Friday: Was bored out of my mind for many hours; it happens sometimes. I'd had a bad week, full of ups and downs, mostly my own fault but it seems like every time stuff goes wrong for me, the rest of the house seems to fall to pieces. Not related, just an unfortunate coincidence. I was in a mood where I craved company, any sort, and was disinclined to spend the evening at home doing nothing. To this end, I tried to get in touch with people, to see if anyone would come out. There's nothing worse when you're feeling lonely than to have everyone you call tell you they're busy. Eventually my brother asked if I would like to come to his girlfriend's house, as it would be her birthday on Sunday, and she was having a meal to celebrate it, and the fact that she was leaving the next day for Hong Kong.
Her housemates and a friend were there, polite middle-classes who have interesting jobs involving vaguely creative things. They seemed a bit put out by my brother, who is loud and brash and obnoxious and talks like a barrow boy when he's drunk. He got drunk. He also got tired, and told me I don't know what it's like to be tired, or stressed, or under pressure, because I have never worked a day in my life. It often becomes apparent that he thinks of me that way when he is drunk or tired. It seems a matter of pride for him that he thinks of me this way, as it makes his achievements grander, and diminishes my own successes, little though they may be.
Sunday: Dice Club again, first up, a band of 14 year olds, the lead singer wearing a white coverall thing, like police on a crime scene. He held up a book about dinosaurs and thanked Tesco. The music didn't make much sense to me. Next, a band called ddd, who were two men with a drum machine. They both played guitar, and the music was fast, furious, pretty good. The final act: Ulterior, formed of ex-members of The Jesus And Mary Chain. I don't remember much about the music, except that it was full of noise, and intense, and the man on stage was shouting, and there were flashing lights, and he kneeled in front of a flashing light and screamed into the microphone, and I lay on the floor behind the flashing light and took his picture, and I forgot where I was or what I was doing except that there was a camera in my hand and something vital happening in front of me and it was better than drugs or sex or booze. It felt like being taken away. It made me remember why I love to take pictures of music happening. It was good. Afterwards, a pretty girl from the audience wrapped herself around the guitarist and glued her face to his. It made me annoyed - that she should be there for that and not the music - but the night was a great one.
Monday: Dinner at Almeida, a new French restaurant. I had smoked salmon for starter, pork with mash and caramelised apple for main, creme caramel for dessert. The food was spectacularly good, and as good were the two bloody marys I had. The restaurant itself though was a bit uninspiring, looking like something you'd find on a cruise ship or first class airport lounge. Afterwards to Freuds for cocktails - I had a Yum Yum and a Cheeky Munky, feeling in the mood for milk cocktails. I liked the Munky more, and like the bar as much as ever. The music is forgettable and the crowd is often less than beautiful but it is nice, to sit in a little concrete room and drink good cheap cocktails.
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
Breakout
Friday: We have a little party in celebration of Rene getting older (not necessarily wiser but that's another kettle of fish). It involves blowing up 100 red balloons, with which to fill the kitchen; 100 multicoloured balloons, with which to fill the living room. Baking cakes, cooking food, stocking booze-shelves. Everyone is to wear a black hoodie. People start arriving at about 9; by 1am there's about 30 people in the house. I'm in the garden with some folks, and I'm introduced to our polish neighbour, who has been invited to climb over the fence and join our revellery. He is drunk; dancing away, like everyone else, he seems to be a bit grabby. I am not great with parties full of people who seem to think that the key to making me have a good time is grabbing me and pulling me into stupid conversations about if I'm having a good time, so I go up to my room for a while. A little later I hear commotion downstairs.
I went down; my housemates were animated, I asked what was up. Apparently the drunk Pole had gone into one of the rooms where a drunk girl was sleeping and fingered her until she woke up. When she did, and either screamed at him or told him to go away or whatever, he'd left. She'd left by the time I went downstairs, in tears. I went back to my bedroom, to be woken at 5am by the Pole bursting through the door. I was undressed on my bed, he took one look and said "sorry". I heard him go into some other rooms, then my housemates confronted him and took him down to the landing to explain himself. I got dressed and went down to watch. He spoke about three or four words of English, one of which was "sorry". I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. When I came back up, they'd let him leave, begging them to be kind as he had a wife and child.
