The Ivy on Thursday

Lecture by Simon Stern, the ‘master’ of copy right law, all day in the photography dungeon.

By about 4 o clock my eyes had glazed over and all attempts at concentration had flown out the door. Chris was doodling two faces in his note-book, Foz was doodling a naked woman with very hairy breasts (setting the standard). It was all very nostalgic, like being back in school again.

The lecture was excellent. Every time Mr. Stern dropped his cane he would yell loudly, “FUCK!” or “BUGGER!”. We finally finished at 4:30 and once Simon Stern was far away we all stand around admiring Foz’s scribbles of hairy breasts.

Yes it was a fine lecture, but I’m not going to talk about it. This post is entirely an excuse to gossip about the filthy things we were discussing in the pub.

We attend the Jigsaw photography mini exhibition in the dungeon. It wasn’t hugely impressive but free beer is a wonderful lure. The ‘artwork’ is largely ignored except by occasionally saying,

“Why the fuck did that one win?”

We are thrown out eventually and go to the Ivy to continue. Fer gives me a pill which combined with the beer makes me talk very fast for about 10 minutes but by the time we get tot the pub I’m feeling quite high and serene.

“Anna…”

I say,

“I’m feeling quite high.”

and Anna laughs at me.

Luckily in about 15 minutes all of this wears off and I’m relatively sober again.

Lord Foster Vader has finally seduced Dan (photography tutor) to the dark side. Dan has abandoned all his old photo buddies so that he can snuggle up next to Foz in the pub (so cute).

There is great strength in the power of the dark side (illustration). Young Dan has yet much to learn.

Some first years nearby try talking to Foz at some point and Fernanda is immediately green with jealousy that for one moment his attention is taken from us (her).

“Why are they talking to him! Its our year! We are graduating! I’m going to tell them…..”

“What do you mean no?? Don’t tell me no!! You are pissing me off! I’m telling them….”

“HEY YOU! THIS IS OUR TUTOR… HE’S OURS!! YOU CAN”T TALK TO HIM. HE’S OURS!”

“NO. NO! WE ARE GRADUATING UNTIL THEN YOU CANT TALK TO HIM OK?”

“NO. NO! DON’T YOU TALK TO HIM!!”

…all the while keep a vice like grip around his shoulders. He looked slightly bashful and embarrassed. He’s going to have to teach those first years in a few months and they won’t be too happy about all the previous territorial pissing around him.

Anna and Georgina and I giggle and try to pretend we don’t really know Fer, we just always happen to be seated on the same table. Purely coincidental. (Although, I secretly think its adorable the way she’s so possessive and passionate about Foz. That aside, she is fucking mental.)

Foz tries to escape Fernanda by jumping over the bench but knocks over a couple of glasses that shatter predictably. Everyone applauds. Foz blushes like a little girl.

Since the course is now over I have not the slightest care for any sense of restraint. I mentioned a passing thought that had occurred to me during a bored and sexually frustrated moment: I claimed (and still claim) that Geoff is so bumbling, so helpless, so completely loony that I’m convinced it’s a merely an elaborate facade masking the soul of a sexual dynamo.

Anna and Fernanda yell at me for such a blasphemy. Geoff?? No, no not Geoff! (Geoff is about 70 and bananas)

Anna says with her fingers pressing her temples,

“Janine I always thought you were mad but mostly made sense…I’ve lost all respect for you now…Geoff? Seriously not Geoff???”

“Noooooooo oh my god it’s just so sick, noooooooooooo you don’t underrrrrstand its sick! Tutors cant be sexual they are like gods! (tutors are gods?? and she calls me sick) It’s so wrong you are sick Janeeeeen oh mah god! Noooooo You don’t understand I’m going to need so much therapy what are you saying? Who’s going to pay for my therapy woman??“

This leads into everyone discussing their sexual fantasies and I’m sure once the pub staff threw us out and started to clear up 2-3 hours later, all our seats were rather moist. (ew)

Eoughan announces that his ultimate fantasy is Val throwing him down on the bed, having her wicked way with him (Val doesn’t like him at all so this makes it even better) as Geoff bangs away on the door saying “Please, please just let me in the office, Janine is right behind me!!”. Foz would be hiding under the bed taking notes while Dan moans in the next room “I can’t sleep… you guys are making so much noise…whine whine”

Hats off to Eoghan, that fantasy will be etched into my mind for all time. I’m certain his Catholic god will send him straight down to the fiery brimstone of hell for that.

Dan and Foz start telling us about how they stroke each other thighs during long, tedious course committee meetings. They’ve become lovers they say, Foz lounging on the bench in a macho, casual way while Dan gazes at him adoringly (it’s true, he really was).

This gay joke runs through our entire evening in the pub with Foz looking very smug about it (and his new toy boy acquisition). I must admit, there’s something I really enjoy about 2 straight men acting supremely gay. It’s just so naughty.

Fernanda will never again be able to think of the tutors in a wholesome, god like way ever again and neither will I.

The conversation really goes further downhill from here. Should I type any more of it I’m afraid that the keyboard and certain body parts might erupt in flames.

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.

7

Our last crit tomorrow. *boo hoo sob wah wail cry cry sniff sniff snerk I’m so sad*

I don wannnna leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeavve waaaaaaah boo hoo the real world SUCKS!

7 days and counting.

Shit!!

I have so many things to do!

I finished the purple drawing. Need to layout my book in two separate formats for tomorrow.

After 3 days of burning heat it is now freezing cold. Climate change does worry me a bit.

I need to print 3, A3′s on my own paper of the Tea Party maybe Purple and Pool.

I told the 6th floor print technician ages ago that his print paper was rubbish not realizing he ran the entire print unit. He said he was quite hurt by that. I hastily tried to retract my statement but I couldn’t.

