5/19/2016 0 Comments Generation Why... but the mood is different this time round. He's accompanied by his friend, which I wouldn’t mind so much if he didn't completely ignore me. He's a French Fine Artist working in Advertising, so basically an A-hole. The only time he speaks to me is to ask whether I’ve heard of him, and if I have a lighter.
Here I am, propped between my date and his aloof sidekick, in a garden dense with mosquitoes and moths, preparing myself to sit through three hours of documentary shorts unified by the theme: female subjugation and abuse during wartime. Sipping on a pint seems inappropriate while watching re-enactments of mass rape. I feel uncomfortable and ashamedly hipster. Evocative portraits of tortured African women are projected onto the garden screen, accompanied by grim voices recounting extremely violent events. Shocked, I cry silently in the darkness, and then, I let out a scream – not from the footage but from a giant moth that whips my face with its dusty, terrifying wings. I call it a night. --♥-- My first encounter with Y was in a newly renovated restaurant of a boutique hotel in the second arrondissement. At the table, his opening words were: “Bonjour” followed by “I hate the small talk”, and then in a serious tone that suggested I would be judged no matter what I answered, “The sanctité of marriage, what are your thoughts?” Being progressive and of The New World, I shrugged and said something insightful along the lines of “meh”. This clearly wasn’t the response Y wanted, and sensing this, I went in for the kill and asked him whether he was a homophobe. We hadn’t looked at the menus yet. It turned out that Y was indeed a homophobe, a fact that became apparent at a Thai restaurant, which turned out to also be a Trans joint. I discovered this first when I went to the bathroom, where, découpaged across the toilet walls were graphic photos of homoerotica - ladyboys with hardons bulging through tight skirts. I returned to find Y upright in his seat, his half eaten Tom Yam Goong abandoned, and his gaze scurrying about the room. “Ca va?” I asked. He leaned across the table and whispered, “The waitress, there at ze bar in halter top, she has a big back, like a man, non?” Coincidentally, a shrill burst of laughter came from a nearby table occupied by a clique of men who, at the risk of sounding presumptuous, were quite obviously Thai and gay. This seemed to be the missing piece to the puzzle that Y was trying to crack. His eyes widened. “Here. Is. A. Gay. House.” After calling it off with Y, for a plethora of reasons, things festered. He spammed my phone with a never-ending chain of messages. His tone was poetic, needy and defiant, which, written in broken-English, read like a sad haiku. The unwanted attention lasted about two months. At first my ego was intrigued. But as the messages became monologues, and Y took to paraphrasing A$AP Rocky, my curiosity turned into cringing, and finally remorse. --♥-- A: Just finish working… wanna cut my hair? Me: ? A: I’ll go home now. I need a haircut. Two different sentences not related. And just like that, I’d slid from bae to barber. Any serious dialogue I attempt in person is met with anecdotes about Danish girls or complaints about not being able to wear jeans to work. All of our magical dates flash before my eyes as my fantasy loses consciousness and dies a violent death. I cough up its last words, “Long-distance – Meet. In. Asia.” He runs his fingers through his hair with both hands, and says, “Look, a Mohawk!” I remember that I have the dregs of an almond croissant at home and this fills me with instant joy. He mistakes my smile as being directed at him, and in response his face contorts into a big toothy grin. I have an urge to pat him on the head like the farmer does in the movie, Babe. “That’ll do pig, that’ll do.” The next morning, I discover, with a shock, a handwritten note lying on the floor. It must have been slipped under my front door during the night. Uneasily, I wonder how someone got past the two security doors. It is ripped into two strips, each scrawled with black texta. Either it was written by him, or a child retard. The message makes no sense – just half-formed sentences and a story about climbing a mountain. I can't figure it out. Not any of it. But whatever. The 30-year-old teen was already an anomaly. A spazzy riddle. I'm not in the mood to decipher another one. I take a photo of it to send to friends and then roll it into a ball and drop it into the bin. --♥--
