghan (or Owen) a 6 ft Irishman tries reasoning with the bouncer, who responds with

“If you don’t move out of my way, I will physically remove you and then I’m going to physically remove her, call the police and have her charged with drunk & disorderly conduct and trespassing ok?”

Eoghan scampers off tail between his legs. I coax Amalia out of getting her knee-caps broken and she goes outside still grumbling angrily

“Eets fucking ridikulus! What the fuck? I mean, what a fucking beeetch!”

Gary came back suddenly like a hero, riding in (I’m certain) to save Foz before all his female students throttle him with love. He whisked Foz away on to the back of his bold stallion (mates car) and off they went, into the dark night.

We all part ways and I walk down to the bus stop at Trafalgar square, stale wine and the taste of fags lining the roof of my mouth and I suddenly feel immensely depressed about everything.

The Assessment

Self-absorbed post (when are they not?). Mostly about my own assessment and generally written for my benefit. I therefore strongly advise you to skip.

Just returned from my assessment at the Mall with Foz and Gary feeling dazed, breathless and slightly giddy.

I get out in a fog at Brixton, walk across to the other platform and sit on the train waiting expectantly. I’m surprised to find myself home already, I can’t recall changing tubes at Stockwell at all. I wander out in an absent-minded way, playing things over and over in my head. Sainsbury’s was a distant dream of buying random food I now won’t eat.

Foz & Gary both questioned me inside out and I tried to be as honest as possible without being self-effacing. There is a fine line that I can’t seem to locate between self-deprecating, fake modesty, overly critical, overly confident and being too cocky.

I have no idea how well or badly I did. I might have been so unclear and rambling I was none of the above. I did go off on a rant about hijabs at one point (god knows why).

Gary asks me if I think I try to see both sides of the argument.

“Yes.”

I say, I can. Obviously I’m biased towards my own views, but can still understand what the other sides argument is. (I just don’t agree with it)

They just came at me again and again, first Gary’s upper cut from the left, then Foz with a half nelson from the right both working together like Mexican wrestling tag team. I felt quite battered by the end of it.

With Foz at least, its all laid out there on the table - This is what I think, I like this, I hate that. He can’t really disguise his feelings well. It all shows on his face and in his eyes. Now perhaps if he was a thief, he’d probably be the kind of guy who would forget to wear a ski mask and mug you by jumping out in front of you in the middle of the afternoon. The police would be on to him like a shot.

Gary on the other hand is a sly fellow. You can never tell exactly what he’s thinking, there is this murky gray area within his opinion. Before you know it he’s sneaked up behind you and clonked you round the back of your head. He might say something which (being a thick head like me) takes some time to digest, and then it dawns on you….

“Wait a minute…he wasn’t being complimentary…. he was saying you’re rubbish!”

He would be the kind of mugger to grab you from behind in a dark alley, take your bag, purse/wallet, phone, ipod and then frog march you to the nearest cash point and empty your bank account. Strong words I know, but they both grilled me like a bitch.

I kept standing up or kneeling and doing everything but sitting in my appointed chair. Foz kept reminding me like I was a naughty school child. Sit still stupid, and stop fidgeting.

“You always talk about the aesthetic but do you feel that you think about your content enough?”

‘Enough’ is the word that really gets me. How do you define ‘enough’?

I got the feeling that they think I don’t consider my content enough.

And yes I think about content a great deal, but for me, on my MA colour and practicalities like reducing time it takes to finish a piece to satisfaction have been much more of a struggle. It was about more than just content.

A recurring theme I’ve noticed over the last 5 years in art school is the whole hoo-hah about the importance of content.

Content and good ideas are valuable assets but nothing is so easily destroyed as a great idea badly presented. There is always this thing in art colleges, and Camberwell (my old college) in particular, where they say

“We’re not here to teach you to draw, it’s about pushing your content and your ideas”

One of the major problems I have is the notion that substance is more important than how it’s represented. I think, personally, that you can’t separate technical development and content development. They work in tandem; sometimes one gains more priority, sometimes another.

The impression I’ve consistently got from Gary (and not just today) is that content is and always must be the priority.

But my agenda has to include both. If not equally then 60% aesthetic 40% content. Disagree with this as you will philosophers, dissertation lovers and information designers. I find nothing is so dull as interesting information plotted out on a tedious graph. (come to the our show and you’ll see what I mean)

Unfortunately I never said any of this. I have a persistent and malignant case of esprit de l’escalier. It’s damn annoying.

