DARKROOM ADVENTURES

Spent a little time in the uni darkroom today, printing some of the sneaky photos I took on my grandad's old 120 camera. Having never used 120 film before (its like regular 35mm film, but bigger.) I was surprised at how sharp the negatives were; and the prints were very crisp. Here's some examples...

 Michael and Alison. There's a peculiar tension between them here, like two people that have just had an argument.

 Dimitra. Slight light leakage here on the film; also some motion blur on her hand. If I say it was deliberate, it becomes lomography. Win.

Tommy and Rochelle. Love the expressions in this.

Click on the images to make them bigger, btw. I realise not all of you appreciate teeny-weeny-eye-strain-o-vision.

Gonna order some more photographic paper tonight; only reason I stopped is cos I ran out. It's strange, working in the darkroom distorts your sense of time. You can be in there for what feels like an hour, and it turns out the whole day has gone. 

Got some plans to burn some text into them; thoughts, feelings, emotions. This will be based purely on outward expression of the subject.

Been thinking about that Doug story too... Think that might look pretty swish as a Dave McKean style comic. What do you think? 

- Padfoot

"MEET DOUG."

As promised, here's that short story. It tells the tale of Doug, the man who has everything... but at the same time, the man who has nothing.


Right, that's enough of that mysterious oxymoron bollocks; here it is. Let me know what you think; I don't know, facebook me or something.

DOUG

Meet Doug. Doug is a powerful man. Shiny shoes, silk tie, sharp suit.

He owns this place. All of it. This megastructure of glass and steel – the result of hard work and dedication. The company that inhabits these walls, the employees, they all answer to him. Varnished oak desk, brass plaque stamped with his name. Monogrammed handkerchief to dab the sweat from his brow. Top-end smart phone, anodised aluminium and glass.

Doug has no family. Oh, his cheeky smile and charisma parted many a pair of pretty legs back in the day, but he worked so hard to get where he is now, things like a wife, children... slipped by the wayside.

In the evenings he sits alone, in the glow of his wood fire, glass of whiskey in hand. Expensive. It reminds him of the days in the trailer parks of Detroit when the power went out. Doug remembers...

He wasn't always like this. No, Doug is a rags to riches man. When he was young, there was no wood fire and expensive whiskey; there was a leaky gas heater that sucked more heat out of the room than it put in, and a glass of water with fuck-knows-what floating about inside it. It had this weird after taste but it quenched his thirst. Doug remembers.

Back at his desk. Doug sips a glass of ice cold purified water. Refreshing. No aftertaste.

He's worked hard for this, to get here.

But something isn't right.

Doug is a powerful man. He has more time and more money than most people. But deep down, something isn't right.

He feels a yearning for that aftertaste. Like iron filings, something metallic. His life is directed by the next profit-spinning technology, ideas, the rise and fall of stocks and shares.

He has no control. The markets and advisers control him.

He wants control back. That aftertaste, the memory is strong. That metallic sensation tickles the back of his throat.

He's taking back control. His legs pick him up from his desk, his mouth tells his secretary he's going for a walk, his hands put down the glass of repulsively clean, fresh water. He doesn't want it anymore. He's taking back control.

His heart pounds as he climbs the stairs of the fire escape. This isn't his territory; CEO's don't normally creep about in the walls. But Doug doesn't want to be a CEO anymore. He doesn't want any of it.

Bright light, his pupils contract, as he steps through the roof door. Cold wind whips him in the face, the icy fingers of a New York winter invade his silk suit. He's taking back control. He steps to the edge.

Rush hour traffic, the sound drifts up to him – shrieking of horns, wailing of sirens. They look like toys from way up here. He's taking back control.

He takes another step. Closer to the edge. He's taking back control. A few deep breaths of the cold morning air. Don't look down Doug. Just keep walking.

He's taking back control. He takes another step, the snow crunches under his shiny patent leather shoes. His heart pounds in his chest. The first time in 27 years that he's felt this alive.

He spreads his arms wide, takes a final step, into air, over the edge. He closes his eyes, and smiles. He's taking back control.

He's flying.