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5/2/2013 8 Comments MI CASA NOT SU CASAShare-house living beyond bin juice and crazy people In an attempt to self-soothe and process my recent onslaught of house-sharing disasters, I decided to make light of my experience by recounting it as humorously and honestly as possible. Because sometimes the most effective way of moving onwards and upwards, or at least anywhere but down, is to laugh so hard at the situation that it becomes completely absurd, at which point you can disconnect, deflect, and exhale. I moved to Madrid 6 months ago, sliding instantly into a shared apartment with five guys, one of whom is my boyfriend. A combination of jet-lag that only Europe-bound Australians truly know, being previously unaccustomed to living as six in the one space, and the fact that I have a vagina, meant that fusing seamlessly into what looked and smelt like a Frat house, was certainly an ambitious goal. Determined, I tried to ‘self-initiate’ through a combination of excessive drinking, surviving on a diet primarily of pasta, playing darts like a pro, feigning a refined knowledge of beer, and basically downplaying anything female. 6 months later however, I am awoken by the drunken shrieks of my housemates destroying furniture and elatedly throwing eggs at the kitchen ceiling. I have an epiphany. I decide I no longer want to live in a place that you need to build an immune for and in which you can’t risk going bare-foot. I have loftier expectations and look to a brighter, more promising house-sharing horizon; one where I don’t slip on bin juice, one where we don’t eat using plastic spoons, one where solids don’t liquefy in the fridge. Yes, channelling Martin Luther King, except in reference to house-sharing, I have a dream. My dream, and consequent fortnightly mission that pursues, is to find a new home, preferably tended to by females wherein I am not enveloped in a curious testosterone funk. The upside of Spain’s downside is that there are plenty of rooms available thanks to the housing crisis, among many, here in Madrid. Propelled by a sense of quasi emergency, I (later regretfully) accept a room wedged into the first share-apartment I set foot in. It’s an airless, aged little space but it happens to have a view of Plaza Mayor, which I use to justify my decision to move into it. Done and dusted, feeling pretty chuffed with the swift pace of my relocating, I drag my suitcase up eight flights of stairs and unpack its contents into my new, but also old, wardrobe. But as is typically the case with any job hastily done, things quickly start falling apart.. One key source of unease is my curious sub-letter and housemate who for the sake of both our identities I shall call Nacho. Nacho was weird from the get-go. He presented me with a contract consisting of nine clauses, firmly informing me of the many house rules (no more than two guests allowed, no walking around with shoes on after 10pm, no drugs, no parties including dinner parties, and no smoking on your private balcony because Nacho smells everything… everything). Foolishly, I signed the agreement, was handed the keys, and retreated to my room. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Aside from the unrelenting, roaring noise that surged outwards and upwards from Plaza Mayor, a weighty chunk of sound that you can almost feel, it is the state of my new bed that surreptitiously makes its way into my consciousness. Upon a rickety, single-bed frame are piled three mattresses, all in different but equally degenerate conditions. My body wobbled and sunk into creaking springs and uneven foam, as if atop an unintentional waterbed. And so to a cacophonous soundtrack of tourists, restaurateurs, garbage trucks, homeless people, and street vendors selling those squeaking voice amplifiers that god only knows who buys, I rode the ebb and flow of the wave that was my mattress slash mattresses. Disgruntled and sleep-deprived, I soon became aware of Nacho’s omnipresence, and how it infused the atmosphere of the flat. The three other girls with whom I was living spent most of their time behind closed doors, leaving the common spaces more or less deserted. I say more or less because Nacho, was, always, there, watching and commentating on movements made and interactions briefly shared in shadows and thoroughfares. I can’t recall if there is a title for this person, but imagine the domineering Madame of a whorehouse and then imagine her as a bald, rotund, Spanish man. This is how I perceived Nacho, insidiously controlling and prodding his young, attractive, female housemates. Day four, I had had enough, and so confided in Madame Nacho, who, blocking the doorway of my little room, was demanding next month’s rent money. Exasperated, I stated that it’s impossible to sleep, even with silicone pushed down each cochlea, and that this simply, isn’t working. Legally, I can leave before the first week is up; this is my ‘wild card’ and I play it. Sensing my heightened anxiety, Nacho, through a half-grimace, half-smile, backs away and says, for now, that he understands. But Nacho’s pseudo carefree persona dissipates during a phone conversation one hour later. In a malevolent, prying voice he interrogates: ‘Are you playing games with meee?’ He demands what my ‘real reason’ for leaving is, accusing me of lying, etc. I calmly and honestly assure him that if I could sleep I wouldn’t be moving. Nacho’s voice suddenly eases. He apologises and hangs up. It’s my last night on a bed that looks like a prop from that Spanish horror movie, ‘The Orphanage’, or the bed that gets sprayed with vomit and urine in ‘The Exorcist’. The stained doona and sheet concretize the association. At midnight I receive a private Facebook message from Nacho, which I would love to copy and paste directly here because it really does sing for itself. For starters, every third line is in caps lock. Secondly, the tone of voice flickers from apologetic to threatening, as if two separate people have joint-written it. Amongst a hefty chunk of text, certain sentences stand out, for example: ‘The Lawyer will be MAD ABOUT THIS, ‘The Lawyer said pay THIS amount’, ‘We’ll have to see what THE LAWYER says’, ‘The deposit is already LOCKED IN THE BANK’, etc. Between you and I, I think by ‘the Lawyer’, Nacho means himself, and by ‘bank’, Nacho means his top drawer. The following day, I look at five apartments, racing between them on foot. I wish I had been wearing one of those things that fat people wear to record the daily distance they’ve walked, out of sheer curiosity and awe of my trek. Learning from my mistake, I make it my prerogative to test out every bed, unashamed of how neurotic I appear to an audience of inquisitive strangers (one girl walked into her bedroom to discover me rolling around as I simulated typical sleeping positions beneath her covers). Yes, I was on a mission. I arrive at house number three 10 minutes early, which provokes the tenant, a flushed and furious woman in her 30s to reprimand me in Spanish for not coming at the designated time, for interrupting her eating, and for invading her space. After a silent, very passive-aggressive, 40-second tour of the apartment, she slams the front door behind me. I thank her in my head for making my decision for me, and feel a genuine pang of pity for the tenant who will eventually move into that bitch’s pad. I trust my gut regarding the next place – a tiny flat containing six girls, one bathroom, and beds that had died a million deaths. Back to the drawing board, I trawl through another 300 or so properties online, messaging the proprietors in my best Spanish to arrange meetings for the following day. With low expectations, the next morning I apathetically meander to the first of the day’s list of viewings. To my surprise, I am greeted by the wide grin of a girl who looks like a Spanish version of myself. The apartment, large, clean and flooded with light, is instantly exciting; the new, plump, and stable mattress in the available bedroom, even more so. There is nothing at all Nacho-like in the other male housemate either (thank god!), a charismatic, 30-year-old Spanish screenwriter. I even coincidentally happen to know the other housemate, a literature student from California. To use the cliché, it’s love at first sight. I’ve since spent my first night in my new home, and am elated to report back that I slept well, enjoyed downtime with my new, normal, flatmates, and passed through common areas feeling neither paranoid nor watched. If I could offer any advice for those endeavouring to house-share, it would be: don’t say yes to crazy people, read the contract thrice, and always, always, trust your gut. Image source: flickr.com/photos/45976731@N06/7017083761/in/photostream 3/6/2013 0 Comments Watch This SpaceAt last cultivating a sense of purpose after being accepted as the newest contributing writer to ¡Vaya Madrid!, a multi-faceted, online English-language magazine that explores anything and everything Madrid-ian. The magazine covers a diverse spectrum of topics and events, including DJ street parties accompanying pop-up vintage markets, Madrid Fashion Week, the thriving local Art Scene, low-downs on self-teaching Español, and why horse meat is not such a bad alternative to cow.
