Mierle Laderman Ukeles





I recently read about Mierle Laderman Ukeles' 'Maintenance Works' in Miwon Kwon's 'One Place After Another'. Kwon's interest was more in Ukeles' use of the gallery space and how cleaning revealed the white cube as an institution with mundane maintenance tasks, where as I was more intrigued by the idea of cleaning as a creative process. As I have been looking at materials that are overlooked, why not processes too? Reading the essays in 'Dirt' also gave me more context and awareness about how deeply rooted our social stigmas are to do with dirt, and how cleaning is ritualised in many ways.

 

 

A few things caught my imagination in Ukeles' Manifesto for Maintenance Art 1969. Firstly her insistence that maintenance is continuous, ongoing, never ending... I interpret this as a futility, which I have a great interest in. I have never really thought about cleaning as a 'poetic' process, but recent research has made me consider the significance of removing dirt, restoring order and fighting natural processes. Ukeles is right - there is always something to be done because order can never be upheld for long in life. I am reminded of Long and Goldsworthy, indeed the ephemeral nature of there work matches Ukeles' despite the contrast in setting.

 

"Everything I say is Art is Art.  Everything I do is Art is Art." reminded me of Martin Creed's way of working, although I think Creed is less prescriptive about it. To Creed, every act is a creative act whether he says it is or not, but the way Ukeles phrases it here makes it sound like a choice. The (almost aggressive) tone to her manifesto seems telling of how contemporary and potentially challenging this work was in 1969, but it now feels a little outdated; Creed takes the attitude of her manifesto as assumption and makes work with Ukeles' notion already established. Nevertheless I am drawn to this way of perceiving everyday processes as it reveals a significance and meaning in the mundane. There are elements of her cleaning as 'performance art' that reminds me strongly of ritual, especially as it is fronted by a manifesto that reads in places like a doctrine.

 

I decided to clean a floorboard as a way of thinking through my ideas about this process as a creative act. I thought about the similarities (of which there were many) and differences (of which there were very few) between cleaning this floorboard and any other process that I use in my art. I often view making as a kind of meditative ritual anyway, as performing a lengthy or repetitive action puts me in a calm and thoughtful mind-set, and there is often a sense of endurance, patience and diligence in these moments. In spite of this there is something about the ritual element to what I was doing, and indeed Ukeles and some performance art in general, that makes me a little ill at ease. I think it might be in the documentation or viewing of the performances - I find something quite odd and perverse about ritual being observed or presented as something to be observed. Although I decided to film myself cleaning, the work would be less uncomfortable for me if there was no viewer at all.



 

 

 

The activity of cleaning one floorboard was not only about the action, but I wanted to explore how cleaning reveals the dirt. One would not realise or pay attention to how dirty the floor is without knowing what it is like when it is clean. I'm not particularly enthused by the results of this experiment. If I were to develop it into a work I would make it more delicate, instead of the minimalist approach of cleaning one whole board. I would clean into the pattern of the wood grain, which would also highlight the pattern of the wood and possibly make people think about the history of the material too. 

New Ideas

I've been thinking about how to take the project forward after the assessment and in particular what work I can make for the exhibition. I feel like I have quite a bit of freedom at the moment to do a work that is not necessarily related formally to my latex works and that is perhaps more spontaneous. As all my work this term so far has been site specific to my studio, and would not make sense displayed in a different space, I must work in response to the Poly and in a very short space of time. I'm looking forward to the challenge - I certainly work better with a particular space, or brief, or even viewer in mind, and work more efficiently under strict time constraints.

I have thought of a few ideas over the last week that are quite separate and largely unrelated to any work that I have done, but which I am really interested in.

1.      An hourglass containing dust from the Poly, that would either be engineered to last the duration of the exhibition, or that would be a shorter time (30 mins, 60 mins) which would encourage the viewer to pick it up and turn it themselves. This furthers my thoughts about collecting an environment and reducing it to a single object. Using dust hovered from around the Poly speaks of all the people who have visited the space over months and years. I also like the idea of involving people by allowing them to turn it and control it so that it becomes relevant to them.