__________________________________________________________________________________

This here story be copyright property of Pat "Padfoot" Lee-Delisle (2012). Reproduction of this story is forbidden without written permission from me, and if I catch ye stealing this here text, then you'll surely be keelhauled, ya filthy brute.

- Padfoot 

H. P. MOTHERTRUCKIN' LOVECRAFT

After a week of the godly elixir of cider, beer and blackcurrant known as snakebite being fed into me via intravenous drip, the odd bowl of curly chips, and regular exposure to some nice, slow, chilled out doom metal, I must admit I feel fully refreshed following the madness of gallery week. 


Also, in a heavenly and totally conceptual burst of light the Tutors did come down from the kingdom of the Todd Building, and blessed me with a mark of 55% on my first semester's work. More snakebite and curly chips ensued.


I've also been reading some of HP Lovecraft's short stories, and filling my brain with the abstract and disturbing artwork of Dave McKean... Lovecraft is pure genius; despite the fact that his words no longer hold as much sway as they may have done when people genuinely thought the world was flat, I still immensely enjoy his stories of demons and monsters. McKean's illustrations have an unusual habit of getting under your skin; he works with ink, photos, collage, and oil paints, mashing media together and producing worlds and characters that surely stalk the dark places of the human consciousness. 


I personally enjoy working a certain amount of humour and wit into my work, but McKean's drawings and short stories have helped me tap into my dark side a little... I think we share the same sense of humour. His short narratives, particularly in the book Pictures That Tick, are horrific, yet at the same time witty and beautiful. His annotations in between the stories don't bother with punctuation or capital letters, and so have a very spontaneous feel to them, like a train of thought that was written down.


Inspired by this, I had a bash at writing my own short story... it was completely instinctual, and a little dark, but it was good fun to write it. I had no idea how the story would end when I wrote it; I just made it up as I went along. Definitely going to try and be less organised from now on - I've found that planning my art just doesn't work for me.

I'll post up my story later; just need to spell-check it and stuff. 


- Padfoot 

AND ON THE SEVENTH DAY....

The Almighty Padfoot sat back, looked upon the face of this blog, and saw that it was good. 

And lo, on this, the seventh day... Padfoot rested.

LYGIA PAPE ATE MY BRAIN

Or rather she might have done, if I was around in the 70s.

Watching one of Pape's film pieces, named Eat Me, I genuinely did feel like my brain was being nibbled at. 5 minutes of grotesque closeups of human mouths, all waggling tongues and puckering lips... It was horrific, but at the same time strangely sexual and... slightly erotic.

Can't believe I just typed that.

MOVING ON...

SERPENTINE GALLERY: LYGIA PAPE - MAGNETISED SPACES

Lygia Pape's work is mainly film pieces, one of which being The Book of Creation (1979); a series of clever, abstract papercraft models being manipulated by the artist. These models all represent major stages in the evolution of man, such as the discovery of fire, the invention of the wheel, etc. 

Pape also worked with wood and other 3D media; two that I saw in the Serpentine were The Book of Days (a series of brightly coloured, abstract woodcuts, each one unique and representing one day in a year), and Web (an intricate network of wires held taut between the ceiling and floor). Web in particular captured my interest; at first glance it appears to be shafts of light piercing the ceiling of the Serpentine, lancing down into the floor at various haphazard angles. 

 Web by Lygia Pape. Wire, stretched between ceiling and floor

 

Looking at it was almost like observing a giant optical illusion, an enormous graphical drawing brought to life. Walking around it, parts of it seem to shimmer in and out of existence as a result of the clever lighting in the piece's installation space, and how some of the strands layer upon each other depending on the angle it is viewed from... just like a spider's web. What makes it particularly memorable is how I got bollocked for trying to take a cheeky photo of it on my phone. Managed to make the bloke look like a goon however by haughtily claiming that I was "just checking my facebook" and storming out of the gallery. I'll never learn.

BRITISH MUSEUM: GRAYSON PERRY and THE TOMB OF THE UNKNOWN CRAFTSMAN

It's gotta be said, that sort of sounds like a pretty terrible idea for a film.  Grayson Perry is... well. For want of a better word, a genius. Or a madman. 

 Grayson Perry with his motorbike, AM1, designed to transport his teddy bear and god of his imaginary world, Alan Measles.
 