I have a number of story ideas brewing inside my head that will be taking shape and being published by ¡Vaya Madrid! soon. For instance, I'll be writing up a guided, colourful tour of Spanish artist, Joaquin Sorolla's, home which has been posthumously turned into a public gallery. The artist's three-storey house and lush, unfurling garden are tucked behind a main street in the Financial district of Madrid. Its many walls are basically decoupaged with the Impressionist's life work. I'm also itching to explore and provide insight into Madrid's elderly - how personifications of past Madrid integrate (or not) into Spanish society today. Despite their dominant presence, there appears to be a conspicuous disconnect between the elder generation and those their junior; and, more broadly, between old and new Madrid, politically of course but also socially. The elderly characters of Madrid are so intriguing, not to mention omnipresent, and I know that there is a lot to be relatedly unearthed and worth considering. I'll also be conducting an intimate Q&A with famous contemporary Spanish artist (and friend of mine), Eloy Morales. His enormous (photo-) Realist works are pretty incredible; Google images will vouch for that. I'd like to thank my readers for their support and contributions to thoughts and opinions published through Aesthesis. I welcome writers to contribute their written work, including articles, reviews, creative fiction, poetry and thoughts that are in sync with the philosophy of the site, i.e., to inspire mindful, philosophical thought about current socio-cultural and political issues, and contributions to the Arts. In the meantime, for an absorbing read about Madrid culture accompanied by an almost equal ratio of stunning professional photos to text, I recommend scrolling through www.vayamadrid.com. 3/1/2013 0 Comments Short Story, Madrid: "EL MAR"“Your problem, Hor-che, is that you think too much.” The Russian local throws out in a low-slung drawl across the bar top, emphasising the “r” and especially the guttural “che” sounds of our protagonist’s name. Her voice, deep and raspy, is disconnected from her otherwise visual aloofness. Long and languid, her torso swoops backwards from a protruding pelvis, supported by nothing but confidence, imbuing her with an air of graceful indifference. Tired and not in the mood for Tanía’s energy this evening, Jorge suppresses a sigh, and manages to summon a warm-ish smile which he directs at the probing face. She returns the empty gesture while plucking a slither of salami from a plate piled with glistening red discs. Surrounding windows, translucent from dry dust mixed with hot condensation, are a dull black, signifying night. But what time of night, he wonders. The room feels tight and heated. An oily coating of sweat has settled over his face and neck. He could do with some clean air, removed from the clamour of El Mar, from the smell of smoke and sizzling animal fat, and most of all, respite from her. Warm, fleshy bodies press up against the front door. Gesturing hands dance around a table littered with abandoned glasses and hardened bread. He wonders if there is a back exit. * Silvery light leaks into the small, dim room, rousing Jorge from a heavy, dreamless sleep. The night before envelops him like hardening cement. His shoulders heave and collapse as he pushes out stale air. An empty bottle clanks when his foot knocks it over onto a plate patterned with fermented food etched into it with a fork. With slow, steady thuds he moves down the corridor towards the front door. The brick paving is surprisingly cold as he steps out onto a narrow patio cluttered with out-dated plastic furniture and a microcosm of exotic cacti. As with most routines, Jorge tends for the prickly stumps more out of habit than necessity, knowing very well that cacti can thrive without water for days, weeks, sometimes even months. His fingers re-hook the watering container onto a frail fence that serves no real purpose other than to delineate his home from the footpath. Glancing at a bright, white rectangle of sky, he makes an implicit promise with himself and decides he won’t go back there tonight. Suddenly, a dog’s bark erupts from somewhere close, startling him and throwing him slightly off balance. A wave of nausea swells in his throat. He fumbles the inside of one of his pockets, lets out a disgruntled groan, and retreats inside. * Back in the stifling warmth of El Mar, Jorge and Tanía are debating Bella’s potential for violence. It’s now late evening and the tiny bar is crowded to capacity, its social gizzards bursting out onto the pavement. With her velvety black and white speckled fur, Bella resembles a Dalmatian pup more than a Bull Terrier. Not usually one to have the strength or courage to rival the Russian when sober, Jorge is now comfortably drunk and delighting in his alcohol-induced boldness. “…It’s in their blood, it’s inevitable. Why not put a muzzle on it, Tanía, as a precaution? Or maybe you should leave it at home so it’s not tied up all night, waiting, because, you know, you do have a tendency to overstay your welcome here.” Before Tanía can retaliate, the front door ruptures open and a girl of about twelve runs in, her wet pink face flushed with horror. She’s holding a lithe, black dog in her outstretched arms, and between sobs, mumbles desperately for help. Amidst a veil of speculative whispers heads tip and crane to get a better view of the spectacle. The animal grimaces in pain, and with a shudder reveals a deep red gash on its inner thigh. Another woman, presumably the girl’s mother, demands whose dog is tied up outside, accusing it of having bitten her daughter’s