I will look into hourglasses online this week and investigate whether it might be possible to make a hole in a glass hourglass to re-fill it with dust. I think it might be quite a challenging idea to execute, and may not be achievable before the exhibition.

2.      I was walking home from the studio yesterday evening and happened to glance to my right into the doctors surgery where I could see a cleaner hovering the reception area... dust from a doctors waiting room! I love this idea, it speaks of time in different ways - as well as the dust being a collection of particles over time it is from a space specifically for passing time. I also really love how 'phobic' it is. People usually have a certain repulsion to dust, but dust from a doctor's surgery will have the added connotations of ill people and bacteria. I am intending to go and enquire as soon as possible so I can start planning the work - not looking forward to explaining myself.

3.     Another idea that has been with me for a little longer, but has been quite separate from my studio work is to present my old, disused, shrunken contact lenses, labelling them 'Six Months of Sight'. To me they are very significant objects, at one time allowing me to see and to live life, but now completely defunct. It is interesting to think of them as describing time as well - I use them for six months, so six months of thought, of memories, of travel and distance, of colour, of the seasons changing...


I think perhaps I could link the ideas, presenting objects next to each other which would link together in interesting ways, so that connotations start to form in the mind of the viewer. I am really excited about this less restricted way of working, where I can act on spontaneous ideas instead of having to work up to them by researching for weeks. I often find that I have ideas that I don't act on because they don't relate to my current project, even if they are really interesting to me. I think I am feeling more confident to follow these kinds of ideas after hearing how Simon Fujiwara s and Cornelia Parker work, by allowing themselves to encounter ideas instead of obtaining them directly from research.

I am really enjoying the theme of time that is emerging in some of my ideas. Perhaps researching Katie Paterson for one of the writing tasks has had an affect on my thinking and sensitivities towards objects describing time and how ordinary things can represent our mortality.

Susan Collis

It was suggested in my tutorial that I look at the work of Susan Collis, who uses everyday objects covered in the seemingly ordinary stains of wear and use to stage a misconception as, up close, the marks are revealed to be made of precious jewels and expensive, decorative materials. This links in some ways with my latex prints of the floor presented in the frames - they are set up as if decorative images, worthy of wall space and attention, but are repulsive and base on closer inspection. Collis' work does the reverse, but using the same method of established thought and preconception.

About contrasts of beautiful and absolutely ordinary  - latex work beautiful v repulsive.... mine is more abject.

"An encouragement to test what we think we know" - Jonathan Watkins in Susan Collis 'Since I fell for You' at Ikon Gallery (catalogue)

Futility - 'Refugee', 2007 drawn out bag  that looks same as mass produced one. There is a beuty in futility, and work is a reminder of our preconceptions.

interesting idea of something looking absent minded/accidental but being very formulated/ curated - reminds me of set design, where things are made to look old - perfecting art of making things look old, giving them false time and history is curious deception. "to replicate the accidental".

problematic - an ordinary object presented in gallery setting is suspicious - makes people expect something (wont stop looking until they've found something) - "Much of Collis’ work can go un-noticed and this visual gamble results in a possible conceptual pay-off that rewards concerted investigation by the viewer." - what information is given is very significant, can make the work - but also destroys the work if its purpose is investigation and the information is read before viewing it - 'gamble' a good way of putting it. You are rewarded for curiosity.

Emphasis on process and making - craft + laying bare use of assistants

Cornelia Parker ink - its not what you think it is - perhaps more of my work, and works that I am drawn to are about perception than I realised...

Uses materials that have built up connotations....diamonds might not be the finest but they represent something more.

Likened to Charles Ray in use of commonplace materials to make something odd/awry - 'Hinoki' a copy/sculpture/cast of a fallen tree in a different type of wood - its identical but its achieved in a different way, has a falseness and truth.