Basically, Perry's work revolves around popular culture and an imaginary world he created as a child, presided over by his favourite teddy bear, Alan Measles, who takes the role of god, benign dictator, unbeaten racing driver, ace fighter pilot, liberator of Germany.... the list goes on.

Perry's fictional world portrays the British Museum as some kind of temple, a place of worship for the people who crafted the various exhibits in the collection, but whose identities have been lost to the ravages of time.
 

Pilgrimage to the British Museum, Grayson Perry. Graphite pencil, paper. Cover of the catalogue for The Tomb of the Unknown Craftsman.

He also presents some of his original work, in the form of a mashup between the banalaties of the 21st century, and the fine art ceramics and tapestries that have been prolific at different points in our history. One such work, The Frivolities of Now, is a large, Greek-style pot glazed a lurid neon yellow, with buzzwords of today's internet culture scribbled all across it in blue; if there was ever a piece that invoked today's zeitgeist, then this is it.

I quite liked Perry's work, though the exhbition appeared to have been padded out with seemingly unrelated artifacts from the Museum's collection... not sure what was going on there. Also, entertaining as Perry is as an artist, I'm not sure it was worth £8 for a ticket and a 2 hour wait.

And so ends the Gallery week. Well London, it's been emotional. But quite frankly, I'm sick of the tube, and if I never ride the Underground again, I will not die feeling unfulfilled.

- Padfoot

THE EASIEST JOURNEY EVER

After yesterday's debacle in London Bridge, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the Whitechapel Gallery was insanely easy to find. All I had to do was walk to Euston Square, jump on the Hammersmith & City tube line to Aldgate East and Whitechapel was literally out the doors and 10 paces to the left. My joy knew no bounds, and I may or may not have broken out into a spasmodic bout of interpretive dance in celebration. 

Anyway...

WHITECHAPEL ART GALLERY - ROTHKO IN BRITAIN AND ZARINA BHIMJI: visited 20/01/12

When I finally found the Rothko section I was a little bit disappointed - it was literally a small back room, with only one of his famous Red paintings on the wall. I'm not exactly a die-hard fan of his work, but I think his contribution to the evolution of modern art and painting warranted more than this. On the other hand, some of the notes from the artist himself that were on display were quite interesting to look at, particularly a typewritten letter from Rothko to the curator of an exhibition, exhaustively detailing how his paintings were meant to be hung and lit in a gallery space to gain maximum impact.

One of the larger shows running at Whitechapel is a retrospective of photographer and film maker Zarina Bhimji. Personally, I really enjoyed Bhimji's work; the titles were all a little wordy and in some cases unnecessarily poetic, but the work itself was incredibly powerful. Similar in theme to Anselm Kiefer's work, Bhimji's photography deals with a kind of decay; images of ageing buildings and piles of old paper records bound with rope invoke feelings of grief and loss, relics left behind from a bygone era. Her film piece on display on the ground floor, Yellow Patch, is similar in content; this 29 minute long work consists of slow, almost painful shots and closeups of the architecture and decaying furniture of what appears to be an abandoned records office, and what used to be a kind of stately home, now left to ruin. Layered over the top of this imagery is a soundtrack of the everyday noises that would have been heard in these buildings; idle chatter, footsteps, the clicking of a typewriter, all heavily dubbed over a kind of soft, ethereal, dreamlike music, oozing into the auditorium space via some chunky-ass speakers in 5.1 surround sound. This work really felt like what a recording of these buildings might sound like if they could talk, the noises and memories seeping from the walls and blending into a deafening cacophony. One of the most intense moments was a scene showing just a crack in the wall of an old house; the camera slowly zooms in, until the crack becomes a canyon, a chasm, a gaping abyss, filling the screen - and all the while, a deep, bass rumbling sound builds. Truly this felt like the sound of the earth subsiding, the sound of the wall groaning in pain as weight shifted and bonds of bricks and mortar split in two, causing the gaping wound in its surface.

Seriously worth seeing if you have an interest in film or photography. Even if you don't.... Go see it. Now.

- Padfoot

A TALE OF HIPSTER TWATS AND A LACK OF VENISON

Sadly none of my pictures this time round; both these galleries don't like photographers. Shame really, some of the stuff I saw was pretty cool.