dog. Sounds evaporate into thick air. Jorge turns to Tanía, who is looking down into a burgundy glass in a futile attempt to be inconspicuous. As if sensing his accusatory glance, Tanía turns to face the woman front on. “Lady, really I think it best you go to a vet, not a bar.” Her lips don’t move but her eyes, narrowed and wet, sparkle with an almost undetectable smirk. Somehow Tanía’s tone could be equally defensive and aggressive. Not prepared for the outlandish disregard, the woman attempts to speak but instead swallows loudly, choking on her own powerlessness and fury. She turns silently to her daughter, grabs her by the waist and forcefully ushers her outside, slamming the door behind them. The noiselessness of the bar presses into Jorge’s ears as if he were speeding in a confined space through a tunnel. “Vale”, says Tanía to her audience, “another drink!” As if on cue, stifled conversations crescendo into lively, inconsequential chatter. Without anyone noticing, Jorge stumbles from his stool and squeezes through the front door. He shivers in the night air and begins his journey home. That night, Jorge has a dream. In his mind he is moving with purpose and vigour. He is a younger, freer version of himself. He stands on the patio of the house, running his fingertips over fluffy nodes of cacti sprouting from a metallic trough. Light rain sprays his face and transitions into pendulous droplets that burst on his skin. The prickly cylinders beneath him shudder and crack open, revealing from dark, succulent crevices spiralling stems and moist, fluttering petals stained with intense colour. Splayed and presented to the sky, the abrupt garden quivers and unfurls in fast-motion, engorged with sudden life. Water continues falling from above as he tilts his head back desperately, with mouth wide open, aggressively gulping moisture. But now it is the present Jorge whose mouth is stretched open to the sky, praying for anything but water to fall from it. He tries to swallow droplets but his gritty mouth resists and his throat closes in on itself as if it were lined with tiny needles. Black fur lurches out of darkness, leaving behind it a thick trail of red. He can taste something salty on his tongue. An amber cube of light glows hazily in the distance like an illuminated refuge. The light grows and radiates as he approaches it, accelerating with each step. Closer still, neon letters flicker into view, spelling out in blazing electric tubing, ‘El Mar.’ He peers through a side window, over a serrated hedge of tapered bottle necks, and vaguely makes out a silhouette of the back of a man wilting from a stool. With precarious deliberation, the man slowly rotates to face the onlooker, revealing through smoky nicotine tendrils an identical face, a mirror image. Jorge locks eyes with himself. Staggering backwards, he disappears from the window and continues to move away at a sporadic, frenzied pace. No, tonight he will not go to El Mar. 2/23/2013 3 Comments WE'RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE TOTOWhy making new friends means manning up, playing indoor volleyball, and leaving your shame at the door. Bruised and belittled after branzenly attempting indoor volleyball last night somewhere in Madrid with a group of strangers, all experienced players... Don't trust those sultry mental images of relaxed people effortlessly volleying balls over sandy nets bathed in sunlight. Also don't think that just because you are a natural at Badminton and have a keen eye for ping pong that these innate powers will aid you. They will only delude you into slapping and punching a volleyball anywhere but downwards, during which time you will be very confused, very sore and very regretful. Moving to a new country and having to adapt to an unfamiliar setting has proven for me to be a mixture of frenzied anticipation, utter discomfort, reinvigoration, and interestingly, regression. I say regression in two senses of the word: on the one hand, in the sense of having to start afresh socially and in this sense, relinquishing ground that has been made with those friendships and social occurrences that over a significant period of time have become innate. The newcomer and outsider must, quite simply, step back or regress and start again. The second sense of the word regression is something subtler but perhaps also more core, and that due to its complexity I am only now just starting to see. It is the sense of the word in the way that psychologists use it, mainly, the return to childhood modes of thought and behavior. Dramatic outbursts, disempowering self-doubt, fears of abandonment, failure (and the list of various manifestations of neuroses continue), in one’s adult life are almost always anchored in some childhood event or memory. It’s funny (i.e., not actually funny, but rather frustratingly unusual) that in having to proactively trigger social possibilities as a result of relocating and moving away from givens and comforts, one is faced with echoes of those anxieties that arose in childhood. The most obvious being acceptance and rejection. I recently joined a collection of meet-up groups online, ranging from writers to volley-ballers, inspired by accompanying marketing and light-hearted block quotes, to branch out and start making friends. After outlining who I was (which despite only being two lines in length nonetheless triggered a philosophical onslaught of probing questions about self-identity and what I had amounted to), I ticked boxes that pinpointed my various interests (sure, I can be into mountaineering and Frisbee comps), I submitted myself to an online panel of those who would contemplate responding to me or