I Went To See Some Art.

On Saturday I went to see the Damien Hirst retrospective at Tate Modern. This year seems to have been a big one for art, and not solely as I work at a gallery and swim in Titian, Munch and new commissions and acquisitions but more cause Hockney happened and everyone got all excited and Joey Barton tweeted about going to galleries on his days off. 

I had not been fussed about the Damien Hirst, I saw a guy on Channel 4 News with a Gin & Tonic live from Inverness in the April sunshine selling the 'it’s not art' line quite well, whilst the studio pundit did a rather shit job of defending Hirst’s status. Plenty of people have been to see it but wasn’t until a colleague recently recommended it (and was genuinely surprised at my disdain) that I decided maybe it was an opportunity to really decide, for myself, first hand, where I stand on Damien Hirst. 

The exhibition got itself off to a good start without Hirst’s help but as my companions, two school friends, are some of my favourites to wander round galleries with. The first thing to hit us was young Hirst in Dead Head – the smirking art student pulls his head up to a severed head in an anatomy lab. It becomes increasingly obvious why this work opens the exhibition, more so than the Dead Cow Head In A Box (labeled by the artist as A Thousand Years) Dead Head expresses in an instant, the devilish look in Hirst’s eye, the cheek and the scandal, this is a man obsessed with the path through life, and the world after death. Not what happens after death, but how the human processes it and how we play with it in the world around us. Let's be honest, he's hardly the first artist to be intrigued by death and anatomy.

From the pocket of stagnant air seeping out of A Thousand Years – through to the life cycle of In And Out Of Love, (the butterfly room) on past the huge microscope slides like slices of whole cow cracked in two, complete with embryotic sac and calve deep inside – seeing Hirst’s work as a whole changes things. It’s no longer the wanker with the shark in a tank, 'or god, I painted dots on my bedroom wall at 15' (I did – I’m that much of a wanker myself, mine are more Sol LeWitt than Hirst mind, and I'd never seen either) but you see a fastidious obsession with form and continuation. My favourite work took me by surprise, Lullaby The Seasons, at first look a glittering series of display cabinets lined with various ‘every day’ pills on their long mirrored shelves, each of the four cabinets has a different colour scheme, and glancing at the name makes the obvious blatant. Pills for the seasons; pulling your year along one swig and swallow at a time. 

Rachel and I chatted on the tube hours later about whether Hirst was more valid than Miro - recently on in the same space in Tate Modern. In the exhibition I found myself unsure as we walked round whether I could compare Munch and Hirst; both men’s work is defined by deeply personal preoccupations.  I’m still not sure, but I do know as we looked round we ripped at ideas and were repulsed or intrigued with different works – so I’d say, although no Damien I don’t want to spend £1,800 on a poster in the shop the curator definitely wins – this is an exhibition. Like wandering through Hirst's mind, it is most definitely art to make such a performance of your inner ponders and curiosities.

Top Nine Films of 2011

It has been a while since I've posted anything up here and I was hoping to make my Top Ten Films an annual thing but what with new jobs, soul searching and general anxiety and distractions including going to the cinema, running and drinking beer I've not just sat down and written.

They are a Top Nine as I have a feeling one of the three films I desperately regret not seeing Hugo, Drive, Tyrannosaur would easily have been in this list so there is a space to represent my inadequacy at not always making it to the cinema.

I would also like to mention the Edinburgh International Film Festival. In 2010, many of my favourite films were viewed at the fantastic June festival, in 2011, the lack of a inviting 'buy loads of tickets - save some money' offer meant I attended nothing. Thank shiz I still caught The Guard (no. eight) post the festival. If you feel the same - I implore you to support film makers who need audiences and someone to take a chance on their film - by letting the EIFF know we will come and see film upon film and take lots of risks if we get a leeeeetle bit of help.

My top Nine films of 2011.

Nine
My Week With Marilyn
Michelle Williams. Tis all. (Oh and Judy Dench playing Judy Dench)

Eight
The Guard
'Where are you getting your cocaine, cause those are different streets to where I'm getting my cocaine'

Seven
Senna
For certain events and moments, the team had over 20 different options of footage. Do not for a second consider any knowledge of Formula One to be relevant. A truly extrodinary documentary.

Six
Super 8
'Guys watch out'

Five
Rise of the Planet of the Apes
Just super brill. Perfectly paced.

Four
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
'There's a mole.' And it's been a long time since he spent his weekends down by the river with Ratty.

Three
Bridesmaids
I have no words. If only my life was this funny* *I sometimes think it's this funny in my head.

Two
Weekend
Utterly beautiful, the accident that is love, and lust, and cups of tea (sans sugar).
And I can testify, in all soppiness, two days are not nothing, or at least, they weren't for me. (I do not feature in this film as a gay man.)