Worst question by far was right at the end of the CIA interrogation:

“What is it that you’ve mastered?”

Foz demands to know. I say ‘the worst question’ for a 2 reasons:

1. My answer could have been better (for a start)
I’m worn down by now so I just said ‘Colour.’ Colour is the thing that’s dramatically changed for me the most.
The thing I had to really get my head around and thing I struggled with and still struggle with the most. But it’s certainly not the only thing.
Sadly, none of this is discussed. Since they seem to be hurrying me out, I just mention colour.

“Is that enough?”

they ask frighteningly.

“No..”

I mutter, rattling off something else that I can’t recall.

There was something about being self-critical, writing the blog making me more coherent, sharper, remembering things better, which is clearly all rubbish because right now for the life of me I can’t remember half the things I was spouting.

2. The second reason why it was the worst question was because of the question itself.

‘What are you trying to master?’ and ‘What have you mastered?’ are two completely different questions that dictate two completely different answers.

‘What are you trying to master?’ is a good question. It suggests you’re trying to work something out, constantly moving towards a goal.

‘What have you mastered?’ suggests finality. It’s a bit poncy and meaningless. What does the word ‘master’ mean anyway?

To me it means you’ve done all that can be done, know all that you can know about a subject or technique and are at the top of your game. It implies others will come to you, humbly begging to be graciously allowed to apprentice under your phenomenal tutelage. (if only)

I’m bloody 25 I can’t possible have mastered anything and even at 45 can you say in all honesty (unless you’re an arrogant prick) that you have completely mastered any one thing? It’s always in flux (I’m fairly sure F&G will heartily disagree…or maybe not fuck knows. My brain is fried.)

Now an exception would be Yoda, he certainly was a Jedi master, but

a. He is 900 years old
b. He’s fucking fictional

(Foz disagrees, He’s not fictional, no he’s not, Yoda is real, he asserts. I get the feeling that I must at all cost, not shatter this fragile belief.)

Unfortunately I didn’t say any of this either. God I’m such a dolt.

Show Set Up – Day 2

Fernanda so pleasant, so innocent, so sweet. A regular Miss goody-goody-two-shoes. Notice the skull and cross-bones broach on her braces, like the hood of a cobra, a subtle warning sign

As a group of illustrators, we seldom eat any real food but survive solely on gossip.

As I assist Georgina in sticking her badges down on her much agonized over acrylic, we send Martyn out on a fact-finding mission to dig up juice on what’s going on around the gallery. Martyn being an inveterate gossip himself is only too happy to oblige.

I am happy to report that as per Martyn’s fact-finding, I am not the only clutz in our class.

Foz rushes along down a newly constructed corridor, kicks Athier’s bespoke cut, acrylic sheet and cracks it instantly. I haven’t heard any reports of tears or a nervous breakdown from Athier but what was really ironic is that:

It’s the day before the big show, someone’s final art work gets smashed, you might imagine that sympathy would abound for the poor bastard, right?

Wrong.

I get called every abusive name, twat, stupid idiot, general hatred for spilling coffee (and well deserved no doubt).

Foz gets

“Oh my god!”

Not poor Athier as you might expect but,

“Poor Foz he must feel so guilty. I feel really bad for him”

“Oh shit! Poor Foz that’s terrible”

and so on.

Fucking hell.

The much discussed smashed acrylic

Acrylic Close up

Final Work

Foz, at first Guilty...

Then looking delighted as he tells us about it

When I first heard this brilliant piece of information for 30 secs I thought maybe Foz kicked it out of pure rage. Maybe Athier pissed him off who can say?

Fernanda wages her wall space war, manages to win it and then cordoned off the entire area with masking tape. Athier returns from his hunt for last-minute replacement acrylic and is told he can’t get to his 2 meter space because the Pink Princess has decreed that it will and must be so.

He is reasonably cranky and annoyed. Accuses her of being inconsiderate, uncaring, not giving a fuck.