not. This is not to say that I am against means of social networking. In fact, I fully endorse the idea of online dating but in this context, in search for friendship not sex. I am merely highlighting that the process itself, even prior to the actual meeting with strangers, is a necessary form of exposure, but exposure nonetheless. Once you’ve created the online version of yourself that looks friendly and approachable (photos in which you are smiling are advised), but also not desperate (don’t be too smiley; this may backfire), you’re next step is to rsvp to group activities that sound fun/interesting/will get you outside of your bedroom, and attend them. So far, I have attended a group of expat writers who sojourn fortnightly to read out their written work via microphone with the aid of atmospheric lighting and alcohol. I wrote about this in the previous post – to sum up, it was a quaint and stimulating experience that enabled me to meet some interesting and very friendly people, which was a huge plus. Consequently inspired, I then attempted soccer with a group of primarily large, aggressive German guys last weekend some time between 10 and 11 at night, a time when winter proved its omnipresence in the form of 0 degree air. Next to the Germans I felt like a spindly, 10 year old child, skipping around and trying my best to look like I was impatiently anticipating the ball but was really trying my best to stay clear of it. Attempting to rally my enthusiasm and competitive edge, someone on my team ordered me to “Kick their shins!”, but I wasn’t in the mood to kick people in the legs, nor race around astro turf in the freezing cold trying to prove myself for that matter.. To redeem myself, or having not learnt from my mistake, depending on how you view it, I signed up to indoor volleyball with a group of strangers. My first and (I say this with resolute certainty) last, game took place yesterday evening, somewhere in Madrid. I say somewhere because I still have no real idea where my photographed images on my iphone taken of googlemaps on my computer screen (I don’t have 4G, and I’m quietly proud of my innovative solution to this annoyance) led me to late last night. As I expressed in the opening of this post, it’s safe to say that what I had anticipated and what played out were two very different stories. I was freezing cold, underdressed, stunned by my lack of coordination (considering that back home I play sport frequently and can catch balls with no visible disability), and feeling sorry for my forearms that were taking a beating every time the ball was pounded into my vicinity. In both attempts at playing competitive sport with strangers, or generally facing a social collective alone, one is faced with situations that are an inherent part of childhood: The picking of teams, favouritism and popularity, infiltrating a clique, introducing yourself and what you do with yourself to strangers, searching for people who look your own age and with whom you could potentially share common interests, and most of all, appearing likeable. This is why in doing totally new things with totally new people, with the goal of making friends, is regressive in both senses of the word. It is a form of going backwards and starting from scratch in order to slowly build up new relations. In so doing, all those precarious moments while growing up revolving around being accepted and liked echo back at you as a grown adult, no matter how confident and self-assured you are. On that note, my next venture is meet up no. 2 of the writers’ group, where I plan to read out a small descriptive piece I made up about a Spanish man who drinks every afternoon at a pub on my street. His name is Jorge, pronounced “whore hey”, which I think alone validates a story. After that, I’ll be giving Touch Rugby a go, followed by an all girls expat group called “Girls Gone International” (all I can think of is “Girls Gone Wild”, which I’m sure I will discover is an ironic association), people who are into drinking coffee and/or tea , and strangers who want to exchange native languages over beers (however, only strange men have contacted me for this one, and I’m beginning to think that they’re looking to speak one language and one language only… The international language of LERV). But in no way suggesting that I’m despondent about the whole unfurling from one’s comfortable cocoon and starting afresh abroad, this post is merely a way of making light of these attempts before an invisible audience of hopefully sympathetic readers. Even if I had Dorothy's shoes from the Wizard of Oz, I still wouldn't click my heels together as a short-term escape from unfamiliarity. As my mother always said, ‘a stranger is a friend you haven’t met’. However, keep in mind that my mother has done the following: danced around on stage in a borrowed superwoman costume at a day club in the South of France, acted like a crazy person in the subway to avoid being fined by an NYPD officer, and knowingly graced a hotel breakfast table with a sanitary pad adhered to her head. I think the key in all of this is to just be yourself and never let shame or dignity get in the way of making friends. 