Notes and quotes found in researching Collis

"The point is epistemological, pushing us towards the kind of truth that informs the title of the work" -  Watkins, Since I fell for you, Ikon


"she inverts the logic of the readymade by remaking the commonplace with interventions so seamless they could be entirely overlooked". Nigel Prince, Since I fell for you, Ikon

Cornelia Parker

I again thoroughly enjoyed Cornelia Parker's visiting lecture, and made a point this time round of asking a question and speaking to her afterwards. In particular I was curious whether she sets out to make work or whether it just happens in the way that Simon Fujiwara described in his seminar. Parker spoke about how she leaves some works for years before acting on them, some she seeks out herself, some are made especially for commissions and others are made in response to chance encounters and things she passes in the street.

I was really interested in her 'War Room' installation, the tent made of the used poppy cut outs material. I asked whether this work was made particularly for the WW1 Centenary, and she said she had been wanting to use the material for years but hadn't yet had the chance. I really like to hear from visiting artists about how they make work as well as the work itself - it is always insightful and reassuring to hear how successful artists conduct their practice. I also have works stored away which I plan to come back to one day.

Fuj v Prker labels

Website

I have been making a proper website to show all of my art as I felt I was missing a formal place where my work was sufficiently visible. Previously I had directed people to Flickr (where I upload finished works), Instagram (where I upload anything that seems interesting) or here to showcase my work but none of these were used solely for that purpose.

http://jessrussell.wix.com/artist

Although an awful lot of decision making was involved in formatting and arranging the layout, the main decision to reflect on is the one I made to not only present my finished, titled works that I have exhibited, but to show some less formal products of 'making'. I have catergorised this section into 'making images', 'making objects', 'making as action' and 'making and site'. I have done this because I think it is a major part of my practice - to view only the final pieces would not be an accurate representation of what I do. I often take images (usually the ones I post on Instagram) which are not good enough quality or in an interesting enough format to warrant being an artwork, but are still potentially interesting and thought provoking. As I makes so many maquettes, trialling different structures, materials and compositions it seemed like a good opportunity to show pieces that I am pleased with and find visually exciting that I have chosen not to develop further.

Deciding which works were 'proper' artworks was a curious process that has made me question what it is that I enjoy about art making; for I have selected all the pieces that have been in exhibitions as 'proper' artworks, but some of these are not as interesting ad the scraps and maquettes that are in the making section. I have always found this - that the making is more enjoyable when it is experimental. Maybe I get bored with a work too quickly, so when it more developed with less potential, I find it uninteresting. In one PASS crit I remember having, someone in my year said that it is important to go through your own work every once in a while and evaluate it - throw work away, decide to develop it, make decisions about it. Choosing which catergory to put my work in felt like this, and it has helped me to understand my practice more by observing qualities, themes and attributes that make me think of something I have made as a 'piece of art'.

Perception Exhibition

I decided to enter a work into the Christian Union's mini exhibition with the theme of 'Perception' out of curiosity to see what I could come up with. I also thought it would be interesting to get some different feedback on my work and speak to some new people on different courses about their practice. My immediate thoughts were to present a latex 'print' of the vestibule floor, similar to the one that Ed and I made, where it picked up all the dirt. I have struggled with the collaborative piece a little as I haven't found a way to display it effectively - it is a very awkward shape and difficult to hang up as it is so flimsy. To me it doesn't seem like a finished work (although it is slightly different as the emphasis of the collaborative piece was on the process, with the latex being a documentation of the time it took).

As I wanted to create a formalised, finished (respectable) piece for the exhibition, I bought some picture frames with which to begin experimenting. It seemed like an easy answer. I (very roughly) tried the latex in the frames to see if it would look at all effective, and was pleased with the result. I also poured a rectangle of latex over the floorboards, let it set and tried this in the frame, but thought it looked a little too grotty and didn't work quite so well. Without the geometry of the tiled floor the latex looked too 'natural', muddy and earthy instead of an aged manmade relic. I was also keen to keep the visual connection to stained glass windows considering the nature of the exhibition.

