The Night After the Night Before

Hi everyone,
Hope all is well.
I just wanted to congratulate all of you on getting your MA’s.
Its been a real pleasure for me this year.
(awwww…………………He’s lying.)
I hope to see some of you at the degree ceremony.
(For a drink any excuse will do, even a graduation)
If I can be of any help to you in the future please just give me a call.

Kind regards
your friend
Foz

P.S can you clear your work and stuff from the studios as soon as you can.
(How mean. I don’t want to leave yet!)

Simeon says Foz must have a death wish by telling us we can call him. He’ll never get rid of us. Poor bastard.

This blog is bad enough but imagine everyone calling him when they’re drunk?

“Fooooooz!…..We loooove you! We do.. we do! We looooove yoooou.. Your the besht, just the besht and we jusht wanned to shay.. to say …to shay? no… we do we do yeah so…. ok bye”

Anyway I’m not calling, why can’t he call?

Nobody calls me *sniff sniff I’m so unloved* except Leo drunk and my parents sober.

Although Leo calling drunk is pretty much the same as the quote above. The only other function of my phone is to tell me the time (which is wrong in any case) and to wake me up.

I feel this sudden urge to drink until my liver catches up to Onnalin’s. I want to go to loud clubs with thumping bass and grinding gay boys and surly androgynous girls until every rational thought is wiped out from my brain.

I’ll be back to B.A. thinking shortly I’m sure.

My body can’t seem to recover from Friday night. Saturday I forced myself out of bed and into town for Charis birthday party, my liver, kidneys and lungs shrieking in rage at me.

Monty asked me if I’d been crying, my eyes were so bloodshot.

“NO!! I have not!!”

I indignantly respond.

“I’ve been drinking.”

I say proudly.

I feel more pain and loss in the end of my 2 yr romance with Catton street than anything else. If the M.A. was a relationship then at least I’ve been dumped with a distinction. Small consolation though, I feel very anti-climatic on the whole.

Charris’s birthday was fun aside from him insisting I take back one half of a present I bought for him (hugely insulting!) Mr. Habib drank 4 glasses of wine, got really drunk by 8 o clock and then fell over on his way to argue with a bouncer. The rest of us mostly drank orange juice aside from Lina who got very sleepy by 1:00 am.

Old age has well and truly set in for us Charis.

My left knee started to crack and click and ache while walking up the stairs to Kardo’s flat where we ate shwarmas, hummus and a really strange tabuleh purchased on Edgware Road.

Sadi accompanied by Charis dropped me home all the way from Ladbroke Grove to Brixton in his plush new car. He plans to deck it out with 10 speakers and a bluetooth stereo, he confesses (Sadi’s a boy who won’t be, can’t be satisfied with anything less than 10 speakers)

I wish we could have just kept driving all night listening to dance music. I was almost sorry to be home. Fell asleep as my head touched the pillow.

Friday Night: End of term boozing

Extended post: Foz & Dan both rebuked me on Monday for not posting about Friday night immediately. What shameless vanity, but since I clearly thrive on such egoism, I shall post as requested.

I’ve just got home

It is 6:30 in the morning

I’m fucking starving and just returned from Dan’s semi-drunken, mini-tour of South London via Clapham Common looking for a cafe open at this ungodly hour.

Am too wired and tired to type now need burger going to bed.

Later:

My entire knowledge of Clapham Common is that its largely full of rapists and murders. Dan cuts through a corner of the park and assures me protection. I’m fairly dubious of this offer.

We only saw the occasional passer-by and Dan suggests that everyone up at this time ought to have a sign that states exactly why the fuck they’ve been out so late. We suggest our signs would be ’Unsuccessful poof on the brink and les on the verge looking for burger’.

This was the climax of a very, very long day in the best possible way. We were taking the show down today, its our last official course day and the day we get the results. Excitement runs high.