Sunday: The police came by to get statements from us about Friday. They'd arrested the man shortly before. I spoke to the lady from CID for a while, and pressed her about the possibility of becoming a police photographer. It's hard to say "I am not interested in it for the gore" without either sounding squeamish or a liar, but the truth is, I'm interested in it as a regular way to make money for a while, so I can buy equipment and hopefully save enough to make something of myself.
Monday: I went for a long walk along the Thames, starting around the Peabody Estate in Battersea. It was a nice, bright day, windy enough not to be hot. It was beautiful, wandering among the houses which seem like they fell out of the 40's. I thought about the possibility of doing police work; I thought about, if walking there by the Thames, being enchated by the fallen down powerstation and the crumbling estates is my idea of happiness, what should I do for friends? I thought of how I get obsessed with things, ideas, people, places, if it's always a bad thing, or rather, if it's something that's integral to me, how can I intergrate myself into society - I do like being around people, and I do like to see people happy and having fun, I'm just terrible at joining in - and I thought about time, and how the wind felt on my face, and these things. It was a pleasant day. I made up my mind to do something - anything! - contructive with the day. Since finishing on the book I was working on, I have had trouble redirecting my energies, my concentration. I ended the day bady because of that.
I went down; my housemates were animated, I asked what was up. Apparently the drunk Pole had gone into one of the rooms where a drunk girl was sleeping and fingered her until she woke up. When she did, and either screamed at him or told him to go away or whatever, he'd left. She'd left by the time I went downstairs, in tears. I went back to my bedroom, to be woken at 5am by the Pole bursting through the door. I was undressed on my bed, he took one look and said "sorry". I heard him go into some other rooms, then my housemates confronted him and took him down to the landing to explain himself. I got dressed and went down to watch. He spoke about three or four words of English, one of which was "sorry". I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. When I came back up, they'd let him leave, begging them to be kind as he had a wife and child.
Sunday: The police came by to get statements from us about Friday. They'd arrested the man shortly before. I spoke to the lady from CID for a while, and pressed her about the possibility of becoming a police photographer. It's hard to say "I am not interested in it for the gore" without either sounding squeamish or a liar, but the truth is, I'm interested in it as a regular way to make money for a while, so I can buy equipment and hopefully save enough to make something of myself.
Monday: I went for a long walk along the Thames, starting around the Peabody Estate in Battersea. It was a nice, bright day, windy enough not to be hot. It was beautiful, wandering among the houses which seem like they fell out of the 40's. I thought about the possibility of doing police work; I thought about, if walking there by the Thames, being enchated by the fallen down powerstation and the crumbling estates is my idea of happiness, what should I do for friends? I thought of how I get obsessed with things, ideas, people, places, if it's always a bad thing, or rather, if it's something that's integral to me, how can I intergrate myself into society - I do like being around people, and I do like to see people happy and having fun, I'm just terrible at joining in - and I thought about time, and how the wind felt on my face, and these things. It was a pleasant day. I made up my mind to do something - anything! - contructive with the day. Since finishing on the book I was working on, I have had trouble redirecting my energies, my concentration. I ended the day bady because of that.
Friday, 28 March 2008
Hunt The Wumpus
Wednesday: Went to my father's; we watched the England Game. Some thoughts on the footy: Capello is a good manager - his greatness as an international manager remains to be seen. What he has done is make the players play for their places - although Ferdinand would be a ridiculous choice as captain full-time, appointing him for the game said to Gerrard and Terry (the obvious choices) that their position in the team is not down to status so much as how well they actually play.
Gerrard is a problem. He is capable of rampaging through games, but to me, lacks the intelligence to be a really good creative midfielder. Where once he was seen as a possible all-round central midfielder, now he is more defined by his limitations: the regularly over-hit long passes; the weakness he shows in the air; while his pace and strength get him past a player or two, he doesn't have the control skills to go past without a running start; his desire to drop back and get hold of the ball (when playing in a forward position) mean his undoubtedly classy long-range shooting skills don't come into play as often as they should; his tackling remains a liability, something he has dealt with by becoming less of a physical presence, rather than by improving his ability to disposses opponents. Ultimately, his place in the team should depend on his ability to provide dynamism to attacking movements and form with sticking the ball in the net. And it seems like that is lacking.