Although I would never usually use picture frames, as I think it makes everything a bit tame and twee and employs a load of connotations about 'living room' art, I think the frames are really curious juxtaposed with the latex. They literally frame the work as being something it is not - they set up the image inside to be something pleasant and tasteful, worthy of being on a wall, when this is not the case. It adds confusion and questions. What is it that I'm looking at? Should I like it? Should it be beautiful because its in a frame? Perhaps the dirt is more appealing in this context, or perhaps it is even more repulsive when you look closer and realise what it is and that the frames are deceptive. I thought this was very fitting with the theme of 'perception'.

Untitled (Entrance Hall)

 

(latex, dust, dirt, household debris)

 

 

It took a few attempts to get the latex prints right for the frames as I poured the latex too thin to begin with so they came out very pale and insipid. Although I am usually drawn to groups of three, I thought two frames was enough due to their size; having only two somehow makes them more bodily, more tangible. Three would certainly have been too overpowering. It has been good to see my work in a different context, with a new selection of other works to create connections with. I am really looking forward to our plans (in our studio space) to put on pop up exhibitions - it will help to keep up the pace of my work and bring some new ideas.

 

I received some very positive feedback. A surprising amount of people thought them very beautiful, and saw the dirt as fascinating more than repulsive. In my tutorial yesterday, we also spoke about how intriguing this method of display is and how I might want to explore more formal methods of display, such as plinths, cabinets or ropes used in museums. Using these methods with really abject or confusing pieces could be very interesting, and I am very positive about extending the archaeological connotations that often arise in my work. 

 

A quick note for a future work: I observed (when my housemate accidentally shook her umbrella over the drying latex in the entrance hall) that the latex turns milky when it is rehydrated... although this does not last and dries out again, it might be interesting to see what happens when a sheet of latex is left out in the rain, mapping the raindrops.  

Cartography of the Floorboards

 I've been interested recently in 'converging' space by collecting environments into images or objects that can be taken in in one look (as opposed to spaces, which require moving around and adjusting the body). The latex strips did this to some extent with the studio floor, but I wanted to conduct a more thorough investigation and pick up more of the debris between the boards. I used a hoover to collect dust from each crack, emptying out the dust after each line and collecting it in bags. I was mapping the space with its own remains, observing how there was considerably more dust in the floorboards towards the centre of the room and there was more chipped white paint and plaster in the cracks closest to the wall. One idea I had was to really analyse the collection: weighing it, working out its density, deconstructing the colours present into charts, viewing them under the microscope... I have had several comments about the floorboard strand of my work being reminiscent of archaeology, which I really enjoy and would consider extending further.

 

I like the futility and almost ridiculous nature of hoovering a room floorboard by floorboard, where there always seems to be a sense of that question 'what's the point?'. But this question, instead of a criticism, always speaks to me quite profoundly of art and life and all human endeavour. I am content with, and even look to provoke this question with my work. People rarely apply it to very detailed paintings and drawings that require a lot of time and refined skill (although, for me, why not use a camera = what's the point) so I think this question arises because I observe the mundane, the things that people think have nothing more to give, and are too familiar or disregarded to be worth making art about. Dust seems particularly inviting of the 'what's the point?' response, as it is always disposed of and is also hard to preserve. Interestingly, two artworks that speak to me strongly of futility, Francis Alys' project 'When Faith Moves Mountains' and Katie Paterson's 'Inside this desert lies the tiniest grain of sand' both involve sand or dust. The futility of ephemeral artworks and installations might be an interesting topic for an essay or the dissertation.

 

 

I decided to further scientific connotations and present the dust in petri dishes, inspired by the artist Sonja Baumel (whose work I have previously spoken about). On googling their origin and purpose, a petri dish is said to be "a shallow cylindrical glass or plastic lidded dish that biologists use to culture cells" - there is a curious relationship between growth and decay in a petri dish; bacteria can be associated with both, and so can dust. The petri dish was invented to prevent contamination of air borne germs when growing cultures, and to be easily observed under the microscope... which is also what makes them a good display method for the floorboard dust.