She responds in true Firecracker fashion by telling him;
- Yes she is inconsiderate so what? Fuck off
- And no she doesn’t fucking care
- Why should I fucking care about you, twat
- And lastly fuck off again (for good measure and a parting shot)

Do you remember that time when you and your sibling were perhaps on a long and tedious road trip that your parents insanely thought would be both educational and fun? (that’s what happens when you do too many drugs when you’re young: you grow up, shit out some babies and are deluded into thinking road trips are hilarious with children)

You & your sibling make invisible boundaries across the car seat. You stick one finger across the imaginary border line and shriek loudly

“Nyeh nyeh loooooo-ook what I’m doooo-ing! I’m on your siii-iiide”.

Your sibling maturely responds with

“Stay on your side or I’m telling! Moooo-ooom tell her she’s crossing my line. Stop it!! MOOOOO-OOOM!! DAAAAD! Tell her!!”

That’s pretty much what ensued in Athier and the Mexican’s little ‘show-down’. Athier started to remove Fernanda’s masking tape border purely to piss her off (and it worked like Viagra). The words in the previous paragraph only need to be marginally altered for it to sound exactly like what happened (chuck in a few swear words for absolute authenticity).

“What the fuck do you think your doing?? Don’t fucking touch my tape! I’m telling!! Stop it!! Foooooo-oooooooz! He’s removing my tape!! FOOOOOOOOOZ!! GAAAARRRRY Tell Athier!! He’s moving my tape! YOU TWAT!! I’M TELLING FOZ”

My own, personal creative use of masking tape.

Shortly after, Gary is running along the corridor and managed to kick Athier’s new acrylic in exactly the same place as where Foz cracked the old one. Gary is luckier than Foz and this time nothing happens. (I forget to say lucky Athier too).

Gary orders Camille’s plinth to be whittled down by 7 inches without informing her. She finds out and is livid but I can’t really tell because she was mostly swearing in French (tres sexie).

Anna and I finish touching up our 3 meters and then having nothing to do run around looking for things to paint at random. Onnalin enlists us to help paint her plinths, commands us to do so-and-so, paint here paint there and then shrewdly disappears leaving us to do all of it.

The Firecracker hanging over a wall. She is only 3 foot 4 inches tall

The most important thing when curating a show. White white white paint

Lisa brings over a buddy from Camberwell (who I vaguely recall heckling a lecturer), to assist her. Lisa and her assistant smash another one of her frames and have to go replace it (for the 3rd time).

The ghost of Alex’s portfolio is still lying around but is largely forgotten by all.

Over lunch we sit outside, the designers on one section of the pavement, the illustrators on another. There is no breaching the great divide between design and illustration.

The great divide down the pavement

Illustrators one side, designers the other. Never the twain shall meet

Fernanda & Chris making no eye contact with the designers

Gay love in bloom

So Sweet

Dan on the right, who in the two years I’ve been at college has only said to me:

“You can’t cut your frame backing with a scalpel towards you!! You’ll slice off your fingers!! Use a ruler!! I though Foz was joking when he told me about the illustrators DIY skills!!”

The gallery is massively cramped with the 87 students the course admitted. What with the endless corridors of frames and design & type cubicles it becomes a gigantic convention hall. I’m expecting at any moment someone to jump out from behind one of the walls and offer me a brochure on a cut price holiday to Tenerife.

The Convention

Chaos

Sales women

Anna laying out her portfolio

Roderick, ever the diplomat suggests that although Anna and my sketch books are overlapping on the over crowded table there’s no need to make a fuss, it doesn’t matter we can just keep the books closed for the show.

Georgina is clutching her head in a sudden panic attack. Anna and I wisely ignore all of Roderick’s unhelpful suggestions, placate Georgina while Gary restores the peace by moving Mike and co. up onto the next table.

Onnalin's polite notices to us all

Onnalin's polite notices to us all

Some of the designers with truly anal precision had printed out accurate, half inch scale models of their space size and pictures as a pre-layout layout.

The illustrators at the other end of the spectrum, just got Roderick, Gary, Foz and Dave to hold up 4 heavy frames and yell out

“Slightly too much to the left…. more to the left now, ok to the right, less right, little more to the left, no too much too much!! Ok hold it there…….hmmmm we don’t think that works lets switch the frames around again…”

…..and repeat.

The ever prepared, designers and mini models of their work

The ever prepared, designers and mini models of their work

Simeon runs off to view the Queen walking down the street (or whatever) and simultaneously has a nose bleed from all the patriotic emotion.

Martyn sympathetically documents it all by taking a picture of toilet paper up Simeon’s nose instead of assisting staunching it.