2/13/2013 6 Comments WRITER'S GROUP, MADRIDWe provide the mic, you provide the words I recently set sail (boarded a plane) from Sydney, Australia for Spanish shores to start a life, or at least, to continue speculating what I want to do with my life. And now I'm officially a Madrid resident. In brief, my Spanish is especially elementary at the moment, and I'm also becoming socially restless. I'm certain that the two are interrelated. So in an attempt to foster some kind of social interaction distinct from my broken (massacred) Spanish with the local fruit & veg man ('me tomato want, good day yes, por favor'), and the microcosm of five male housemates that is my share-house, I enthusiastically signed up to any and almost every expat meet-up group that google.es has to offer. One group in particular, 'Read, Write and Toast!!' is a fortnightly meet-up group for writers run by writers, founded by the talented and bashful Ryan Day. Excited to have access to the English language as well as some potential new BFFs, last night I cabbed it to a quaint American-style cafe called 'Toast', the assigned venue for the literary shindig. It was a cosy setting, with a mic and table set up at the front of a small room dimly lit by low-hanging lightbulbs. As an Australian, the interior was definitely reminiscent of a trendy hole-in-the-wall number you so often see in Melbourne. Writers of various backgrounds (amidst the group were Americans, South Americans, Australians and some Madrid locals) read aloud self-devised short stories, poetry and travel recounts. Overall, it was a diverse presentation of ideas and subject matter, ranging from the POV of a turtle named Octavia, social commentary of junkies in Athens, an homage to Capote, something in Spanish, and the philosophy of dichotomy and distance. I've been inspired to write a short fictional story that I intend to read aloud at the next meet-up, 12 days from now. I've also been inspired by a local beer-drinking Spaniard named Gorge, who will (unknowingly) star as the protagonist in this to-be written story. If you're a writer, or a story-teller, I'd appreciate any tips on short story writing, as well as examples of your work and/or blog! I'm somewhat new to creative writing but being, an imaginative embellisher (as all stella bullshitters would say: never let the truth get in the way of a good story), I feel confident and excited about this new activity. I'll post the story once it's done (and dusted) on the Aesthesis site. Thanks for tuning in, thirsty Gorge and I will see you soon.. Image source: www.newyorker.com
7/5/2012 0 Comments Still-life still goingA fun day in the studio today amping up the colour in my current still-life painting! I intentionally pushed the colours today because each time I come back to the painting after it's dried, it looks a lot duller in chroma since I left it. I'm only working on it once a week at this stage because of other projects taking up my time. But it's helpful because it allows enough time for the paint to dry. This means I can rework areas that need it and start afresh. There's nothing more frustrating than trying to paint with oils over a tacky surface. The drapery on which the objects are placed is actually a dull blue-grey. I'm obsessed with violet, and the purple appeared almost unconsciously. It's a combination of crimson red and ultramarine blue, slightly cooler in some areas. What I've discovered creating a vibrant purple colour from a grey drape, is how malleable and free colour is. NB however, the key is getting the tone spot on. If you get your tones right, and the tonal relations working well, you can pretty much do whatever you want with the colours. I've contrasted the blue and violet with orange and yellow, in varying degrees. The juxtaposition is harmonious and subtle in some areas (e.g., the two fat paintbrushes to the left), and clashing and conspicuous in other areas (especially the yellow handle and orange tip of the two central brushes). Mixing a hint of either colour into neutral colours (greys, browns) unifies the work. Next session I'm targeting the middle section of the white drape (PS pale drapery is a bitch!!). I'll be adjusting some edges too, trying to keep them soft and smudgy. New pics will be posted next week. I'm currently working on a thesis that looks at philosopher Immanuel Kant's outline of aesthetics. It covers questions and possibilities about how we can make a universal judgment that something is beautiful, with which we believe everyone ought to agree when this judgment is grounded entirely on subjective feeling. Namely, a subjective feeling of pleasure. How can something so subjective in nature be the basis of an objective judgment?
What interests me specifically is the distinction Kant makes between sensation and sense. Sensation is anything that is sensory-derived, like seeing a burning light, hearing a tone struck by the strings of a bass guitar, or gazing at the vivid greenness of a field. Sense, on the other hand, comes in only two forms for Kant: a sense of pleasure or displeasure. Indeed, Kant refers to sense as feeling. With this in mind, I'm setting out to discover how one can distinguish sensation from feeling. How can an experience of light or colour be separated from a feeling of pleasure, for example? What is the process at play when I witness a series of colours and feel pleasure? What is the nature of this pleasure? Is it visual, aesthetic, visceral, intellectual? I'll be teasing out these questions over the next few days (sigh - maybe even years), and will post my findings here.I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that these possible 'answers' will only trigger more questions... 6/5/2012 0 Comments Still Life Progress & TipsAfter dumping 10,000 words into Uni last Friday (!), I'm free for now to resume a still-life painting that I'm about 3 days into - see a pic of my progress under 'artworks' in the main tab. And I thought I'd write about the progress, regress, highs and lows here. This gives me an outlet to express feelings of elation and frustration, while maybe helping those out there who are keen for tips and to learn from my own trials and errors.