Sadly it is true. His paper quality isn’t very good. I want heavy weight large prints and less than 200 just doesn’t cut it. (I say as I pretend to be Sir Alan Sugar)

I praise the Voice of Bedford for leaving such excellent comments.
I shame the Voice of Leo for harassing and intimidating people who leave comments by insulting them.

 

Last Wednesday: The End of Term Bash

Camille’s party location was a strange combination of being a fairly rundown joint in the middle of a gritty street in Shoreditch, abandoned sofas littering the stairs, cracked and peeling paint everywhere, exposed wiring, dim light-bulbs (you get the idea) and yet perversely, had a doorman with a guest-list at the entrance and this huge studio apartment on the 4th floor.

There were more contradictions, half the guests seemed to be art students the other half bankers. There was a strict divide of course between both camps. Most art students hate people with money. You would imagine we’d be smart enough to hook up with someone with a little dosh, but no, we find equally poverty-stricken, moronically idealistic DJ’s, musicians, painters, writers, poets, drunks and vagabonds in general.

Fernanda hates men in suits, but I think she has issues. I’m personally looking for a nice rich sugar daddy. Bankers, accountants and investors welcome.

Still, I’m drawn to writers and designers. We’re a stupid lot, us artists.

I felt hugely awkward walking into this party (which for a change I’d been invited to). I don’t know why. I knew a good section of people but there was all the general awkwardness of standing around, attempting to make conversation and basically just waiting for people to get hammered.
Which of course, they did.

I reconsidered wearing my slutty top and wore one showing no cleavage but apparently was slutty enough anyway (sigh) and bright pink shoes, that’s very important, pink shoes. I bought a bottle of wine and didn’t bother getting a glass but swigged it straight from the bottle like an ol’ pro. L. swigged away at a quart of Jack.

So all in all, the gossip I managed to scrape together from this party was this:

- A. tells me he considers the 3 most fanciable girls in class to be Fernanda, Camille and L. in no particular order. Which surprised me since A’s work is practically verging on BNP propaganda and all three of them are foreigners.

- U. starts hitting on every female within a 2 feet radius. L. in her drunken way forbids me to dance or kiss him and I secretly agree but I dance anyway.

- L’s friend follows her around desperately trying to flirt. She calls him a dick. He requests me to inform the Bombay public he wants to organize some short film showings there. I kept his card but I don’t care enough to promote him.

- Fernanda and L. both pee on the roof (not simultaneously). Ed gives me a small lecture on being house broken and potty trained.

- I spill Amalia’s drink and she yells at me (which was very scary, especially since for about 5 minutes I had no idea what the hell she was talking about). I try to placate her by offering up my measly wine. She rejects my olive branch and no doubt swears at me under her breath in greek as she leaves the roof to scavenge up better booze.

- L. was so liquored up I couldn’t get a postcode out of her and needed 2 people to help her into the cab. So she ended up on my spare bed.

“Go make me some tea”

she says, and I scamper off dutifully only to come back and find her passed out under the blankets.

Moderm Day Processing

Notice at our college canteen.

Nearly every word is a type or spelling mistake.

It is also typed in Comic Sans.

Love it.

Food Allergies. In view of moderm day food processing we do not guarantee againts allegies.

Zasha

Zasha is a girl who I spoke to everyday for nearly a month in St. Xaviers, Mumbai.

Everyday I’d ask her the same question.

“Zasha, can I have my drawing back? No? Then can you please get it tomorrow??”

No, no , no, no, no , no, no, no , no, no, no , no, no, no , no, no, no , no, no, no , no, no, no , no, no, no , no, no, no

Oh yes here it is, sorry, I spilled coffee all over it…

Fucking bitch. Die.

I am no longer fond of this drawing. It’s not even a very good drawing. But that’s not the point.

She didn’t even apologize. Or she did but so half heartedly I wanted to smack her smug, doe-like face.

If you don’t get the point I’m not even going to bother explaining it.

This is a postcard Leo left behind in Oxford when he went to visit Zasha. The handwriting is Zasha’s in blue on the left and also her handwriting on the right in black. Split personality maybe?

For some reason she decided to post it to me since Leo forgot to, which would have been ok..
but she also decided to write on it pretending to be Leo (which must have been some amazing thespian work on her part)

Weird. It freaked me out a bit.

Idea

I have a tutor is college who is notorious for being absolutely brutal at a critique. One of the most dreaded things he can say is

“So, who here thinks this work is mediocre?”

 

Old Drawing

Xaviers College Mumbai - The Chapel in the first Quad. (Not my photo)

Wizard: A drawing a did based on the gothic style architecture.

Really old work.

When I was studying in Mumbai I passed the interminably dull classes by drawing constantly. The class was huge so I got away with it because it looked like I was taking notes.

My college had three classes in the arts section; A B & C, which were divided according to marks.

The very bright were in A, the average in B and the positively awful in class C.

Riddhi and her Girly Gang of Terror were all in C. I’m assuming it was marks but it could be some other idiotic system of organization.

98% of the Arts section were women. The lucky 2% of the men were scattered here and there, rejoicing or ruing being stuck with a bunch of women in various stages of their menstrual cycles.

Anyway there were about 190 students crammed into one class room. The class was a long rectangle with a blackboard one end and a raised platform for the teachers desk. There were 2 rows of longs benches. You could squeeze about 7 people on each bench. It was easy to be invisible. The building itself is a lovely one. (St. Xaviers College, Mumbai)

Built by the Brits in a gothic style. The influence is obvious I suppose.

(The St. Xaviers picture is from xavs2000.tripod.com/ Xaviers3.jpg)