Wednesday Crit No. 1 & The Crown

So, at last we’re at the beginning of the end of our course. This is even more tragic than not winning £5000.

I don’t want to leave and deal with the shitty ol’ real world.

I’ve set my watch to an unknown amount of minutes fast so I arrived for class an hour early. In theory I planned on doing some drawing but I just drank hot chocolate and read the metro while simultaneously admiring Foz’s gay floral summer shirt.

A lady came to talk to us about publishing; the dos and don’ts, how she works, how others work etc. As an orator she wasn’t as quite gripping or entertaining as some others but provided some valuable tips and food for thought (PORTFOLIOS!!! I DON’T HAVE ONE SHIT SHIT SHIT) about the business of illustration.

Gary mentioned that he had read my blog on his trip to Florence and his wife scolded him because it was full of swearing and ranting about pregnant women (She has three kids. Three!)

The wife remarked loudly on the plane,

“What are you reading? What is all this ‘fuck off to another blog’??? Pregnant rant!?…”

“…Honey I’m just reading it…it’s not me…just a student…I didn’t write it…”

“…Well if you don’t like what I gave you then I’ll take them back!!”

I found this massively funny aside from it being slightly worrying that Gary is reading my blog when he’s on a romantic holiday with his missus.

I drew this thing over Easter which I’m finding very, very difficult to finish.

Purely because I loathe it so much. Well, loathe is a very strong word… its more like having a child you initially had great hopes for but who turned out to be slightly defective and a tad ugly.

No matter how much you coax it, yell at it, fiddle with it, you just cant fix the damn thing.

So I’ve given up on on the defected drawing and decided to concentrate on my more beautiful and clever children, who are of course my newer drawings. I penciled in 2 large ones yesterday and I now don’t feel like colouring them in. I love the remnant ruler lines and the softness of the pencil lines overlapping each other. I wish I could leave it like that but I know it’s just not enough. No impact.

Lets hope I don’t fuck them up like the last one.

Going back to the dislike of my defected child, Foz said my critique of it was…I forget the exact word he used, perhaps it was ‘stunted’ or ‘unclear’ or ‘pedestrian’ or ‘BA level’ (well it was one of those scathing type words), and it was stopping me from really seeing the work objectively. Of course he followed this by

“I think it could be really fantastic… but the parts that really concern me are this and this and this and this and that oh yes and this and that…”

Personally, the colours are really not doing it for me. Brown is a hateful colour. I use hate with all the vehemence I can currently muster and although what I’ve used is certainly not cheap paper, it hasn’t got the heavy weight lusciousness of the even more pricey stuff that I used earlier. The 2 pound a sheet stuff. Yum! It holds the colour so much better as opposed to it just sitting on the surface.

After a quick, painless and largely uneventful crit (no tears, no yelling, no nothing sheesh) we all traipsed off the The Crown, our second-rate replacement for the Princess Louise. Second rate because it is further away, smaller, dingier and not as beautiful.

Foolishly we decided that it was so pleasant outside we could all sit together so much more conveniently. Pleasant of course quickly changed to freezing as hell.

We were all huddled on the large wooden tables under a big sun umbrella at 8 in the evening, shivering and rubbing our legs. My large art case turned into a lovely wind buffer.

For some reason Gary, Foz and that lady sat on one huge table by themselves and all 20 students crammed themselves on 2 others nearby. I’m not sure what the reason of the segregation was. All us illustrators seem to be such socially awkward people.

As we walk back to Holborn tube some 4 hours later, Foz mysteriously disappears into a pub across the road from the Crown. Gary, Georgina, Anna and I stand outside waiting like dolts, smiling in that slightly awkward way, each of us probably trying to think of something to say to pass the time while Foz cheerfully takes a leak.

Fernanda and Foz seem to share the same bladder capacity (among other things), which is about the size of a small walnut.

I found it odd that he didn’t just go to the Crown (where for a large portion of the time Foz was running up and down to the loo anyway), but I suppose he thought he could tough it out. A mistake I have made more than once and almost wet the bus seat

(A very close almost)

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