One
We Need To Talk About Kevin
I have never so nearly walked out of a cinema as it got so uncomfortable, yet this film really is almost perfect. I stuck it out and it stuck in my head for months... Lynne Ramsay is a genius.

Mariah Mariah Mariah - I Shudder To Think

A dear friend of mine, from Christmas offices past, often shares pop music with me as she's just that kinda lady. This is what I found on my wall (not chimney) this good morn.

The product placement extravaganza opens with a white gloved wrist and a bell. No MJ’s not been digitally recreated, and photoshopped into a handbell pose, it’s Santa. Duh. He’s on the street, and he’s jolly as fuck. His sack of presents is very small - recession on the streets y'all. A ‘hiii—aaaah’ brings Mariah into shot between not one, not three, not four but oh actually just four Christmas trees. She’s standing against a wall, provocatively, Mariah, leaning up against walls in a very very low cut, high leg dress and ringing a bell probably isn’t going to invite the right kind of attention. Oh shit – it’s a chimney – I get it. The sha-do-ba-de-do-waps begin (does anyone remember sho-do-ba-de-do-waps from the original?)

In comes Bieber with a shopping trolley – stolen from ASDA carpark on a crazy night out. And scoots past Mariah on some kind of insane supermarket sweep – she winks at him (has Dale heard MazC is stealing his moves?) another four Christmas trees flank Biebs. WOAH. You’d never guess which season they are evoking.

Bieber and chums spot Mariah sho-do-be-do-wapping Bieber enthralled; his friends less so, I’d say one of them is downright confused and unsure where he is. You are IN Chistmas dude, DEAL WITH IT.

And it kicks in. I’d really never noticed how gormless* Biebs is – although I’ve never spent that long looking at him. *Bieber fans – gormless means exceptionally-attractive-boy-child. Mariah turns to the wall to sing, maybe Santa’s stuck in there and her vibrations and bat calls are the only way to free him? Oh no – it’s fine, santa’s fine outside ring ring ringing his bell.

At this point it becomes clear either a.) Mariah doesn’t have any rhythm b.) Mariah is a one trick pony or c.) Mariah doesn’t really know what a bell is. RING IT WOMAN, don’t just toy with it.



Now Justingle starts singing. I tried to get a good freeze frame of him really needing a poo but worried about my flat getting burnt down, trust me, around 1.45-1.51 there are lots of good ‘Justingle desperate moments’.

I think my favourite thing about this musical desperado – besides now knowing all I wanted was a generic-games-console-DS from Macy’s – is how brilliantly Biebs & MazC’s voices clash on the shuddering. (Shuddering is a Christmas singing style in which you effectively impersonate chime bells through pop music, but not as prettily.) There’s a good example of class shuddering at 2:17.



Mariah, for the last time – put that bell DOWN if you are not going to use it properly. Anyone noticed how when Biebs comes down off a high note he looks both confused and pleased with himself? Oh god Biebs and MazC are in a Sleigh. With a puppy. Sorry ya’ll I can’t keep on with this, I keep imagining Justingle tripping in some reindeer wee and bashing his face off santa’s merry sled.

Ah and the quiet of unstepped on snow and saintly baby Jesus has been restored.

Miriam Attwood watches X Factor, paints her nails, eats a bacon roll (mayo mustard tomato) drinks 2 cups of tea and daydreams a bit about whether the crying and going my life is over if I don't get through would be a good tactic for any further interviews I get. (THIS BIT IS CONTEXT - they always do that on the guardian live blogs)

It was TWO HOURS LONG so that was too much to live blog, but I made some notes of some of the best bits, I may have been out of the room for some or other of the best bits but I think I got all of Johnny's chats.

The Judges were all in different posh houses with infinity pools. I can't remember what happened at the beginning of the show as it was TWO HOURS LONG. But Johnny was featured in the before the credits bit saying something adorable and camp and self-deprecating.

There was a large amount of forgettable action, there was a band with some boys who I'm pretty sure were just there to advertise Topman, some little class jokes (the posh one did a posh voice and another one did a rap), and loads of braces; a bit 2009 ladies? There were several raps. Tulisa got annoyed cause one of them didn't do their own rap and did Tiny Tiddles rap instead. She said 'You know I don't like it when they do that.' There was lots of pink lipstick and tears and people sitting on stuff gazing. Some of them stood up to gaze. And cry. They ALL cry.
Two Shoes were on fine form - I like them as they do not cry as much as the other ones. I think they have job satisfaction in Essex as it is: 'You will eivver change your liafe completely or (in unison) you just dont.' Well said ladies.