Terry, as the other option for captain, presents different problems. While he is loud, a good stopper, good in the air and reasonable when in possession, his lack of pace and on/off form make him someone I wouldn't trust as captain.
My personal choice would be Barry, as he is a captain and someone the team could be built around, but because he is only Gareth Barry, and only plays for Villa, his place in the side will always be considered a stop-gap until they figure out how to jam the right midfielders from the top clubs into the side. But for me Barry is the best choice, and the sort of player Capello should be building the team around. His limitations are not ones that will cost matches, and his strengths are his consistency, his cool-headedness, and, to be blunt, his unashamed acknowledgement that he ISN'T one of the superstars in the side. I have been of the opinion for a while that the best teams are the ones that have workmenlike players in key central positions providing supply to a rotateable collection of stars and creatives around them.
England lost the game without playing particularly badly. Capello has the team playing to the best of their ability; now he needs to improve that ability, or else find a system that focusses that ability in a way that the team has no misconceptions about how it should be playing.
After the match, I picked up a few bags of clothes from my father's and got the bus home. After getting onto a 242 at Dalston Junction, some kids got on the top deck where I was sitting. One of them grabbed my glasses and hat from my head, and hid them behind his back. I took them back off him after some (non-financial) negotiation, and sat back down. After a short while further on the bus, they all sat around me and attempted to light my hair and jacket with a cigarette lighter. One grabbed my glasses off my face again, and held them out of the window. When I stood up he told me to sit down again or he'd drop them. I grabbed his wrist, and he squeezed my glasses until they broke. While I was holding his wrist, one of the other kids started hitting my back, and the other tried to open my bag. I got my broken glasses and went downstairs to tell the drive; he called the police and waiting with me while they arrived - about 45 minutes. The kids had long gone.
Thursday: My colleague Filipa Ramos invited me for a pint and a trip down to Sketch to see some Portuguese DJs doing their thing. Sketch is a place that regularly gets voted one of the best bars in the world; it is owned by Jay Joplin of White Cube fame, and is curiously decorated. The main lounge was full, so we went to the smaller bar and had some beers. We managed to confuse the waitress into giving us two free beers; that made them taste better - Kasteel Cru doesn't taste too bad anyway. The toilets, of which I am sure a lot has been written previously, were great. Then home again, feeling a bit awkward to be riding the 242 again.
Friday: A day of moping; a complete lack of inspiration, a sudden onrush of melancholic nostalgia and pangs of loss combined like a triple-combo with finishing move. I have had some conversations about depression. I wouldn't say I get depressed, because I think that depression is a word used to describe many things which can be very different, like love. Love and sadness, sadness and love.. does one fuel the other? It seems that way so often to me.
Gerrard is a problem. He is capable of rampaging through games, but to me, lacks the intelligence to be a really good creative midfielder. Where once he was seen as a possible all-round central midfielder, now he is more defined by his limitations: the regularly over-hit long passes; the weakness he shows in the air; while his pace and strength get him past a player or two, he doesn't have the control skills to go past without a running start; his desire to drop back and get hold of the ball (when playing in a forward position) mean his undoubtedly classy long-range shooting skills don't come into play as often as they should; his tackling remains a liability, something he has dealt with by becoming less of a physical presence, rather than by improving his ability to disposses opponents. Ultimately, his place in the team should depend on his ability to provide dynamism to attacking movements and form with sticking the ball in the net. And it seems like that is lacking.
Terry, as the other option for captain, presents different problems. While he is loud, a good stopper, good in the air and reasonable when in possession, his lack of pace and on/off form make him someone I wouldn't trust as captain.
My personal choice would be Barry, as he is a captain and someone the team could be built around, but because he is only Gareth Barry, and only plays for Villa, his place in the side will always be considered a stop-gap until they figure out how to jam the right midfielders from the top clubs into the side. But for me Barry is the best choice, and the sort of player Capello should be building the team around. His limitations are not ones that will cost matches, and his strengths are his consistency, his cool-headedness, and, to be blunt, his unashamed acknowledgement that he ISN'T one of the superstars in the side. I have been of the opinion for a while that the best teams are the ones that have workmenlike players in key central positions providing supply to a rotateable collection of stars and creatives around them.