Picture courtesy of Martyn.

Martyn and I go around checking out the rest of the course’s work and get depressed (at least I do while Martyn giggles like a loon) we (I) point at stuff we (I) like and moan

“That’s fucking depressing I hate them.”

At the end of the day we all head off to the pub (it’s an art school tradition).

At long last we go to the Chandos. What a weird name for a pub

Foz, Can't remember & Roderick

We seem to be the only group that goes out drinking quite as much. As we stand outside The Mall bantering, we loudly invite the designers to join us. They stand there and just look at us, not deigning to accept our kind offer. See? this is why we sit on separate pavements at lunchtime.

After a few rounds the exhausted tutors dragged themselves off home to their wives and babies leaving us to talk about the usual filth that we always get around to after 11pm, or before 11pm or before 11am even.

Fernanda and Amalia crucify me and my bad taste in declaring the girl in the beautiful frock and allegedly fake tan, who mostly seems to stand around looking lovely, is actually very pretty. She is a fucking broomstick they say, fucking fake yellow tan broom stick (What vicious women. She is damn pretty anyway I say).

Ed has a nice little dig at me about Simeon and my coffee. He claims it a case of karmic retribution that Athier’s work was fucked by Foz since he had split emulsion over Alex’s work in the studio (Ed is oh so subtly hinting that karmic revenge on Simeon’s behalf is heading my way).

Compelling as his argument was, I argue (to defend myself more than Athier) that if you really were concerned about what happened to your work, you wouldn’t dump it on the floor to be trampled on for over a week.

Amalia and Fernanda have a heated debate with us over amateur verses regular porn. Amateur porn is an absolute outrage they say. They want professionals they say no fucking amateurs for them! They want good camera angles not a shot of some fucking flower vase or a fridge in the background. No out of focus nipple they say!! We are idiots to even suggest it!

Martyn disagrees entirely saying he loves nothing more than seeing a naked German woman in a forest with a big hat on her head pissing into a handbag (this is no amateur porn I’ve ever seen)

The pub staff start turning off the lights, then moving the chairs, then lastly sweeping up. When all hint dropping fails we are finally told to leg it and part amicably (mostly) in various directions heading for home.

Show Set Up – Day 1

I had a really rotten weekend. I wasted all Saturday by having a massive hangover, which as light weight drinker is an unusual and unpleasant thing. Sunday I spent quarreling and sulking in Angel park while drinking a small pink zinfandel straight out of the bottle like an old wino.

Monday was the big show set up day. Vans had to be loaded and unloaded and worst of all, a 6:00am wake up to be at college by 7:30 sharp. I got into bed by 8 in the evening on the Sunday but watched too much Gordon Ramsay while drooling all over my duvet, thus sleeping later than I ought to. Had horrible shifting dreams all night and woke up at 5:45am to the lovely early morning bird song and warblings of large vans and speeding cars on Brixton Hill.

I immediately fired off a cranky and irate text message and promptly felt better.

We arrived at Catton Street only to be shunted off to Mall within 10 minutes by Dan. We loafed around at the Mall for half and hour waiting to unload the vans.

Unloading the vans was difficult for a weakling like me, especially the massive walls that we needed to erect later that morning.

Everyone was dressed in their skankiest, grubbiest clothes. Onnalin was wearing shorts, torn tights and a bunch of holes held together by a T-shirt that discreetly covered her bra.

There was a very pretty, skinny, blond girl that I noticed (of course) who was wearing the whitest cleanest, most beautiful, little frock, over a lovely pair of leggings paired cute matching ballet shoes. At the pub later that day, naturally we tore her apart, and her (allegedly) fake tan. Fernanda and Amalia angrily insisted it wasn’t a real tan. I couldn’t tell.

Camille lifting heavy boards.

Simeon & Adam waiting for Camille to finish unloading all the vans while I stand around taking silly pictures.

In addition to Mike & Simeon Siamese, another aspect of the freak show that are the illustrators:

Ring master Adam

Gary with a strange symbiotic growth sprouting from his shoulder.

Ed 'Gang-bang' Allen the strong man.

Madame Bruna, Mistress Georgina & Holy Marrow: The Fortune Teller, The Prophesier and the Circus soothsayer.

Onnalin & Martyn proudly show off their combined non-existent muscles.