The morning after Thursday night’s truly disturbing drunken-porno-rubbish discussed (it’s always either porn or poo: Our two staple favorites) the most hung over of us just look at each other and giggle sheepishly. Foz & Dan throw sporadic ‘screwing the bolts’ and ‘drilling’ puns at me all morning as Geoff wanders around in his usual fluffy way, clueless to all the in-jokes.

Foz and Dan finally having nothing left to hide came out of their respective closets and admitted they wanted to join the two pathways, illustration and photography by sealing it with the physical expression of their own mutual love. While they teased me about Geoff, I in turn spent all morning with visions of them as a gay couple in coitus firmly in mind. So the morning went by fairly quickly I’d say.

You see?? It’s the tutors that lead me astray. I was so clean minded before our tutors filled my fragile eggshell mind with junk.

Onnalin and Fernanda who never went home hadn’t changed clothes. Their outfits, which last night looked very glamorous, today look a tad (very) disheveled. I am told that Onnalin reeked of booze and at mid-day reports came back via Martyn that she had to throw-up in her handbag on the tube. Then carried her hand bag, puke and all, home with her. Reports state that she still hasn’t washed it.

We walk to Holborn from the Mall and then are smuggled in the back of empty van like illegal immigrants. Jet slams the door shut, dying to get a move on. There are no windows and we sit on the floor in the pitch dark. Foz immediately takes out his phone and plays with it (just so the screen lights up). He then goes off on one of his bi-monthly rants about Camberwell, hippies and wet-lettuces (I’ve never heard the phrase wet-lettuce before but I really like it with regards to hippies.)

The ex shows up out of the blue, leaning against a tree at some point during the day. Came to see the show. What show? Too late, no? I returned the equipment I borrowed. The ex left. I went back to the que of people loading the van (how English, if I was back in Mumbai we’d just be chucking boards in left and right like maniacs). Astrid with perfect slapstick timing whacked me on the back of the head with a large wall. Foz looking pleased, praised Astrid, remarking what a good person I was to hit in the head (true, very true).

At 4pm we head off to get our marks. I’ve avoided thinking about it all day and I oscillate between complete indifference to raging nerves. Anna and I make a pact to pretend we are totally satisfied with whatever we get (yeah right). Our repression skills are on top form.

The list up on the board is very complicated with no names, only ID numbers. I scan for mine, recheck it, check it again and am thrilled!!!! Yay!!! I generally hate opening the result letter cold, that horrible but exciting suspense like when Charlie opens a Wonka bar, but now emboldened by the notice board I eagerly wait in line outside the office.

There are various people with slightly longer faces around me but nearly 50% of the illustrators get distinctions (which lessens my joy but am I going to be picky? I think not)

The tutors return, no doubt anxious about the barrage of abuse they are expecting from those fundamentally dissatisfied with their marks. I don’t know if they did get any abuse but we finish unloading the last van, freshen up, hug people and drag the tutors, the long faced people and all us super cool illustrators off to the pub.

Sardhna came out for a minute while we were standing outside the Ivy to talk to Foz as he was once again cordoned off and isolated from the other pathways by the very possessive illustrators.

The entire group of 10 people around Foz stop talking and just look at her expectantly…..What does she want? Why is she here? Is she trying to take him away from us? Quick set the Mexican chihuahua on her! (The little chihuahua has been up 24 hours now, and is wilting quietly as she sits on the pavement drinking). Sardhna looks a bit startled at all the sudden semi-hostile interest in her.

By 11 Adam is so drunk that his eyes have lost focus and says some very lewd, rude things to me and others (and not in a good way). Martyn and Simeon sit on the pub sofa, have discussed gardening and then both go home.

The remainder are invited to continue the drinking at the typography tutor’s studio in Waterloo (yet again the ‘free beer’ lure is deployed and we’re only too eager to take the bait). Astrid asks, no insists we make Foz come as well (always with the girls, always. Lucky bastard). Dan ditches the photographers yet again for his little honey bunny snookie-wookums and we all weave our way to 2 cabs.