England lost the game without playing particularly badly. Capello has the team playing to the best of their ability; now he needs to improve that ability, or else find a system that focusses that ability in a way that the team has no misconceptions about how it should be playing.
After the match, I picked up a few bags of clothes from my father's and got the bus home. After getting onto a 242 at Dalston Junction, some kids got on the top deck where I was sitting. One of them grabbed my glasses and hat from my head, and hid them behind his back. I took them back off him after some (non-financial) negotiation, and sat back down. After a short while further on the bus, they all sat around me and attempted to light my hair and jacket with a cigarette lighter. One grabbed my glasses off my face again, and held them out of the window. When I stood up he told me to sit down again or he'd drop them. I grabbed his wrist, and he squeezed my glasses until they broke. While I was holding his wrist, one of the other kids started hitting my back, and the other tried to open my bag. I got my broken glasses and went downstairs to tell the drive; he called the police and waiting with me while they arrived - about 45 minutes. The kids had long gone.
Thursday: My colleague Filipa Ramos invited me for a pint and a trip down to Sketch to see some Portuguese DJs doing their thing. Sketch is a place that regularly gets voted one of the best bars in the world; it is owned by Jay Joplin of White Cube fame, and is curiously decorated. The main lounge was full, so we went to the smaller bar and had some beers. We managed to confuse the waitress into giving us two free beers; that made them taste better - Kasteel Cru doesn't taste too bad anyway. The toilets, of which I am sure a lot has been written previously, were great. Then home again, feeling a bit awkward to be riding the 242 again.
Friday: A day of moping; a complete lack of inspiration, a sudden onrush of melancholic nostalgia and pangs of loss combined like a triple-combo with finishing move. I have had some conversations about depression. I wouldn't say I get depressed, because I think that depression is a word used to describe many things which can be very different, like love. Love and sadness, sadness and love.. does one fuel the other? It seems that way so often to me.
Sunday, 2 March 2008
Paperboy
Thursday: To recap; the weekend before last my brother had come to visit. It was over my birthday, and my birthday weekend went something like this: thursday - went to Loss to take pix for the book. People I didn''t want to run into were there. Friday - had some crappy news in the day, then went to Lucha. People I didn't want to run int were there. Saturday - was going to go to Egg, although people I didn't want to run into would be there, but as I was getting up to set my hard-drive to backing itself up while I was out, I trod on the power cable and knocked it off my bed onto the floor. The drop is about a foot, but when I plugged it back in, it didn't work. The hard-drive contains all the pictures I've ever taken, including all of the ones for the book I'm working on - the most recent, being the only copy of them. Also all my other photos - trying to put an article in NME about Dice Club, and all the pictures from it are in the hard drive. Also all my old scanned photographs, esssential for my magnum application. Not a good situation. So, via some panicking, some hasty research, some begging for a loan off people I shouldn't ever ask for such things from, I managed to find a company who could fix it fairly quickly for a reasonable price - reasonable in comparison that is, they still said it'd cost about £250. Then, once they looked at it, they said they'd have to pass it on to their partners, and it's cost £460. Which is about what I'm expecting to get from the book. So, Thursday, I pick it up, take it to Mat's, to get what we can off it. There's a good number of pictures for the book on there, but, all the Dice Club pictures are gone, as are most of the scanned pictures. Heartbreak, expensive heartbreak. Beyond photography there isn't really much going on in my life at the moment, and I get a lot of reassurance from my photographs, to see that they're good is to know that I'm not wasting my time. To lose them is a bit like losing a part of me. On the good side, that evening I'm wondering what to do, when Terence Teh calls - he's someone who's writing on the book, a genuinely nice guy. He asks me if I'm free to do some pix for Dazed Digital that night and the following day. So, I took pictures of an exhibition opening, and then the following day, a portrait of a graffiti artist called Saber, and though it's not the magazine, it's certainly a start.