Kelly looked very pretty. J-Hudz was her chum being a celebrity helper. They were very pretty and said nice things about the pretty (forgettable) girls that sang.
Jade Fae Fife said of going on a speed boat in Miami bay: 'I've only been in a rowing boat so I was nervous about that' (points at boat.) I no longer care that she just does Adele - I want her to win so we can here more insights from her life fae Fife.

Gary and Robbie did some jokes about being 90s pop-stars and falling out again. The fat annoying kid from Essex with the dad that bought him singing lessons sang terribly out of tune and out of time. Gary and Robbie cringed, it was really really bad. I think his singing teacher maybe should have taught him more than one song. Another forgettable youngster, possible surname Vickers (any relation of Diana?) was titled as as 'Amusement Park Squirrel, aged 19' when he came up to sing. The one that The Sun had claimed posted himself having a wank on Youtube was nowhere to be seen.

Louis and Sinitta may have well just handed over proceedings to Johnny Robinson.
Johnny on Sinitta: 'I was hoping it would be Cilla, but we got Sinitta so I can't complain'
Johnny on being a wee bit browner than usual: 'Yes Dermot, I had a spray tan'
Johnny on life on the X Factor 'Look - I can't believe I got this far. Did my audition on stage - I think the judges liked it as I got a standing ovation.'
Johnny on his sleeping arrangements 'Where I live is very pokey, just a bedsit.'

Benefit Fraud, ahem, Friends.

The constant and lingering existence of ads for the film Friends With Benefits has reached a point I can no longer avoid. From bus ads across cities the world over (Edinburgh), to the leading film add for Cineworld’s current audience recruitment campaign I feel I can go no longer without commenting on the marketing for this, 2011’s ‘summer date night film’. For ease, I have numbered my discomforts.

ONE: I do not want to see that nightmare-edged Black Swan Mila Kunis holding her thumb and forefinger in close proximity whilst squeaky-shoes-squeak-voice Timberlake gazes absent mindedly into the middle distance with a forefinger ready to slot into the aforementioned universal scuba diving symbol for OK.

TWO: Why would I want to go on a date with someone and suggest that we are not as sexy and kooky as some sexy kookier young (mid 30s) NON-couple who have adventures on the Hollywood sign? Why would one not want to see a Norwegian subtitled faux-documentary about Trolls or a Steven Spielberg (ok, JJ Abrams) suspense marathon with the delightful Dakota Fanning and an alien with the tendencies of a magpie?

THREE: Typically with rubbish there are too many despicable alternative names for this rom com. Will You Do Me Now - Is Anyone Else As Pretty As Us? - Will STDs Be A Problem? - Of Course (Pretty) Boys And Girls Cannot Be Friends – Did Not Natalie Portman And That One Married To Demi Moore Do This Film About A Year Ago?

FOUR: The whole jumble of pseudo-misogyny allows Justin Timberlake’s press tour soundbites to sound a little like this, ‘yeaaah, it’s nice to be in a film with a girl with guts you know? To have someone to play off’ Piss. Ye. Off.

FIVE: IT IS NO LONGER SUMMER. The heating is on in the office (and I work for a charity), my feet are constantly blue and crackly and the skin on my face and hands is dryer than a martini off a much more seamless ‘date movie’ starring an age avoiding agent from a non-existent portion of UK intelligence known as 007. Even if this is a date night film, don’t drag ‘summer’ through the dirt with it – remember Summer? The kooky Zooey one in summer date night film 500 Days of Summer. Oh fuck it, drag away, it's not stopped raining for three months anyway.

Henry Pitter: The End Of An Era (Part One)

At the end of this week Harry Potter: The Final Fandango hits cinemas. Emma Watson has dressed as a swan and cried, JK Rolling has cried (surely just sobs to cover the mixed emotion that the sentiment ‘I’m just too rich’ produces in the inconsolably rich) and Danny Radcliffe has given up booze. It’s funny hey Dan, when you’re first offered a glass of wine for free you drink five, and then by the time you get to 25 you realise it’s difficult to drink and count piles of cash. Blurred vision’s a nightmare.

When I first read Harry Potter I didn’t get it. We didn’t own the books at home, and it just didn’t appeal. My first read of the opening chapters filled me with nothing but nonsense and piffle. My second encounter with The Philosopher's Stone saw me enchanted – you just have to get past all that stupid being in a cupboard stuff. Who do you think you are Harry, Andy Peters? You need a hand puppet for starters. But now – having fallen in love with the idea of being a wizard, oh come on, fighting dark lords and managing not to kill Hermione or snog Ron for 7 whole bookish years? I realised the similarities between myself and Harry. Loosely. One of my childhood houses had an amazing cupboard-under-the-stairs and by my third and forth read I dreamt of being back on St Andrews Road, in the cul-de-sac reading Harry Potter in that cupboard with dad’s defunct cameras and that weird 80s carpet cleaner. Chuck in a good wadge of teenage angst and general anger at another house move and I felt as distant and outcast as Hazza. I also have a scar on my forehead.