 

On a side note, I was interested to see that the 'Petri Dish' wiki has a section on petri dishes in art, listing the works of Michal Rovner (which I really like) and Antoine Bridier-Nahmias. The connection between art and science is becoming increasingly apparent. 

Somebody told me about an ex-student of the Fine Art course, whose practice became making very slight and subtle interventions in the exhibition space, such as cleaning the floor. I am also cleaning the floor (or under the floor) but the act itself is not the work, the material remains of it are presented as the work instead. Framing the work in this way not only allows it to speak of the time and space throughout which the dust has accumulated, but of the process by which it was collected and curated into an artwork. When relics are viewed in museums, you would think about the original time and culture to which they first belonged, as well as the people who excavated or found them and how they came to be in front of you.

Brief Notes on Finding the Profound in the Everyday

Brief Notes on Finding the Profound in the Everyday

Finding meaning and sincerity in things has become an artistic objective of mine. Profundity is more often felt and found in the monumental, the dramatic and the opulent, such as in grand Cathedrals or beneath exquisite sunsets. Whilst never losing their splendour, these things can become exhausted and cliché; in my work I draw attention to commonplace materials, familiar objects and everyday environments, finding in the clichéd matter of day-to-day life a rich and stunning poignancy.

1.       Words

Words are not certain. They must be explored thoroughly. Words can have meanings that you are not aware of, which have significant and profound connotations. Accept that although you are able to read these words, you will never truly understand what I mean by them. Or perhaps, what these words mean to me as I think of them. Every word that I am writing is singular to me, and my understanding of it. Every word you are reading is singular to you, and your own past encounters with it. Every word that you read has connotations that your mind is automatically processing without you realising, summoning memories of sight and sound, of a person, of a place, of a time. My definition of a word is not the same as yours.

This page contains 457 different words. Recount your relationship to each one. When did you first hear it? When did you first speak it? When did you first read, write, question, type, sigh, shout, know, forget it? Unlearn your familiarity with this language. Acknowledge that every word you are reading has a history that you do not know. A word’s etymology is a map of societies, politics, languages and religions past. What of history are you referencing when you use without hesitation that word you thought you knew? Investigating the evolution of a word can reveal obscure and unlikely connotations, and will reconfigure a disorientation in the mundane.

Note: Synonyms and antonyms are also very insightful. They reveal surprising connections and contradictions in the association of words. The opposite of a word can often be found to relate very closely to its synonyms

                                 i.            The opposite of charged is empty

                               ii.            Empty spaces are able to be charged

2.   Space

It is customary to notice more in unfamiliar spaces. Learn to routinely re-evaluate everyday environments using all your senses. Recognise points in a room where your eye is naturally drawn, to posters, paintings, mirrors and large furniture, and then consider the spaces where they are not. Indulge in the imperfections of a wall, and wonder what has caused them. Consider all the in-between spaces, the gaps between the fridge and the freezer, the clock and the wall, the books on their shelves. Note that:

                     i.            Spider webs are symbols of unnoticed spaces. If they are seen, they are swept away. Consider the Greek Myth about Arachne the weaver, who was bound to spin intricate webs for eternity, and observe their ephemeral beauty before you remove them.

                   ii.            Skirting boards are designed to improve the look of the join between the wall and the ceiling. They are installed and then forgotten.

                 iii.            The recesses between computer keys are glutted by the oils of greasy fleeting fingers. Whilst you order letters into words about your life, recognise that the particles beneath can reveal just as much.

                 iv.            Moths lie in domestic lamps, those that flew too close to the light. Forgotten spaces are defined by small lives and small deaths.

3.   Objects and Materials

 Consider the objects currently within your arm span. Some of them will have value to you alone, the relic of a relationship or a reminder of a time gone by. Extend your perception of value to the objects of little importance around you, which are purely functional or ugly in your eyes. The waxy residue of a nearly burnt out candle - how many hours of your life had that flame been burning? A brass key to your front door - how many other doors across the world can this design unlock? What’s behind the door? A wooden table blemished with chips and years of hot mugged ring marks - where are the people now, to whom those drinks belonged?