Sunday: the previous evening had found me going down to Richmix to watch Be Kind Rewind, and on the way home wandering along Brick Lane, which included a visit to the bagel shop as is par for the course. I wasn't too tired when I got home, and ended up falling asleep at about 3am. 8am I was woken up by a strange pressure in my belly; I had to rush to the bathroom, half in a daze. When I stood up to go back to bed, a violent retching burst from my stomach, which emptied itself with a certain force. So, for most of the rest of the day, I was back and forth between my bed and the bathroom, dozing and incoherent, shivvering, sweating, too hot or too cold. It was not fun. Standing up was difficult and my back ached intolerably; I'd become dehydrated very quickly. Now I lie in bed with a belly that feels like a water balloon, sloshes from side to side when I move, but not so sick, and the shaking has gone. Food poisoning is terribly sudden; that bagel was no good, obviously. But now that I've had a sleep and woken up again, and had a long bath, I feel a bit better. But, all things considered, it has not been a good couple of weeks.
Sunday: the previous evening had found me going down to Richmix to watch Be Kind Rewind, and on the way home wandering along Brick Lane, which included a visit to the bagel shop as is par for the course. I wasn't too tired when I got home, and ended up falling asleep at about 3am. 8am I was woken up by a strange pressure in my belly; I had to rush to the bathroom, half in a daze. When I stood up to go back to bed, a violent retching burst from my stomach, which emptied itself with a certain force. So, for most of the rest of the day, I was back and forth between my bed and the bathroom, dozing and incoherent, shivvering, sweating, too hot or too cold. It was not fun. Standing up was difficult and my back ached intolerably; I'd become dehydrated very quickly. Now I lie in bed with a belly that feels like a water balloon, sloshes from side to side when I move, but not so sick, and the shaking has gone. Food poisoning is terribly sudden; that bagel was no good, obviously. But now that I've had a sleep and woken up again, and had a long bath, I feel a bit better. But, all things considered, it has not been a good couple of weeks.
Wednesday, 13 February 2008
Metroid
Saturday: My friend's little sister comes to town, and I promise to show her some fun and unusual things to do in town. Tonight there's a few clubs we might go to, but ultimately we just go to Grind-a-Go-Go, myself reckoning that she might need to be eased into the way of things here as she's only little. A fun time was had; at some point I check my phone for news, and it turns out Camden has burnt down. Not all of camden, obviously, but the parts that really, really, really needed to burn down. The Hawley Arms, once famous for its over-the-counter dealing, and now just somewhere for people who are barred from The Groucho to lubricate their angst. I liked it when it was properly seedy, back in about 96; it was somewhere you always felt nervous going into, because everyone knew it was just for buying dope or whatever, and the only people ever drinking in there were your proto-crusties, dog on a string types, inevitably some distant landed aristo's son or whatever but in Camden to sell beads they probably smuggled out of Mongolia up their arse, or at least had to bribe someone vastly more than they're worth. And a large section of the market is gone too. Good. It was never great; Dingwalls was always one of the least appealing venues in London, and I don't know if it's gone, but I'm hoping it has. And that god-awful bar with the upstairs bit. I think in the pictures that's where the flames were coming out. Good. Back home, the young lady slept in my bed, and I slept downstairs. It's odd sleeping in your housemate's room, you feel a bit like an imposter, but especially when you're sleeping below your own room, you wonder what sort of noises they hear. Or rather, try not to wonder..
Sunday: The young lady and I spent a good deal of the day wandering and talking, from Spitalfields to Brick Lane to Abney Park cemetary to Ally Pally for the sunset. It was really, really nice. Then she hoped on the tube and I made my way to Dice Club, where the middle act was a few members of what used to be Black Wire, playing their first gig. They were dead friendly, and I got some decent pix; on the off chance that they make much of themselves, I will be in a good position to sell them.
Monday: A day spent doing not much, but in a good way. Firstly, went to a shop to look at some jeans I like. There was a sale on, and the jeans fit me well.. new jeans! I don't know why such things make me happy but they do, greatly. Then on to Yard for some pizza; it was good. The place seems to pride itself on delivering pizza of any size though, and I was a bit disappointed that the standard size seemed to be "smallish medium". Then on to The Print Rooms for Mat Irwin's Dazed & Confused exhibition. He's a definite rising star in the fashion photography scene, and I said hello as he's a friend of the lady I was with. We might be going for dinner all together in March, which is exciting. His photography reminded me of Mari Sarai's, one of my previous photographic mentors, but a bit more gay and less energetic. There's a big divide in independent fashion in London; two magazines dominate, Dazed & Confused, and i-D. I definitely fall into the Dazed camp, probably because I've assisted on a lot of i-D shoots and they seem like the most disorganised people to do business with. Anyway. After that on to Husam el Odeh's exhibition, at The George And Dragon, one of those gay pubs on Hackney Road. It was nice to say hello to him again, and see Mari and some of her friends, and Britta to. All fashion folks I've met and worked with before, and, like most people in that industry who are at all successful, very nice and very friendly. The day left me feeling.. optimistic.