It would be an understatement to say I loved those books, my mum brought them home from school for me to read and I would read as I walked from class to class, onto the bus, in the car, I remember getting a lot of reading in during Miss Young’s Spanish classes (between her tears at the whole tutor group’s contempt for education) and probably spouted some arrogant revolting cheek along the lines of ‘err, Miss, I’m reading, and it’s not like I’m going to learn any Spanish from you anyway.’

When the films were announced, I discovered kindred spirits in several other HP fans in my class who thought the films were gross misconduct. I mostly thought the films were a problem as I wasn’t in them – and yes I did send off a letter to the address on Newsround when they announced open casting.

Anyway a bunch of us traipsed off to see the first film that soggy Christmas – and we discovered one thing. Not only were the child actors terrible, but it was delightfully camp. Harry Potter fans will know that when the first film was produced JK Rowling was still writing, and the Order of The Phoenix was a heart aching three years after Goblet of Fire. Kate Pyper and I came up with a plan. Based on the style of film one, the principles of consequences and using MSN messenger – and our Spanish lessons – we would write the fifth book before JK Rowling could be arsed to.

Thus, Henry Pitter and the Infamous Plan X was born.

Return to Oz. Sans notebook.

This jumble of words has been a long time in the offing. Apologies to all who have had to suffer the indignity of waking up heart in mouth after a night of fitful dream filled sleep, imagining stories of theft, overly sentimental reviews of films, stories of absolutely nothing - in short, searching in vain for a new Vamoosh post on a social network, only to discover one’s subconscious cried out in vain.

I like to wait until content's no longer relevant before writing; think of me as the Radio One of blogs. So with that in mind – here’s this year’s time down under. (I have also lost my notebook so it’s not that funny – all the witty OZ stuff was in the notebook that I lost – thank shiz it’s not another blog about me and my possessions ey, ey?)

Four months anywhere is a good length of time. Four months in Adelaide is a length of time. Besides my slightly ridiculous love affair with the Central Markets – and fierce distaste for the Garden of Unearthly Delights, or rather, what has clearly trampled on a quite spectacular Fringe venue (the Garden of Unearthly Delights maybe five, ten years ago) it was a gentle four months of wine, The Wire, sulks, mosquitoes and cough inducing laughing fits. I lived in two houses, one in the Forest of Dreams and one in Mitcham, ‘posh Adelaide’ in a large house on my own, with a silent Possum, and hobbit home and a stash of pirate DVDs. But less of that – and more of the Forest.

The Forest Of Dreams – Hurtle Square to your TomTom Crew – so named in the 80s by a German Artist who was commissioned to make art for one of the many CBD city squares* and plonked large wrought iron letters stating The, Forest, Of, Dreams on each corner of the centre of the square (traffic lights). I lived in Of. Dreams housed a Barn Owl, I had a nice clamber on Forest in the early hours of my 25th year and The and I really didn’t get on. It was quite a magical place, 56 Hurtle Sq, with a porch and some quite wonderful people. I whiled away many hours going ‘Woah I’m going to miss having a porch back in Scotland.’ I’m back in Scotland, I don’t miss having a porch here.

I spent some time in Melbourne, Gemma lent me a bike. It was cooler in Melbourne in March than one would presume, so I wore my skinny jeans and fell off the bike mid dismount several times. I also cycled roughly 5kms to Brunswick Street – the best place in Melbourne – with a hand drawn map. Reciting over and over in my head that bit in that Baz Luhrmann Sunscreen high school leavers’ message style rap, (rap?**) where he says, ‘do something everyday that scares you’ and tried to keep my brain from replacing ‘scares’ with ‘kills’. I did not cycle any such distance alone again.

I spent several days in Sydney. I nearly killed my friend Jeremy and may or may have not aided and abetted his premature leave from full time employment. What? No, he resigned…*** But I did spend four blissful hours dancing to badly rehashed house with many of Sydney’s gay Sunday night partiers, and was told at 25, yeah, I am getting too old to dance until 5AM.

Oh and I worked at a festival. He was inspired, she was funny, that was woooooah look out for that. Fuzz found fodder to laugh at me the day after shows besides their hilarious content almost every time. I'm still not sure what they were thinking and that made mine and Emma's day.




*Someone told me this once. I can’t remember who or if it’s true.
**Someone told me this. I can’t remember who, or if it’s true.
***Someone told me this. I can’t remember who...