The minute we arrive there, the type tutor and his very rude flatmate/friend/twat throw us out again. There is no free beer to boot. Figures, from a fucking typographer. You can never trust a their idea of a party. Buzz kills. Who ends a party at midnight? Shocking.

But do we give up and go home?? Hell no.

Do we drink our livers silly?? Hell yes!

Why you ask? Because we’re art students that’s why!

We follow someone (either Dan or Foz) into a tiny small corridor of a bar which ‘accidentally’ turns out to be gay. ‘Accidentally’, of course.

Dan comes running back from the counter, his little face alight with excitement “Oh my god! I just got hit on!! This place is a gay bar! No it really is, he was a big Scottish guy with dreads and he was like man I’m staying in this awesome place you should come over and see my chandelier! and then this other guy was like can I ask you a question don’t get offended…. but are you gay? and I was like why would I be offended? and he said look around you, this is a gay bar!!”

Dan was scandalized. After all, he’s no tart. He wants romance, luurving, cuddles, you know.. the good stuff before he views a mans chandelier.

Other than that he was sooooooooo happy. Guys were groping his cute lil’ ass and rubbing his back all night. He kept disappearing to the loo as well….so suspicious that.

By the end of the night both he and Foz were running off to the loos simultaneously. The Firecracker thankfully isn’t there to see this. Sharing is not her strong point.

Anna and Uhr began a ludicrous drinking competition at the start of the evening, vowing to match each other drink for drink. Uhr is double Anna’s body weight and height, an unfair match it would seem. By 3 o clock both are drinking water. Uhr sits outside staring at the pavement for ages. We can safely assume that Anna was the winner since she was still smiling and semi functional. Slovenia is throughly shamed.

At 3:30am Uhr trolls in like an Eastern European Frankenstein and mutters “Foz Anna gone for walk to park”. The park is closed I say, its 3 in the morning. He says nothing, only blinks and lumbers back out again.

Slanderous gossip begins to be whispered among us. Georgina, Dan and I shake our wise old heads and tsk at this highly suspect behavior on their part. Dan is so hurt. How could Foz abandon him? Did everything Foz said in the committee meeting mean nothing?? Did he just use him for sex and then throw him away??

We call eventually and are told our ever professional, responsible tutor is throwing up somewhere along the Southbank with Anna, can we call back later?

Dan bursts into tears. If anyone had to hold back Foz’s hair as he threw up it should have been him not Anna! I had to comfort Dan as best I can. Foz loves you really I said. It’s just a one-off thing with Anna I said. He just needs to get it out of his system. He’ll come back to you, they always do I said. Your ass is just too cute to resist. Foz is a fool I added.

Dan thought of his bootilicious ass and stopped crying at once. An hour later A & F wander back in and are welcomed with open arms by all. Georgina looks mighty relieved.

I seemed to burn loads of things, my top, Dans jacket, the kitchen, my skirt, the carpet, Which is fitting since I am supposed to worship the god of fire. I really ought to stay away from anything flammable. Eoghan, being a Catholic, trades religious insults with me across the bar. I’m so taking him to hell with me when I go. Fire and Satan is on my side.

Dan & I being hardcore south Londoners, stick around in the bar long after the softies from Crouch End and Stoke Newington (the lesbian mecca) have wobbled off home. The bar finally kicks us out after some random woman insists shes seen me on TV. Dan tells her I’m on Eastenders.

We run to catch the train to Clapham Junction from Waterloo, sit in first class as Dan tries to get me to trade one of my drawings for one of his photography class’s catalogs.

What a cheap skate!

Pearl Of Wisdom Day

Squabbling over the loo early in the morning. Territorial snapping and flared tempers.

Both of us unforgiving. Me for being told if I did so and so I would be discarded, the ex for being told that kind of statement was unnecessary and upsetting. Having no keys of my own, am forced to leave excessively early.

What day is it? Monday? Tuesday? Wednesday. Security guard refuses me entry. Sit on the steps sleepy with hot chocolate and bag of lychees.

Am joined by Foz only to be shortly and rudely moved by some obnoxious asshole. We both smile and politely retreat while internally cursing the bastard.