Wednesday: my new laptop arrived at long long long last. It feels like one of the final pieces of the jigsaw is falling into place. But also, as tomorrow is my birthday, the last few nights I haven't been able to stop myself thinking about things. Today I spent most of it wondering after my friends overseas. There's one in particular.. you know there are some people who will never see your point of view, even if you have a million things in common, and no matter what, you can never find the words to say what you want to say to them, or the right words to say the right things.. like now. I could write five hundred words on just how fantastic it feels for things to be going right sometimes. But, the words I want to say to her? Random snippets of sentences, which she'd never read because she doesn't get to read my blog where she is anyway. But basically: believe in love. Don't give yourself without it. If you do, love goes away, and without love, life is meaningless. And a meaningless life is the root of all your ills, my love.
Sunday: The young lady and I spent a good deal of the day wandering and talking, from Spitalfields to Brick Lane to Abney Park cemetary to Ally Pally for the sunset. It was really, really nice. Then she hoped on the tube and I made my way to Dice Club, where the middle act was a few members of what used to be Black Wire, playing their first gig. They were dead friendly, and I got some decent pix; on the off chance that they make much of themselves, I will be in a good position to sell them.
Monday: A day spent doing not much, but in a good way. Firstly, went to a shop to look at some jeans I like. There was a sale on, and the jeans fit me well.. new jeans! I don't know why such things make me happy but they do, greatly. Then on to Yard for some pizza; it was good. The place seems to pride itself on delivering pizza of any size though, and I was a bit disappointed that the standard size seemed to be "smallish medium". Then on to The Print Rooms for Mat Irwin's Dazed & Confused exhibition. He's a definite rising star in the fashion photography scene, and I said hello as he's a friend of the lady I was with. We might be going for dinner all together in March, which is exciting. His photography reminded me of Mari Sarai's, one of my previous photographic mentors, but a bit more gay and less energetic. There's a big divide in independent fashion in London; two magazines dominate, Dazed & Confused, and i-D. I definitely fall into the Dazed camp, probably because I've assisted on a lot of i-D shoots and they seem like the most disorganised people to do business with. Anyway. After that on to Husam el Odeh's exhibition, at The George And Dragon, one of those gay pubs on Hackney Road. It was nice to say hello to him again, and see Mari and some of her friends, and Britta to. All fashion folks I've met and worked with before, and, like most people in that industry who are at all successful, very nice and very friendly. The day left me feeling.. optimistic.
Wednesday: my new laptop arrived at long long long last. It feels like one of the final pieces of the jigsaw is falling into place. But also, as tomorrow is my birthday, the last few nights I haven't been able to stop myself thinking about things. Today I spent most of it wondering after my friends overseas. There's one in particular.. you know there are some people who will never see your point of view, even if you have a million things in common, and no matter what, you can never find the words to say what you want to say to them, or the right words to say the right things.. like now. I could write five hundred words on just how fantastic it feels for things to be going right sometimes. But, the words I want to say to her? Random snippets of sentences, which she'd never read because she doesn't get to read my blog where she is anyway. But basically: believe in love. Don't give yourself without it. If you do, love goes away, and without love, life is meaningless. And a meaningless life is the root of all your ills, my love.
Monday, 28 January 2008
Head Over Heels
Thursday: A day of work.. it's not bad thing this job, or at least, the bad things are made up for by the good things. It's the sort of thing a lot of people would describe as a dream job, although (I imagine as is often the case) even the best jobs can grow tiring. It was a mixed-up week, with my editor having some trouble with forgetfulness re: his bank card, his diary etc. He's a remarkably pleasant chap but I fear the pace of this job does not suit him. After a fairly long day, he went off to some arsery hosted at The Hospital, and I went off to take pictures at a gallery opening, and then to Flaxon Ptootch, in Kentish Town. I arrived early so called up a photographer I know at TimeOut who lives around there and dragged her out for a pint. She came along to the event: Flaxon Ptootch is, by day, a hairdresser with gallery space on all the walls.. but occasionally by night it turns into a cocktail bar with music and performance. The lady singer and the harmonica player from the Alabama 3 did an acoustic set; some guy did poetry about smoking crack. All the crowd seemed to be locals.. it went on late, and was still going strong when we left... one of those little gems in London that would be ruined by overexposure, but it's going in the book..