Day 1: After perfecting, dismantling, rearranging, culling props, reintroducing props, and basically being an OCD still-life composer in full throttle, I finally decided on a composition for my painting... 5 hours later. But this is necessary - take as long as you like and stop only when you feel settled and satisfied with your set-up. Take time setting up a good foundation for your painting. This applies to your materials, your props, your 'story' and the overall design of the composition. Here are quick pointers: - Materials: Decide on what ground you're going to paint on- masonite board, pre-mounted canvas, loose canvas sheet. What quality of material do you want? There's a big difference (financially and texturally) between student's grade canvas and Belgian linen! Are you planning on framing this work?; if so, then leave room for the frame (at least a centimetre from the edges). - Ground Tone: The base tone of your ground is key. I suggest painting your ground in a tone that is the best representative of your still-life overall. For example, if your still-life is bathed in light, your painting is going to be high-key (generally bright). So opt for a light to mid-tone ground wash. Likewise, if it's a darker still-life, then your ground tone will darken accordingly. Applying the right toned ground will save you A LOT of time when you start painting! You'll also be aided, as opposed to confused, by a ground tone that sums up the overall tone of your still-life. - Ground Colour: There's no set rule with this one (as there's no set rule with colour in general I firmly believe). I usually choose raw umber scrubbed on roughly to allow some of the canvas to show through. This keeps the raw umber 'warm'. I like painting with cools and warms over a warm ground. Grey is also a popular ground colour. (I'm also going to experiment soon with chromatic ground colours, like cadmium red, so I'll keep you posted on the results when the time comes.) - Props: Choose props that you find interesting and ideally, have some meaning for you. They could be visually unusual and attract you that way. Or they cold be sentimental objects. If you're interested and passionate about something, so much more will be implicitly transfused into the work. - Story: Still-life paintings are all about story-telling. The objects should relate in some way, either visually or conceptually. This can vary from something as simple as matching together a tea cup and saucer; or as complex as visually depicting an intimate 'portrait' featuring only objects. - Composition: Observe the composition that you have set up from all angles to choose the most interesting vantage point. Consider the composition from multiple perspectives: tonally, geometrically, layers of depth (foreground, mid-ground, background), heights (try to avoid having objects at more or less the same height; seek to vary heights), and design. Design pertains to the flow or movement of the shapes, silhouettes and line work - at an abstract level. The most powerful realist paintings are often those that have a strong and well-thought out abstract design base. (It's ironic to think that realist paintings are in a sense also abstract paintings beneath their polished finish.) Try to avoid diagonal lines spilling into corners because this leads the eye out of the pictorial frame. Like with all stories, the trick is to keep the viewer as engaged as possible. Do you want a circular, angular, or even (horizontal to vertical ration more or less equal) 'feel' to your still-life? (I'll soon be posting invaluable composition tips from a number of different sources... Watch this space.) - Draw, draw, draw: Draw your still-life a number of times, from different angles, both portrait & landscape orientations, blocking in tones, etc, before committing to the composition. Trust me, the moment you start drawing, you'll reveal new treasures and downfalls which are best addressed now rather than later. - Colour scheme: Think in advance of what colour scheme you want to use for your still-life. You could keep it fairly muted, restricting your palette to raw umber, ivory black ,and white. This is an invaluable exercise to try, because it helps you perfect your eye's sensitivity to tone, and it forces you to be a lot more measured and controlled. Alternatively, you can opt for a broader gamut. Do be mindful, however, of what harmonies you may want to bring out in the work. For example, at the moment I'm using a blue-grey drape and some objects have hints of orange in them, so drawing out a subtle and nuanced blue-orange contrast could look really effective in this case. - Applying the drawing to your base: I often draw up the composition to a point where I'm satisfied that all objects and relations, sizes and outlines are correct. I then photocopy the drawing. On the back of the photocopy, I rub charcoal all over. Then I flip the photocopy over, press it against the canvas, so that the charcoal side is facing the canvas. Using a biro pen, I draw over the line drawing. This presses the charcoal onto the canvas in parts where the biro has traced over the line work of the photocopy. This method will save you a lot of time and will give you more stability than if you draw directly onto the canvas. (Correcting mistakes is a lot easier using an eraser than turps!) Enough tips for now. Hope they come in handy... Resident artists at May Street Studios will be exhibiting and selling their creations to the public tonight and Saturday. If you want to invest your money in something beautiful, evocative and unique, then don't miss out - no gallery commission fees apply, which means art works are affordable purchases.
Hope to see you there! Harriet |