The Great Job Hunt has begun but I procrastinate by reading Metro in the studio while Foz moans to Georgina and me about application forms. The bin is full to the brim with rejects. I’m amazed I ever made it through the door.

Go to the Mall at 2 for first year thing. It is a another convenient excuse to go drinking later and we are all only happy make use of it. Athier confesses he is too nervous to speak to first years about his work and hopes we don’t have to. We roll our eyes. ‘MAness’ Athier, where is your ‘MAness’?

We are instructed to hang around near our work in the hope that an eager first year can ask us loads of insightful questions while we provide loads of insightful answers. We mostly stand around looking shifty. I collect postcards and ask people to leave messages.

Martyn writes: “The world is full of arses”

on the front of his card which also has “Martyn Shouler – Illustrator, Mercury Prize finalist, AOI Bronze Award winner” printed proudly on the back.

Simeon writes: “Laminate all work”

Amalia writes: “You are a fucking slut with big tits”

Mike writes: “We both have great colour. Well done!”

Onnalin writes: “I’m famous already xx”

Anna writes: “It’s been a pleasure working with you, You are mad” Across both her postcards.

Bruna writes: “I am full of beer and chicken”

Mexican Firecracker writes: “FG FG FG tiny angry woman” (she so loves her name)

Armed with the words of wisdom from my fellow classmates, a select group of drunks go to the pub, leaving the first years to tear apart our work with Foz. A couple join us later in Chandos and we grill them for what they said about us. Did you slate us? Who did you talk about? What about me? What about me? Who else? Is that it??

I’m very disappointed that they were all nice and shit instead of being bastards like we were last year. (Maybe talking to us beforehand didn’t help I suppose quietly threatening to break their legs when Foz’s back was turned might have made them nervous)

Foz says he too is disappointed at their politeness. He has a lot of work to do next year, breaking them in and all. Their fragile, sweet little minds will be completely corrupted by this time next year and they will thank him on bended knees for 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.

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.

Doomsday Arrives

That says it all, doesn't it?

Doomsday came and went with a surprising amount of calm.

However when I say that perhaps I only speak for myself.

The tension in the studio over Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday morning was phenomenal. Even though we had only recently cleaned the studio until it gleamed like a new pin it was once again an absolute tip. There was not a single empty patch of floor or table. I’ve completely forgotten what colour either are.

Alex's work plus paint in the top right floor corner

This is the clean version of the studio

Ed was muttering and swearing under his breath constantly like some old codger. Georgina looked constantly distressed. Martyn, Simeon and Anna was framing like mad. Martyn and Simeon would suddenly stop right in the middle of frantic work, make some tea and lounge around for 10 minutes in the comfy chairs and then resume insanity.

Lisa kept wandering around looking helpless. She asked me if I finished early could I finish her frames with her.

No. Sorry.

I won’t help even if I do finish early, I’d much rather go to the pub. She didn’t like that and whined a little about how we’ve all been framing and stuff for weeks already. Yes we have, and you could have too.

Tuesday I was coolly and calmly bubble wrapping (I’m so cool what can I say) but it felt like I was in a giant hive or ant nest. Everyone was crawling all over each other and generally getting under foot.

A coke reference I believe

The college really needs to address this space issue. It’s physically nearly impossible to do anything except bump into people and have a running commentary of apologies ready

“Oops so sorry, haha oh sorry! Sorry again. Opps! Again, sorry. Excuse me! May I jump over your work? Opps! sorry pardon me!…”

and so on.

The bastard drank 2 of my cans

Tiphane’s stuff was by far the most annoying being at one point spread out over nearly 3 tables.

Martyn and I were packing the front of our frames with large sheets of cardboard on Tuesday so they are less likely to smash in the van move on Monday. I had managed to scrounge 3 pieces when Martyn came in and started eyeing Adam’s and Ed’s artwork rather longingly. We both restrained ourselves from tearing stuff out from everywhere and decided to get some boxes from the college shop instead.