Saturday: I am working on a little project of taking slightly surreal portraits of people dressed in interesting ways. It started with Tammy and the Sky Pirate/Flapper Zombie Hunter pix, and I asked her if she had any friends who might enjoy it.. they had to bring their own costumes but we'd try to set the shot interestingly. This weekend was the turn of Siberfi, a friend of hers who got me into White Mischief a little while back. We had a good shoot - three interesting looks, including one of the guy covered with large white petals. Then the evening reared up, and we all went off to somewhere called The Candy House. This is a private residence which basically seems to have been build for parties. A lovely chap called Nicholas lives there, who is a costumier - our arrival was delayed a couple of hours while he dealt with Madge, who apparently likes to take her time. Then people started arriving, and we were all dressed in Regency clothes - I had a gold and cream thing on, waistcoat to my knees, britches, embroidered coat.. it was fantastic. We were to be hired to be a crowd at Egg, a nightclub in Kings Cross.. the payment was already all spent, on a few crates of champage, which we dealt with appropriately. Then 14 of us to the club, in cabs, like some sort of libertine re-enactment society. The club was not particularly fantastic, although it picked up a little at about 2am. Then back to The Candy House, and much fun, and I got home at about 8:30 in the morning.
Saturday: I am working on a little project of taking slightly surreal portraits of people dressed in interesting ways. It started with Tammy and the Sky Pirate/Flapper Zombie Hunter pix, and I asked her if she had any friends who might enjoy it.. they had to bring their own costumes but we'd try to set the shot interestingly. This weekend was the turn of Siberfi, a friend of hers who got me into White Mischief a little while back. We had a good shoot - three interesting looks, including one of the guy covered with large white petals. Then the evening reared up, and we all went off to somewhere called The Candy House. This is a private residence which basically seems to have been build for parties. A lovely chap called Nicholas lives there, who is a costumier - our arrival was delayed a couple of hours while he dealt with Madge, who apparently likes to take her time. Then people started arriving, and we were all dressed in Regency clothes - I had a gold and cream thing on, waistcoat to my knees, britches, embroidered coat.. it was fantastic. We were to be hired to be a crowd at Egg, a nightclub in Kings Cross.. the payment was already all spent, on a few crates of champage, which we dealt with appropriately. Then 14 of us to the club, in cabs, like some sort of libertine re-enactment society. The club was not particularly fantastic, although it picked up a little at about 2am. Then back to The Candy House, and much fun, and I got home at about 8:30 in the morning.
Friday, 11 January 2008
Congo Bongo
Thursday: My housemate has her exhibition opening at No:ID gallery in Shoreditch, a squatted gallery just off the high street. I'm not great judge of art and was skeptical when she told me what she had planned, but she completely pulled it off - postcard size montages of mixed media compositions, scanned at high resolution, printed A3 or more and framed - it looked really good. My friend Rob Luck came along, great name for a great chap. He's an art gallery manager somewhere upmarket in town, so I thought he might add to the flavour somewhat. Afterwards we went for a drink, and my friend Felix was over from Afghanistan, where he's been dodging bullets and building the first independant newspaper in Helmand. He's very, very, very cool. Not in a sunglasses way, but in a doing-good-things-for-the-world-with-his-arse-on-the-line sort of way. His house has a courtyard and a seperate building for the security to live in. And a pool. How cool is that? He's offered me a possible story out there, which a) gives me nightmares (probably not a bad thing to be a bit scared) b) takes my career down a completely different path (I'm not interested in chasing bullets but I would like to do more reportage) and c) could earn me a decent lump of cash. I'm under no illusions that I will ever change the world, but I'm at the point now where I just want to take the best pictures ever. Afterwards we all piled back to mine for some vodka, my friend Lilian turned up, went to bed and wasn't heard of until the morning - she was flying back sunday - and we stayed up talking politics (from the looking-down-the-barrel point of view), women, art, music.. it's probably about as grown-up as I get. I think I mostly tried to crack wise..