Gary's Shorts

Gary's Shorts. Its art

Onnalin & Fernanda: The troupe's witches

Witches. Onnalin's outfit of a thousand holes.

We started setting up some of the walls without having a clue how to do it. Foz like any good, right-brained illustrator was as clueless as his students. Dan mocked us as we begged him for help. Most of the time was spent just watching people screw in bolts while you waited around holding a big board and yawning.

Alex’s portfolio was lying around like a ghost while he was nowhere to be seen. Fernanda says to me

“Oh my god is that Alex’s? Lets go through it no?”

No, I say and she is immediately annoyed that I dare contradict her royal princessness. The photographers are playing a truly excellent selection of Bob Marley which makes me feel like I’m at a hippie picnic.

Foz dashes around in a sweaty blur, putting up frames with Gary as cool as ever, in tow pacing behind him. Roderick and Dave were helping various other people.

Simeon giving me evils.

Setting up the show in chaos.

 

The sequence says it all really. The last one is where we seem to be 1 foot shorter than we planned. Nice.

 

Amalia's very manly bright pink tool kit.

They made her eyes disappear.

By 4pm I had mostly finished for that day and then we were just waiting around (moral support I guess) for the burly, sweaty men (very sexy) who were doing all the heavy lifting and drilling.

The last one looks like Dave is about to drill Gary's behind.

Mike: Is that leveled?

Me: Are we done yet? I'm hungry

Georgina: In a pin nightmare

At about 5 o clock Geoff came running by reporting we needed to leave since there was a group of oldies who had a life drawing class. The aged were gritting their dentures in rage such an imposition, but Foz had managed to throw a wonderful strop with the gallery manager insisting that if he doesn’t let us stay till 9 there won’t be a show by Thursday.

The designers were furious,

“Why are the illustrators getting to stay??”

Someone asked me, extremely annoyed. Because we’re so special that’s why ha ha hah! Stupid designers and their Indesign skills and their great job prospects.

Rumor had it that the shy life model was sobbing in the ladies at the humiliation of having to strip down in front of men younger and more virile than 80.

We weren’t allowed either to drill or talk loudly in case the shock from the noise gave all the elderly sudden strokes. Apparently you need pin drop silence to be able to draw, I don’t know why, life drawing isn’t exactly brain surgery. I’d love to have taken them to Roderick’s life drawing, 3 movies running, one really weird one with loud beeping noises in a loop. They’d all have had group convulsions I’m sure.

Foz had instructed Anna to make sure Georgina stays calm and doesn’t panic. Anna doesn’t quite manage to succeed so Georgina has a mental meltdown over pinning up her prints. Distraught, she begs Gary

“Help me, please can you help me?”.

“Ooooooh help you??”

Gary replies gleefully and then does a little dance. Georgina is not amused in the slightest.

More Circus acts getting bored: Edamma : The 4 legged, 4 armed bearded lady.

More Circus acts getting bored: Edamma : The 4 legged, 4 armed bearded lady.

Amalia Woman of rubber: India, latex & silicone

At 9 o clock we finally and thankfully head of to the pub. We are all hungry enough to eat our own arms.

After the tutors leave Fernanda, Ed, Martyn, Mike and I get into a furious impassioned debate about what constitutes ‘MAness’. According to Fer & Ed being even slightly indecisive dismisses you off the ‘MAness’ list. You must also be very committed to the group.

I contest that this is highly contestable. Being decisive is great but not all important (I believe) neither is group devotion. Ed and Fernanda start prepping for a war over the space on Day 2. They have planned a devious coup to oust out either Athier or Lisa (or both) from the space. As per their list neither are ‘MAness’ worthy.

Obviously I am looking forward to tomorrow. It’s bound to be highly entertaining.

Martyn doesn’t feel like heading back to his beloved Bedford so he stays over on the Ikea folding bed in my living room where we both eat Rustlers and tomatoes for a late dinner.

I stay up till 3 reprinting double page spreads in my portfolio because Foz made me. The older ones had a 1cm margin where the prints overlapped. Damn. I had hoped it wasn’t that noticeable but Foz was adamant they would annoy him (and we can’t have that.)

It would be a breeze reprinting if I could master the knack of making the stupid Epsom reject my posh thick printing paper less.

Printers are so bloody temperamental.