Georgina's lovely mess

Sardhna and Geoff were standing outside while all the first years were painting boards, I stood there looking out hopefully for a large box I could nick. Sardhna stopping talking and looked at me expectantly.

So I ask her, since she’s looking at me, if there happens to be any cardboard going waste lying around. Sardhna gets antsy immediately.

How dare this student interrupt her (even though I didn’t) and actually oh mah gawd oh mah gawd ask her highness a question. I mean what cheek really! Students asking questions while you’re standing around looking at them? This is really not on I say.

Tutors ought to be approached from a distance while humbly bowing and kow-towing. I should have also knocked my head on the ground 3 times before I asked her any question.

Must be the ‘punjabi begum’ etiquette thing. (I don’t know if shes a punju but ‘Sardhna’ sure sounds like one)

Studio

Very hygienic top of the fridge and tea maker

Even more hygienic sink. So nice

Anyway she got all testy and said

“This is a really bad time. You shouldn’t really be asking me that. And no we don’t have any cardboard. Why don’t you try Sainsburys.”

Instead of saying all that crap all she needed was 4 words. 4 polite words. Which would have saved her what? I don’t know, wow, 30 seconds (not wasting time and all that) instead of telling me off for nothing.

“Sorry I don’t know.”

Would have sufficed perfectly well. If I (or anyone else) had dared to ask any further questions all she has to do is reduce the number of words subsequently.

For example:

“Sorry I don’t know.”

(4 words)

If I then ask

“but what about if…”

she should simply reply

“I don’t know”

(3 words)

“but maybe there’s a….”

“Don’t know”

(2 words)

“Do you know if…”

“Know” or “No”

(1 word)

What a bad tempered cow. You could argue that this is a stress thing but this isn’t inclusive to stressful times.

She also acts as if the entire 1st floor computer room is exclusive to her digital media class. No one else should talk while she uses it. I’m sorry the college doesn’t fund you your own room but I really don’t give a shit.

There that’s my vent done for the day. I feel so much better now I must say.

Just the corridor

Back to Doomsday:

According to whispered reports spoken in hushed tones, there was someone who forgot one of their finals at home and only realized half an hour before the deadline was due.

A few last-minute tears in our group and some cranky sniping over bubble wrap (of all things) and then we were done. Quite an anticlimax.

The most professionally double wrapped bubble wrap

Martyn, Adam, Ed and I sat on the stairs leading to the 3rd floor discussing how we bored were now that we had nothing to do. Then had a brief argument over war films for some reason. Onnalin and Fernanda finished a batch of their interviews and ordered me and Martyn and me in to do our time.

Interviews were really fun actually. It’s the whole power trip thing. I was rather nervous when I walked in, as if I was being interviewed.

The room was very ‘interview-ish’, blinds down, dark blue carpet, light blue computer chairs, projector, abstract art on the walls, oval board-room type table, Foz in a suit. Very formal and professional. Amalia said he looked like he was in a costume. To be fair, it was a drastic change from Monday and Tuesday.

On Monday he was wearing the tattiest bright orange T-shirt for painting, worn out sandals and Bermuda shorts with 2 hand prints in white paint on the seat. Every time he turned around it looked as though he was being molested by the invisible man.

In my mind I was expecting all the interviewees work to be stunning and/or that we would have to ask loads of questions like in a crit. But all we did was listen to them while Gay & Foz occasionally asked the really testicle crunching questions like:

“What do you think people think when they look at your work?”

or

“What if I were to tell you your work looks quite boring, would you care?”

or

“What is you want to change about illustration with your work?”

or

“This is an interview obviously. Is there any reason you didn’t bring a portfolio?”

I know. Amazing right?

One of the guys looked as though he had just smoked 5 joints before he came in (I fucking hate pot-heads). Another was an amateur stand up comedian. He had the clammiest, icy cold hands. It was like I was holding the hand of the undead.