 As with words, understanding the history of objects and materials can transform their familiarity. Note that:

                     i.            All found objects are poetically charged objects

                   ii.            All matter is historic matter

                 iii.            All matter has an inexhaustible past

                 iv.            Everything on Earth was once among the stars

 Objects are moments in time. The precise culmination of atoms of which they are comprised is a ludicrous improbability. Think again about the brass key, made of copper and zinc, and wonder at how you unlock your front door with the remnants of dead stars. Be curious and question how the world was made, how the world you know was made: extracted from the ground, melted, moulded, shaped by machines. Who made the machines?

 Note: Where words can evoke auditory associations, objects and materials call on all senses. Find in an angle a measurement of the world, or in darkness the hues of outer space or in a texture a vivid memory through your fingertips.

 Recently my attention has turned to dust, the ultimate, ubiquitous matter of the everyday. Synonymous with ‘dirt’ and ‘grime’, the namesake and reason behind dusters and dustpans, it is a disregarded and ill thought of material. Surely dust could never be beautiful. Consider however how it came to be and what it represents. Dust is the debris of time. It is the material remains of all the people and activities that have occurred in a space over months or years, a catalogue. Dust is both life and death, telling of the body’s growth and decay simultaneously. Skin cells shed and fall like grains of sand in an hourglass. Snug in the right angles of your houses, mapping small ledges and the high planes of your dressers, lie days of you. Between the floorboards, dormant ranks with wooden flanks, the dust is shaped by your weight, kneaded downwards by your absent-minded journeys along the hall.

 

 

Word List

 

BAMS - Finished Medal



"The first step in making the ‘Remnants of a Supernova’ medal was the decision to collaborate, which came about through our shared interests in the poetics of materials and the desire to follow a conceptual approach. As we work mostly in three-dimensional mediums in our separate practices, embarking on a project with a new material prompted a curiosity in the bronze itself; we were particularly drawn to its weight and solidity in the palm. It was very important to us that the design would be intrinsic to the medium and direct all focus to the physical properties and poetic nuances of bronze.

 

All matter on Earth was once among the stars and therefore no object is without history. Copper and tin, the primary elements of the medal’s bronze alloy, are produced in supernovae - the celestial explosion that occurs when a star has exhausted its fuel. Thus, around the edge read the words REMNANTS OF A SUPERNOVA FITTING COMFORTABLY IN THE PALM. On one side there is inscribed the chemical formula of the bronze used, CuSn4, and on the other an impression of a hand so that it fits naturally into the palm when held.

 

Stars are inherently poetic, they are profoundly beautiful and mysterious, and exist as a constant in the course of humanity and man’s understanding of the world. Entwined in centuries of myth, religion and science, stars both represent and invoke questions of who we are and how we came to be. Revealing the material’s history, its identity, elevates the significance of the medal in the mind. Although purposefully simple in design, the metal traverses time and space, existing as remnant, as residue of distant places and historic happenings. It rests in the hand as tangible evidence of an astronomical phenomenon of a scale beyond human comprehension.

 

The medal was made initially from wax, we poured hot wax into the palm, holding it until cool in order to pick up the details of the skin. The impression of the palm is a suggestion of our place in the Universe. Not only drawing the arm downwards and evoking an awareness of the body, the handprint is a record of something acutely personal to one human at one particular moment, made from elements that have been recycled throughout time and space."

 

 

 

I was pretty happy with our final medal. Ed and I both agreed that it was an accurate outcome to represent both of us together - the medal would have been entirely different if it were made by either of us alone. It was most certainly a collaboration. I am really glad that I worked with someone else; it was good to be able to discuss ideas and decisions together, when both of us really cared about the outcome. It is also really satisfying to achieve something together as a team.

 

We received some really good feedback from people - about the surface of the medal, how it looks like stars, and what a thoughtful concept it is. Apparently the writing is also particularly clear and well executed. Bronze is something I would be more open to working with in the future as I have enjoyed the process and think it is such a beautiful weighty material.