Things to do before the show

Monday

• Before have a list to people to invite! (Do it now you lazy fuck!)
• Printout form for A5 postcards (done)
• Return library books (done)
• Pick up silkscreen prints (done)

Tuesday

• Cooker Hood to need fixing, call nick handyman and get quote. (do it bitch!)
• Buy A4 portfolio (black or pink or green? I love the green but maybe that’s too distracting, maybe just black?)
  for sketch work to display at the show, (done, bought brown)
• Buy Inkjet Cartridge R240 from (Cass Art Angel)
• Buy another frame Habitat (Regent Street)
• Layout Book to sell, calculate pages + cover and Back
• Prepare Tiff for A2 print of Tea Party to sell

Wednesday

• Buy 2 packs bockinford/watercolour paper (but not too thick), ink jet paper from John Purcell (Stockwell)
  (done bought from cass art 9)
• Cut A3 pack of paper from JP (College)
• Frame work for crit (College)
• Buy 6 mirror plates (Tool shop, College)
• Cull Mailout list, do research 20-30 people? (do it on Tuesday do it now!!!)
• SEND MAIL OUT INVITES TO JOYCE!!!

Thursday

• Crit all day

Saturday

• Print out 3 books for the show on , 1 for display 2 to sell
• Covers? Same as website I think. Clean
• Borrow R’s drill set and screwdriver: Use for mirror frames and also to bind your books? or get Michelle to stitch it? or call City for a quote for 5 books. Maybe just loose leaf set in a plastic pack?

Monday

• Get Ro to print 1 book,
• Call City Book Binders to Bind 2 books?

Hanging Crit Sequel

Yesterday we had a little meeting on how much space we get in the show determined by last weeks hanging crit.

On one hand Foz said he dreaded this time of year because people tend to get paranoid and start reading into things too much (for example if someone gets more space in the show and someone else gets less.)

Unfortunately when he was later backed into an uncomfortable corner by an angry and overly emotional student he said quite frankly

“Well you’ve only got 2 meters instead of 3 because I don’t think you have enough work to put in the show”

So…..what shall I say? I feel paranoid already

Onnalin and Georgina accuse me of taking pleasure in other peoples misery.

I find this unfair in the extreme (partially true but still unfair). I do not consider getting stroppy about having 2 meters of space in the show as opposed to 3, reasonable grounds for ‘misery’.

Cancer is misery or perhaps losing someone you love (like a dog) but amateur dramatic were designed to be mocked. Of course this includes me missing my flight and burning down the kitchen. I was highly melodramatic at the time but in retrospect it was hugely funny, therefore logically I do not see why others should be spared.

I reminded Gerogina and Onnalin that many crits ago we (especially us 3+ Foz) all sort of made someone cry. Georgina looked absolutely aghast with horror,

“We made her cry?? No no! What are you saying??!! No I didn’t oh my god!!”

Now that was funny.

Hanging Crit

1 of 120 postcards I screen printed like a fucking dynamo.

This does not imply any of the illustrators are growing suicidal.

No.

(For some it might be true, but still. No.)

It’s about hanging up your work in the gallery space, your plans for it, your space requirements, frames etc.

Foz had previously threatened the class that if we didn’t give him the right dimensions/or layout plans he just wouldn’t bother to crit the space/the body of work on display. If nothing else that goaded me into staying late last night and bashing my head in.

So it was particularly infuriating when a bunch of people seemed to have not bothered or were just being all fucking wishy-washy and still got a crit (Foz is a very forgiving master)……a very very lengthy crit. A crit of nearly ceaseless yawning, that lasted well past 8:30, during which for the last hour and a half I couldn’t stop gritting my teeth.

Although not going through with a threat does seems to devalue any future threats I suppose being forgiving is a good thing. Well actually, it is a good thing but thats not what bothers me. (As always, I shall happily discuss what bothers me later.)

At some point I had visions of hurling myself at particularly time-consuming students and throttling them. Fucks sake man. 6 and a half hours in a crit! You spend less time waiting for a Visa! For fucks sake.

* Beware!! Rant to follow *

I have some serious problems with this egg-timer business. The first 3 people and the last 3 people to go get a raw deal. They get 10 minutes flat and that’s it and the last 3 people don’t even get the same level of energy and attention because by then everyone is exhausted.

By the middle Foz or Gary’s strictness with the timer slips leaving the door wide open for some people who then fucking talk and talk and fucking talk some more but add absolutely nothing to the conversation.