WHITE CUBE, BERMONDSEY - ANSELM KIEFER.
I almost got horrifically lost on the way to this particular gallery; Google Maps claimed that it was still a building site and most of the businesses I had noted down as landmarks had closed down and moved on. 
Eventually, after standing in the middle of London Bridge station looking utterly bemused for about 10 minutes, I got my bearings and found the White Cube. It was a lot bigger than I thought it would be, a very impressive project space; particularly the south gallery which housed some of Kiefer's colossal canvas pieces. The staff however did make me feel a little uneasy; the minute I took out my camera I was set upon by some smug hipster who seemed to take great pleasure in informing me of the various copyrights I'd be breaching if I took a photo of the exhibition. This same guy then watched me like a hawk for the rest of my visit; I had to go into the bookshop to escape the piercing gaze from behind those ridiculous fake glasses and sculpted quiff.


Anyway - when I wasn't incurring the wrath of the gallery staff, I did actually find time to admire Kiefer's work. A lot of it seems to be halfway between sculpture and painting; incorporating 3D elements with thick, impasto style painting. These elements and the pieces that were pure sculpture were essentially found objects, mainly stone and scrap metal, but with an interesting sense of decay about them - the surface of the works are almost always covered in rust, or have layers of paint crumbling and peeling away. In this sense I got the feeling that Kiefer worked from a theme of preservation - or perhaps a lack thereof - particularly in the way that some of the works are caked in great big wodges of salt, the same way that salt was rubbed into meat to preserve it before the invention of fridges.
I really liked this exhibition; a short show that can be viewed in less than an hour, and a ten minute walk from London Bridge (except if you're me and have a sense of direction similar to that of a gnat). Definitely worth going to if you're in the area.


HAUNCH OF VENISON - THE MYSTERY OF APPEARANCE.
Probably the most awesomely named gallery I have ever visited. However, there was no venison to be found on any of this establishment's three floors. Needless to say, I was disappointed about this. I also wasn't particularly enamoured by the work on show; must admit considering that there were some classics by Bacon and Auerbach on show, I felt a tiny bit guilty about this. I was actually more attracted to the photographic portraits of the artists themselves, displayed on the bottom floor of the gallery.
In this respect, the Mystery of Appearance was slightly underwhelming, but still worth a quick visit if you're a fan of any of the artists on show.


Plan for tomorrow - Whitechapel. Should be good, I actually kinda like Rothko.


- Padfoot

OH SAATCHI, YOU SCALLYWAG

There's nothing quite like wandering around the Saatchi Gallery in London to make you feel like an uneducated peasant. Considering that I am used to walking round places like Camden and Hatfield, this particular part of London was a bit more upmarket than I am used to. Now, I am comfortable with my overtly student-chic style and the clothes I wear, but watching passers-by and other gallery visitors dressed up in designer labels and deck shoes, I couldn't help but feel a little bit scruffy in my TK Maxx jeans and bloody awful "I AM BANKSY" t-shirt. Despite this, and having to navigate my way through crowds of pre-pubescent fuckwits on their school trips, I managed to survive Saatchi, and tell you this tale.


SAATCHI GALLERY: GESAMTKUNSTWERK - visited 18/01/12
I actually quite enjoyed the wide variety of work that was on offer; Saatchi's legendary taste in modern art could be clearly seen. Most of the exhibits of the Gesamtkunstwerk show involved found objects displayed in different ways; some involved vitrines filled to bursting with crazily organised junk, precariously balanced piles of random bits and pieces arranged on plinths and covered in paint splashes, and scrap metal twisted into weird and wonderful shapes and painted in lurid, neon colours. 


Probably one of my favourite pieces was the Mirror Wall by Jeppe Hein; pretty much exactly what it says on the tin. However, this simple-looking work is hooked up to a rather clever infra-red sensor and vibration mechanism; as someone walks past the work, it begins to violently vibrate. This instantly draws attention to it, the reflections on its surface distorting and bending like visions from a fever dream.