I mention I feel sad that the course is coming to a close so swiftly and Foz tells me not to be daft. (what a comfort he is)

I stood in the empty studio after we were done, viewing the colossal wreckage and debris everywhere. There was this sense of eerie calm, what I imagine is left behind when a tornado had just swept through.

Martyn destroys the sense of peace by texting me saying they are all in the Crown having a massive ‘bitch’ (I wonder who was on the menu). I complain about the Crown being a tiny shit hole and am yelled at.

Half the class had starting drinking by 3pm or earlier and were pretty plastered already. Martyn informs me helpfully that he’ll protect me if the ex comes in to beat me. I respond by saying the ex can beat him up too (but he would probably enjoy it). Adam had a girl with him, the first time I’ve ever seen him being all soft and cuddly-wuddly fuzzy-wuzzy with a female. Aw cho chweet.

Onnalin and Fernanda were ricocheting off the ceiling but decided this wasn’t quite energetic enough. So Fernanda shoves a pill down Onnalin’s mouth and in approximately 2 minutes both are bouncing up and down, rocking back and forth, talking and laughing hysterically.

It’s very strange when you’re relatively sober and attempting to have a conversation with someone completely fucked out of their brain.

Both individuals eyes start glazing over (well their eyes were already glazed but you mimic them as a response). You have to remain very calm. Say things very slowly. Keep sentences very simple. Generally agree with everything they say. No negative things. Nod a lot. It doesn’t matter what questions they ask you, you’re not expected to answer anyway.

Some 30 minutes later they suddenly crash down and drag themselves off somewhere else looking dazed. Maybe to the Duracell bunny graveyard. Who knows.

Mike and one of the cute guys from the interviews was there. Whats-his-name would leave for the loo and Mike would turn to Foz with bambi eyes and beg him to tell him if his friend got in. Foz deflected all interrogation like a pro.

Simieon and Athier measuring

The ex and I decided we would only stick around for one drink. Just one more. Ok just another. Last one.

We eventually left at 11 and had to make sure Martyn didn’t go all the way to Camden instead of Kings Cross.

Pictures courtesy of Martyn (The Voice of Bedford)

Our Last Crit

Simeon & Mike the resident siamese.

I type this post as I return from the pub following our very last crit. Whiskey and pre-joint tension fueling me on.

It has been a momentous day. A day on which I finally discovered religion.

“Hah!” you say as I hear you scoff my sudden new found faith in the Zoroastrian gods, but it is no lie.

I have finally found Ahura-Muzda. Zarathustra be praised!

Sleep deprived and clumsy from last nights marathon Indesign editing session into the early hours of the morning, I split an entire cup of mocha on a studio table. A very large, very hot mug.

This in itself would be nothing had our studio tables not been filled with every body’s work made with sweat, blood and tears.

Simeon’s work that was near by unfortunately…merged with this as yet unsampled mocha.

Before my eyes flashed hideous images of my ruining Simeon’s entire body of work over a whole year, at the very eleventh hour! That’s 12 months, 365 days 52 weeks!! OH MY GOD!!!

Foz, should he read this, and I have a bad feeling that he just might, will perhaps strangle me next week for such wretched stupidity. (Or worse, fail me)

Thank god Simeon’s work was largely waterproof. I plan on going to the Agyari regularly now.

Ed ‘Gang-Bang’ Allan and Adam ‘United’ Brickles came to the rescue and we salvaged and repaired like mad.

Simeon was very kind, very polite and seemed to be forgiving, but I know from experience that he will not forget this.

I have often bitched about my legendary nemesis who left coffee stains on one of my drawings. This event took place nearly 8 years ago on a drawing I now couldn’t give a shit about, but neither my hatred nor anger towards her have been disseminated in the slightest.

In an ironic twist of fate I have now become a ‘Zasha’. (That evil woman I hate her.)

The rest of the day and crit was slightly tainted by both a sickening nausea and horrible guilt. Even Alex’s crit which I was looking forward to (purely because I’m a such mean sadistic bitch who loves gossip) was ruined.