I have no objection to extensive feedback but mostly time is just wasted by some people waffling on and on and saying nothing.

Why does anyone need 20 minutes to talk anyway? You’re not saying anything that can’t be condensed into 2 minutes. At least let people give you feedback properly and stop being so fucking vague. I don’t see why other people have to suffer for a wafflers inability to be concise or clear.

Perhaps you might think I’m being a bit mean or unfair? But this is the final term, on the second year of a communication course. There is no justifiable ground to be charitable at all for poor communication. It’s equally unfair to the people who go first or last.

* End of rant *

By the end of the hanging crit I did want to hang some people. The thought of the pub was the only thing that kept me driven. God bless alcohol.

Martyn, Georgina and Ed (who were the last 3) get no real attention from anyone except Foz and Gary who have an amazing unwavering focus. My teeth on the other hand, have been ground down to stubs.

Highlights of the day:

Alex:
Sigh. Alex makes me cringe. I know he’s going to get a bollocking every time, and every time he doesn’t nothing to prevent it. His entire attitude is one of a surly teenager.

I bet he’ll go on to write a book about how he went to St. Martins and everyone in his class was stuck up and he was like, ‘the outsider maaan’ and like, nobody ‘got him’ man. Whats there to fucking get? He just doesn’t seem to give a shit. He hasn’t for a while.

Gary was severe in his disapproval

“…. and personally I would like you to be in the show but your attitude seems to suggest you don’t really care, and if you don’t care then I’d say you’re just not going in the show…..because its everybody’s show… and if the work isn’t good enough it’s not fair to everybody else……I don’t know that’s just me …what does everybody else think?”

We all nod and murmur.

(For Gary that was pretty damn harsh)

Chris:

Foz goes on to ask,

“I think this large drawing looks a lot like a photocopy Chris…”

Chris replies

“but it is a photocopy Foz”

You know those cartons where the guy whips out a big frying pan and whacks himself on the head? That was Foz.

Tiphane:

Kept saying ‘shiiith’ instead of ‘sheet’ in her beautiful French accent and 1/8 of the class giggled quietly like nitwits (including me)

Tiphane is happily oblivious to such juvenile behavior.

PS – The studio has grown more and more like a tip and I can no longer give any credit to Ed alone for this.

I’d like to say I remembered more but all the yawning distracted me entirely.

Tuesday core time

Geoff really worries me. I feel like he’s constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Becky politely asked him how he was and he said

“Oh oh uhm not so good uhm my head’s in a bit of a muddle this time of year, yes so I have to say Geoff no…mumble mumble… “

and then shuffled off nervously.

I have no idea what he says half the time, his sentences occasionally trail off into that PG Wodehouse, very english-english gibberish if you know what I mean.

We were passed around the itinerary for the ICA show as well as the layout plans for our allotted spaces.

He seemed extremely anxious and twitchy as he read out the very extensive and comprehensive list of things to do, occasionally turning back towards Andy and the other tutors as if for encouragement. He continued to twitch and rock back and forth in a slightly autistic way. It was mildly disturbing since last years course leader was a real ball breaker kind of woman.

Then Andy stepped up to take over. Much more the man in control. He stands straight and gives orders with a certain authority that overshadows Geoff entirely.

On the other hand Geoff managed to get the dean to fund our show so we no longer have to shell out a 100 quid of our student bank pittance. (Which is an incredible feat really the entire bill for the ICA venue is £10,000)

After Core time Andy came to the Illustration studio to be faced with my drawing of a woman very graphically giving birth. I got the feeling he wanted to turn it over.

Fernanda began to rattle off a list of demands

“Well, what I neeed for the show is a space where I can hang theese big acrylic prints I maaade and I waant them to be one in front of each other like that and you can see and theeen I want them hanging from the ceiling like that but with some space in front of them like thaat…”

“….yesss ok well theeeen I want another thing to hang my photographs….”

Andy rubs his forehead

“and theeeen I want to built this acrylic coffin light box and the floor so you walk around it and look down into it and you can see the things and then…..”

Andy rubs his forehead some more.

Onnalin doesn’t get to see Andy immediately and throws a small tantrum, yelling and stamping her feet at Martyn, then flopping onto a chair and pouting.

Martyn being entirely an unsympathetic man mocks her by imitating her foot stamping and sulking.

Being entirely unsympathetic ourselves, we all laugh