Snug in the right angles

 

Bad Marks and Good Advice

The time from the assessment to now has been a tricky one, full of feeling a little lost and worried about the work I've been making. When submitting my work I was struck by how little, really, I had done - the latex that I presented as if a final piece was work that I had made in October. I can accept that I liked the work, and so didn't change it very much, but I feel I could have been more productive and found other successful pieces in that space of time up to January. I also began doubting whether I like my work anymore, whether I've grown a little tired of it and whether I really understand what it is I am trying to say through it. I felt I followed the latex floor pieces because that is what everyone else said was the most interesting, when perhaps I had already begun losing interest in and momentum with that work

I didn't have particularly high hopes for the assessment (just as well). I still need to clarify why I received my mark and how I can improve as I consciously addressed the need for development that my feedback stated last year. On the other hand, I remember my assessment tutorial last year, where it was said that marks don't matter, that I should continue doing what I enjoy and that low marks do not necessarily mean uninteresting work. Its a tricky one to get my head around - do I want to get a first (yes), or do I want to make the most of my time and make work in a way that suits me?

The studio essay has so far proved to be a baffling task. I've never found something so difficult to write. Trying to write it has left my view of my entire practice confused and stifled as it has raised so many questions... what is my work about? Does it make sense for me to write about my work in a personal way if my studio work is impersonal? I feel I need years of practice writing, establishing a voice before I am confident enough to do the task. More optimistically (and I think I still remain optimistic that I can write something for it that I can be pleased with), I am newly determined to write more and to explore my thoughts and ideas more thoroughly through writing.

I participated in a workshop run by Marc Messenger on 'Observing the Everyday. We discussed Georges Perec's writings about how to re-view everyday environments and change them into something alien and unfamiliar. This gave me some very helpful idea for my Studio Related Essay, for which I have now written 'Brief Notes on Finding the Profound in the Everyday', inspired by Perec's 'Brief Notes on the Art and Manner of Arranging Ones Books'. Marc also suggested we find systems and sequences in ordinary places (colours, numbers..) that start to become interesting and might provoke some ideas. I chose to focus on the library as I find it a really interesting place anyway, but one full of the mundane. It struck me that when people go tot he library they only ever really concentrate on the books so I decided to consciously avoid these; instead I photographed the empty spaces at the end of the shelves, observing how they became quite confusing when removed from their context and it would be difficult to identify what they were from the photos.

I also began to look at the slips of paper inside the book covers, where the books were stamped as part of the old library system. I have been considering these 'logs' for a while now, as the logged dates are a really poetic thing to me. They invite so much thought and imagination - all we know of the person is a date that they definitely existed and the choice of book that they found interesting enough to take out and presumably study. I think I might make a work using a particularly poetic book, perhaps about time, and present the dates slip as a remnant of all these people and their shared interest. I found the workshop particularly relevant to my practice, and really useful in giving me some new ideas to work with.

The Simon Fujiwara seminar was also very thought provoking, reassuring and a very good experience (very glad I sign up to these things!) One of the main things that I took from the meeting was a better understanding of how work comes about. Fujiwara said how artists must trust 'biology' and their natural instinct to do something, or make a work; one reads and researches, and then carries new sensitivities into everyday life. This was a bit of a revelation to me, as sometimes it is tricky to show an explicit link between research and work, for fear of being too literal. This idea has really resonated with me, and I feel more content to trust my instincts and let chance and opportunities influence my work - although it is perhaps less chance and more the brain being more open to relevant things.

Time is going too fast.

Time is going too fast.

I can’t describe it. The images. Click. Click. Click. The images on that goddman circle, spiral. That continuum, clicking into place on that old, borrowed relic in my head. Forehead grown warm, and faint, feint anxiety wavers in the hollows of my cheeks, in the tippytip touch of my tongue on my front teeth. And I think of life as film, and not as life. My mind numbs at the bleak blanche grottiness of all that time ahead and all that time behind.