Mirror Wall by Jeppe Hein (2010) Mirrored surface, wood substructure and vibration mechanism

Also, the work of Thomas Zipp caught my eye; a giant canvas named y-drops in particular. This work is strangely apocalyptic, devoid of colour; heavy greys and blacks are the extent of Zipp's palette. Two jet black "drops" descend from a slate-grey sky, looking as if they mean to engulf the slightly abstracted, mountainous landscape depicted beneath them. In all honesty though, my first thought was that it was what it might look like if God attempted to teabag a mountain, dwarfing the ancient crags of rock with His mighty testicles.

y-drops by Thomas Zipp. Oil on canvas.

The installation Schwarze Ballons, also by Zipp, was extremely unusual. This work is displayed in nine parts, one of which being two giant black three-dimensional "drops", (similar to those in y-drops) seemingly growing out of the floor and ceiling, and named Up and Down, respectively.

Up and Down, two parts of the installation Schwarze Ballons by Thomas Zipp

There were many other works of interest on show, but too many to list on this 'ere blog. I'm trying desperately not to make these posts into essays; but so far I've failed miserably. 

And so without further ado, I shall now journey back into London to visit the White Cube and Haunch of Venison. Hopefully, I'll return in one piece in order to blog about my adventures and appease the Almighty Tutors with my nonsensical scribblings.

ALL HAIL ODIN.

- Padfoot

TATE BRITAIN

The last two days have been a bit of a 'mare, to be honest. Been zipping back and forth between London, Milton Keynes and Hatfield a fair bit... Last night, after visiting Tate Britain, I was on the way to Hatfield by train. Halfway there, I realised that I had forgotten my uni house keys and so had to crash on a friend's sofa for the night. As a result, had very little sleep, but still managed to get to London to spend the morning looking at the Gesamtkunstwerk exhibition at Saatchi, and then mosey back to Hatfield to spend the afternoon/evening getting absolutely thrashed at Guitar Hero by my prospective new house-mates. So at present, I am absolutely fecking knackered, and the room I am sat in feels like its moving a lot more than it should be D: 


Anyway. To business.
TATE BRITAIN - visited 17/01/12
Bought a Big Issue before going inside. That's my good deed 
done for the year. 
I didn't spend ages at this gallery (I was attempting to get round and get home before rush hour) but even though it was only a flying visit, I did see some cool stuff here. Most of this was metalwork; there were some strange, stretched out forms of forged steel or cast bronze by Kenneth Armitage and Reg Butler that wouldn't be out of place in a Neil Gaiman novella.

Left: Woman by Reg Butler (1949). Forged steel.

Right: People in the Wind by Kenneth Armitage (1950). Bronze.

In another room, there was an Indian style headdress by Bill Woodrow, constructed from and still connected to different found objects. I liked the way that Woodrow had recycled these items, used them to make something completely different and therefore change the identity of the object.

Car Door, Ironing Board and Twin-Tub with North American Indian Head-Dress 

by Bill Woodrow (1981). Mixed Media.

Also, there was this guy. 

Sleeping on the Job - Me (2012). Digital photograph.

I do love candid photography... I just couldn't resist. 


As I said, I did also visit the Saatchi gallery today; but I am desperate for my bed... So I'll blog that particular visit tomorrow.
Until then - take care y'all.
- Padfoot

TATE MODERN AND TOTALLY UNCOOL ILLNESSES

So I just missed my essay feedback session with Pat Simpson. Sorry about that Pat. 
I have a valid excuse though; I planned to travel home on Monday morning and be there in time, but in the night I  was set upon by a particularly nasty stomach bug, and spent the next 24 hours alternating between lying on the couch feeling like utter shite and carrying out tactical chunders. 


I'm fine now though, thanks for asking.


But now, ladies and gentlemen, let me take you on a journey through time and space - to the weekend just past. I went to Tate Modern, to try and see the Richter exhibition; sadly it had packed up and buggered off a few days before I got there. BUT - I did manage to see the new Unilever show in the turbine hall - Tacita Dean's rather imaginatively titled "FILM".


"FILM" is a description as well as a title; for the piece is 11 minutes of video, all captured on Kodak colour film, edited and cut by Dean herself. The first thing I noticed was that the turbine hall of the Tate, normally flooded with light from its iconic windows, has all its windows blacked out. Initially, this makes the Hall into a dark and somewhat menacing space. 