To add insult to injury Simeon later asked me

“You didn’t do it on purpose…did you?”

Ouch.

Sigh. It was a difficult day all in all.

Foz swore, promised faithfully, that no matter what we would be done and dusted by 5 o clock, he said confidently.

If I had any business sense at all I’d have laid a 10 pound bet on it. Sadly I am entirely left brain impaired, a superb reason why I chose to do illustration instead of, oh I don’t know, accounting.

Our crit mostly covered the same ground we hashed out last week (frames, whats in the show whats out, what works, what doesn’t, various arrangements and layouts etc) which was all slightly tedious and repetitive.

Occasionally Foz and Gary would contradict themselves by saying:

“Well what you put up in your show is entirely your decision, we wont make up your mind for you.”

followed by

“Yeah that one’s rubbish it cant go in.”

followed by

“The show is entirely your shout. You need to do what you feel works for you. I can honestly tell you that you’d really regret it later when you’re putting your feet up, and your show was for me and Gary and what we had said and wasn’t what you really wanted….”

followed by

“….if you put that in it would be the wrong decision, it’s your shout….. but basically, you’re wrong (p s- we’re marking you).”

Gossip was flying around like crazy last week when Georgina finally put to use the stethoscope she bought for a fiver and overheard Foz telling Alex

“…it is my right to decide if you go in the show, and at this point, unless you work flat out next week, its a 99.9% chance that you’re not going to be in the show….”

That 0.1% was finally confirmed today in a horrific 10 minutes when Alex plonked this 4 spray painted MDF boards on the table followed by a chilling dead silence that can never bode too well for any artist.

What you want to hear and what you dream of hearing is

“Ooooooooooooooh!!” followed by “Waaaoooow!”

and then lots of sycophantic compliments.

Foz ends the day with a little speech about the end of our MA year and how it’s been a good laugh, prompting a selection of girls to burst into tears immediately. This was an apt closing note.

The first time I ever met Foz he made someone cry and on our very last crit he made people cry. So we come full circle.
I must admit I shall miss his charming ruthlessness.

(Foz if you are reading this, it is a blatant cue for you to comment, see what a shameless comment whore I am? Shocking really.)

We then all trundled off gratefully to the pub with Martyn’s ex tutor (also Foz’s ex flat mate) who was restrained enough not to tell us all the juicy tidbits about living with Foz. (Damn that Ed and his tact).

Athier joins us in the pub briefly. Well done Athier, you actually made it through an entire crit.

Uhr confided in me as we sat around drinking and chain-smoking, that my latest drawing made him feel like throwing up. He confessed didn’t want to tell me earlier because he knew it would make me too happy (and it does, it really does.).

Bruna told me I actually put her off having kids. If I’ve achieved anything at all these past 2 years, it’s that.

And now I’m left here, no more crits, no more M.A., no job, no dinner, typing away on the only thing that remains – This useless blog.

That’s it from me. Adieu and Goodnight to you all.

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.

2

Someone told me this really funny story ages ago and I was thinking of it today and couldn’t stop laughing.

She was a bit drunk, walked into the men’s loo by accident, for some reason thought the urinal was a fancy wash basin, then naturally assumed (as you do) that the mothballs must be a fancy new soap and then tried to wash her hands.

Onnalin just told me this story about Foz I completely forgot:

A Japanese girl right in our first group project, had made this brochure thing on the movie ‘Catch me if you can’ and Foz said to her

“Frankly, that’s a really shite concept.”

Completely baffled. She turns to him and asks,

“So sorry, but please…what does ‘shite’ mean?”

For once one he didn’t know what to say.

He then asked the class if they all found this Greek guys work to be mediocre.

The Greek guy was fuming. He left the class and had a massive hissy fit followed by loads of abuse leveled at Foz.

“How dare he say that to me I can’t believe it oh my god I’m never speaking to him again never going to his class who does he think he is blah blah blah”

What a diva

It’s too bad Foz never gets to see all the ‘behind the scenes’ tantrum throwing.