Sunday: It's pointed out to me that this has a tendency to become "emotional pornography" whenever I'm down. I've had a fair bit to be down about of late what with work killing me and being ill and stuff, but the fact of the matter is, I started this as a way to document my own recovery from melodrama and arsery. So, next time I feel the need to nope publicly, I'll start a new blog just for it. With a hit counter. So I can find the sad bastards who actually bother to read it.
Monday: My nice opera cat came for dinner; it was really lovely, and she ended up cancelling her evening appointment to stay for dinner. Ace. She's brilliant.. she wouldn't shut up about stuff, of course, and she seemed vaguely amused that I don't live in a hole in the ground - first visit to the mansion - and I was of course dead happy that she liked my bolognaise. I do make a good bolognaise, but some people think it's a simple thing to make. And it takes me three hours to do properly.
Tuesday: Met some friends at the Groucho, ended up talking to an old fart who thought he was saving the world through climate change banking, and a girl who used to be on Hollyoaks who was laughing at blatant drug dealing then got hammered (and banged some producer guy in the toilets). Afterwards went for a lovely meal at Andrew Edmonds where I almost got in a fight with some Germans because I was being too rowdy. Oh the irony.
Wednesday - Friday: Shooting every day for the book; highlights included a long talk with the owner of Coffee, Cake and Kink in Covent Garden - he's mad, a bald man with tits and a dress and big ears, which actually has nothing to do with the derangement. A little deranged? The madness lies in the coffee - he literally won't shut up about it. Also the scooter cafe in Vauxhall, a fantastic, fantastic place, worth a visit just for the hot chocolate. Thursday night I went back to No:ID to take some pictures of some art that the owner made - combat teddies. He's a funny frenchman, terribly cool in that slightly aggressive french way, his teddies are quite good. Before you knew it there was a male model getting his top off and snogging them, we made a backdrop from shiny plastic, there was a small crowd, it was 2am.. nice pictures though. And then an early start on Friday. By the time I got home I was ready to drop. So I did.
Sunday: It's pointed out to me that this has a tendency to become "emotional pornography" whenever I'm down. I've had a fair bit to be down about of late what with work killing me and being ill and stuff, but the fact of the matter is, I started this as a way to document my own recovery from melodrama and arsery. So, next time I feel the need to nope publicly, I'll start a new blog just for it. With a hit counter. So I can find the sad bastards who actually bother to read it.
Monday: My nice opera cat came for dinner; it was really lovely, and she ended up cancelling her evening appointment to stay for dinner. Ace. She's brilliant.. she wouldn't shut up about stuff, of course, and she seemed vaguely amused that I don't live in a hole in the ground - first visit to the mansion - and I was of course dead happy that she liked my bolognaise. I do make a good bolognaise, but some people think it's a simple thing to make. And it takes me three hours to do properly.
Tuesday: Met some friends at the Groucho, ended up talking to an old fart who thought he was saving the world through climate change banking, and a girl who used to be on Hollyoaks who was laughing at blatant drug dealing then got hammered (and banged some producer guy in the toilets). Afterwards went for a lovely meal at Andrew Edmonds where I almost got in a fight with some Germans because I was being too rowdy. Oh the irony.
Wednesday - Friday: Shooting every day for the book; highlights included a long talk with the owner of Coffee, Cake and Kink in Covent Garden - he's mad, a bald man with tits and a dress and big ears, which actually has nothing to do with the derangement. A little deranged? The madness lies in the coffee - he literally won't shut up about it. Also the scooter cafe in Vauxhall, a fantastic, fantastic place, worth a visit just for the hot chocolate. Thursday night I went back to No:ID to take some pictures of some art that the owner made - combat teddies. He's a funny frenchman, terribly cool in that slightly aggressive french way, his teddies are quite good. Before you knew it there was a male model getting his top off and snogging them, we made a backdrop from shiny plastic, there was a small crowd, it was 2am.. nice pictures though. And then an early start on Friday. By the time I got home I was ready to drop. So I did.
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