When you pass the screen that separates the piece from the rest of the space - the Hall is lit up by this giant projection, on a screen that must be at least 50 feet in height. The scale of the projection itself is impressive, but the work is also clever in its own subtle way. Dean has used old fashioned techniques to edit the film, delicately layering different sequences and tinting the film different colours to give it an otherworldly feel. While I was watching the piece, some parents with small children arrived. The children began running around hyperactively back and forth in front of the screen, in that way that siblings chase each other round the playground. For some, this may have been distracting, but to me, the shadows and silhouettes that they cast were quite fascinating.

 Though it did not exactly move me to tears, I still kinda enjoyed this work. Photographs do not do this piece justice, it needs to be seen in the flesh. Definitely recommend it.


- Padfoot

ASSESSMENTS SUCK

Yeah. The title pretty much says it all. I'm actually cacking bricks waiting for the results, but I guess we'll have to see.

After 2 weeks of furious concentration which culminated in a mad sprint to the studios at 8.15pm on deadline day, I find myself at something of a loss. The studios are closed, and I have to wait until Tuesday to start pillaging my way through London's various gallery establishments because I am in dear old Milton Keynes seeing the family and spending the government's money up t'pub. As you do.

Still, having good fun scrawling my ideas down in illegible handwriting then cursing when I forget them and can't read my notes. It's a major part of my creative process, I swear. 

meanwhile, here's a picture of me with a beardnet for your entertainment.

Peace out y'all.

- Padfoot

I KNOW

...what you're thinking right now.

Well, okay. That's an outright lie. I don't even know what I'M thinking about right now. Apart from bacon. I'm always thinking about bacon.

Anyway, to the point. If you were thinking something along the lines of "WHERE'S THE FUCKING PLASTICINE YOU PROMISED?" well. First of all, wash your mouth out you sweary little bugger. Second of all - holy crap, I'm a psychic.

But seriously, I've been working on the clay things for the past two days; been a lot of fun, a steep learning curve but worth it. Here's a sneaky preview.

Ain't he cute?

HOLY BALLS

I've actually been working, much to everyone's surprise. Including my own.

This is a good feeling though; the creative juices are a-flowing rather nicely. Think I just needed to sit down and crack out some good work.

Recently I've been looking at Frank Miller, author of the comic series SIN CITY. I just can't get enough of his gritty, film-noir art style... Here's a tasty example.

Anywho, this reminded me of that WANTED poster I made, purely on a random whim and because I thought it might be funny. I wanted to have a bash at making a SIN CITY style character, change my appearance like that Cindy Sherman chick used to do... Except I wanted to make a villain, someone mysterious, and not a rape victim or a housewife. So I threw on a scarf and my famous trapper hat and goggles... and this happened.

I'm not sure about it personally;  in the words of a fellow art student, it has been described as "a russian fish". 

Do me a favour and bother him at lemon-squid.blogspot.com until his fingernails bleed ;)

I can see his point though...To get that Frank Miller style I have to use a special filter in Photoshop, and my god, its a bastard to get right. I have plans to blow this up into a big stencil at some point, probably if I get bored over the Gallery week.

for now though, time for me to be off. Gonna attempt to sleep, but I had a can of Monster with dinner, so thats probably a lost cause. 

- Padfoot

THE BEGINNING

Greetings, ground-walkers.

At the behest of the Almighty Tutors, I am to record upon this sacred tablet of the internets my progress and work that I produce on my Fine Art course.

But first, an introduction. I am Patrick, or Pat, or Paddy, or Padfoot. That's right, I have four seperate names. my last name ... Let's not go into that.
First and foremost I am a photographer, but I am also interested in film making and animation, and have experimented in other media as well.

in the last semester, I mainly pissed about with toy plastic soldiers, experimenting with depth-of-field (fancy focusing) and setting fire to them... I also drew faces on stuff. 


but in all honesty, I was lacking real direction, lacking confidence.

I called upon the Almighty Tutors for help; they said my methods were too "conventional". So in retort, I spraypainted my face onto some slices of bread. 


They didn't see that one coming.


As for semester two... Well, I have some ideas, but nothing fully formed. But expect lots of plasticine.

- Padfoot