tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34609446945274036402024-02-18T19:08:15.694-08:00Innocent Artist AbroadPenny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-19915973399703036742014-11-29T06:45:00.001-08:002014-11-29T06:45:07.319-08:00New WorkSoon...well Monday December 1 is the opening of 'Speech Baubles' an installation in Glasgow's GOMA Library, where I place experiences of xmas and literature in a decorative context. Or something. On a tree!Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-5630051917817496082014-08-01T02:08:00.002-07:002014-08-01T03:07:24.081-07:00Aw Shucks!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve not been
an artist very long. I started with a few modest ambitions, such as selling
work, having a piece of mine (or two...or three...) accepted into a permanent
collection, a solo show, and a review in a major publication, some of which I’ve
achieved. Being complimented was never on the list, but I will admit, it is
nice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When you’ve
been alone in a room for months, concentrating so intently that you greet several
imaginary friends cordially by name and even soft soothing, flute, music or the
flutter of fairy wings sound like harbingers of the apocalypse, a few kind
words are welcome. Consequently, hearing a fully sentient human being or even a
deluded crazy person saying they like your work is a wondrous and humbling
experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At a recent group
show I spotted someone photographing my piece. When later we spoke, they said
unprompted that they loved it. Blimey...aw, shucks *blushes* But how best to
respond? This much I know: say thank you very much. Quickly. Do not explain the
work in detail or at all, unless asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Another
attendee wondered what my favourite piece in the show was. I told them. When I
asked in return they said it was mine. I gulped. I spluttered. Shucks! They had
been drinking quite heavily, mind you but when sober again they insisted it was
true. I’m smiling still.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Artists can
be extremely arrogant. Some of my acquaintances say ‘Yes! It’s completely
brilliant, isn’t it? My solo retrospective at The Tate is assured,’ when
complimented. I am still waiting for the Turner Committee to give me the wink,
but keep it to myself (don’t want to ruin my well-rehearsed ‘surprised’ face.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’m only
h</span><span style="font-size: 19px; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">a</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">lf-joking. False modesty can obscure many an artist’s overbearing sense of
entitlement: ‘...what this little thing?’ </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">When really
they are thinking: ‘You only </span><i style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">like</i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> it?
You should lurrrve it – admit it; that piece changed your life, your dreams and
your perception of reality. Me! I did that!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There </span><span style="font-size: 19px; line-height: 21.466665267944336px;">are</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> times
when you hate your own work and imagine that viewers can sense your fear and
lack of talent. When you just couldn’t stop painting lovely pictures of happy
cats; you knew it was bad but simply couldn’t help yourself. Artists can be so
very sensitive, you know. And they often love cats. This is worse when the work
was made a by a friend. But if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything
at all – in public at least (in private: bitch until your teeth bleed.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Otherwise, do
not curl up into a tiny ball, contorted with self-hatred, rocking to and fro
wailing: ‘You know nothing! My every breath is mediocre!’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Do not say
‘Of course it’s brilliant! What do you expect? After all, I am a certified,
bona-fide genius.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Do not adopt
a Mussolini-type arrogant jutting bottom lip and firmly demand more
compliments. Do not weep. Do not hide. Have some dignity. Do not hump your
newfound fan’s leg, lick their feet or kiss them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When in
doubt, remember: a simple thank-you will suffice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-41391604398705472162014-06-09T07:40:00.000-07:002014-06-09T07:40:17.195-07:00I'll be back....That's the news. This blog will return. Soon. Very soon. And I've achieved some of my goals. But still suffer terribly from sarcasm. See you soon!Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-90162777710050838862012-06-13T06:45:00.001-07:002012-06-13T06:45:17.785-07:00Suffering.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0STm0HFltZlTLx0ZRHfIaMKWMAogR3FjenWr_jOS8wRfR9WLAM9GFeMAUmeTJeHuJtr2p_1BrNDNX6ytr6u9xjL2jajEMtnag6wfFiz8k8GvWpGz_2jd2JH_1a3pX-fhRFYq-CuxAKcBt/s1600/18yellow+bunny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" pca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0STm0HFltZlTLx0ZRHfIaMKWMAogR3FjenWr_jOS8wRfR9WLAM9GFeMAUmeTJeHuJtr2p_1BrNDNX6ytr6u9xjL2jajEMtnag6wfFiz8k8GvWpGz_2jd2JH_1a3pX-fhRFYq-CuxAKcBt/s320/18yellow+bunny.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Here I sit (oh woe is me!) pole-axed by the trauma, the trauma, but struggling onwards with my art. Another rejection letter …boom - another picture! A row with my friend…boom - another piece of work! I wallow in despair at life in general…boom – more art. But is it enough? Shouldn’t my life be spirit-sappingly and relentlessly awful? Well, dedicated artists must endure eternal suffering. Shouldn’t they?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">A man I know who’d endured a run of various disappointments, was then left heartbroken when his girlfriend left him. He was shown little sympathy by another mutual friend, who laughed and bluntly informed him that suffering would make him a better artist. I disagree. What makes a great artist is talent, skill and great ideas, not misery. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Any notion of beneficial suffering establishes a repeated cliché: the tormented, holy artist - soulful and sad. But such an emphasis conflates suffering with inspiration. Jack Kerouac forced himself to experience poverty, jumping on trains and living as a self-imposed hobo. Then, he went home to his aunt’s house to write in peace and safety. The suffering was research, his poverty was a lifestyle choice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I’ve just read a biography of Keats, who died young of a horrible, incurable disease. He was a happy poet, who had fun, liked a drink and went to parties (‘Party is not a verb!’ © Black Books.) But Keats made his best work in the last months of his life not because he was dodging the grim reaper, but because he was barely twenty-five and his skills were maturing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I went blind for a while. I don’t think I would have seriously considered visual art without that experience; I began to make work depicting encounters and experiences I had during that very difficult time. In all honesty, blindness gave me ideas. Nothing more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Artists are very good at griping, and sometimes have much to gripe about. I know of artists with time-consuming, exhausting full-time jobs, who must rise at daybreak to make work, or else they’d have no time. They might be ground down by tedium, but at least they have an expressive outlet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Recently, I saw some amazing work by a Chinese artist, soon to return home. It was called ‘Thirty-Five’ since this is the number of casualties traditionally announced by the Chinese government following any accident or disaster, no matter how high the real figure. The maker admitted he dare not bring the work back, or even exhibit in his own country. Next to this piece was another work: a curtain obscuring examples of the websites he was banned from reading at home. Now that’s suffering. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Ultimately, I suppose that in this blog’s pioneer spirit of trying everything and experimenting for art, I should get myself a heroin problem, or imitate Tracy Emin, that is – acquire fabulous riches, becoming so irked and inconvenienced by wealth that I am inspired to make some very, very bad drawings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">So readers, can you help me out? In order that I can suffer effectively, can you please send me lot’s of heroin and money? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Actually; take that back - I’ll just have the money. Thanks!</span></div>
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<br />Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-60126189421742958662012-06-07T06:21:00.000-07:002012-06-07T06:21:01.423-07:00Invigilation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Every exhibition needs invigilators. You know, those poor unfortunates perchings on punitive chairs, ignored at shows, looking glum, alone with their dreams, or just really, really bored. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Seldom are they visibly happy. Rarely are they even paid: mostly they are volunteers hoping to raise their own personal profile and meet the owners, curators or artists based at the gallery they are guarding.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">That’s why they are there: to inform and protect. Nobody can be present all the time, not even when part of a performance or installation at their own show, as would be easily distracted. No matter how prestigious the gallery, work is always vulnerable (think of the poor soul who fell downstairs landing on a priceless Ming vase). Or vandalised: recently at GOMA, a photo of Douglas Gordon was slashed by an enraged visitor. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I’ve also encountered invigilators who are dismissive, offhand, and another who sneered when I posed a reasonable question. Informed, knowledgeable and friendly (not too friendly) invigilators can enhance a show, answering questions, handing out information and generally being helpful. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">When organising a recent group show, we had had mixed feelings about invigilating. </span><city><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Shelton</span></place></city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"> wasn’t sure we needed to stick around after the grand opening, but when work was stolen from another gallery featuring her work, she changed her mind. Basically, if exhibits can’t be nailed down and even when they are, guard everything heroically. My sewn texts take so long to make, I could never run off another print, like a photo. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">And so I spent several hours, sitting in a gallery listening to music, greeting the occasional visitor, and staring at work, including a film which I grew immune to, but never bored with (Eija’s work is amazing, even on a constant loop.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I recently encountered a volunteer invigilator. Having sat down for ages, my bum was hurting, so her arrival was a blessed relief. Then I got a phone call from Young who described our new friend delicately as ‘a bit odd.’ She had found our new acquaintance curled in a tight ball, gurning while apparently ‘interrogating’ the pieces. Officially, I would describe her as spacey. We didn’t know what to do, and fearing that at any moment, art editors and notable curators might walk in we asked her, politely, to leave. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Phew, we thought. But then she came back the next day. We explained that there was some kind of mistake. She protested that she was only listening in to our conversations as she was ‘interested in us as artists.’ Again we said thanks, but that her services, generous as may be, were superfluous to requirements.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">The following day, she was found trying to open the show and start up the film. Once more, we asked her to go. Again, she sat on a wooden chair and gurned at the work, albeit appreciatively.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I’m not sure what the lesson is here. Perhaps it’s meet and get to know your invigilators before leaving them alone with your work. Nurture them. Feed them. And if you can afford to, pay them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br />Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-61137453159409497812012-05-30T02:21:00.001-07:002012-05-30T02:21:34.198-07:00Colour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I use a lot of colour – it’s almost a compulsion. I feel I’ve failed somehow if I use just black and white alone (very trendy, but I like colour.) In fact I never have.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">It’s a tricky thing. There are many theories, and conveniently, various shades of white. But it’s always about the contrasts, for me anyway. Garish, bright colours: I love them. I’m not that keen on washed out pastels either. I don’t go in for realistic colour: most of my work is abstract, and even in life drawing I habitually draw green people with purple hair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Way back, I once wrote that I had actually walked into the much put-upon and very patient art-store, and asked their stoic experts if I could please buy some green. They offered many ways of delivering the green, but I also had to choose which green: pea green, emerald, forest, olive or lime green. My head was spinning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Then I discovered the innocent fun of the wheel of colour, used to determine contrasts and similarities. And badly named pastels: the peachy crayon called ‘flesh’ is so right off as to be unbelievable – who’s flesh is that colour (mind you in living memory there was paint colour called n***** brown.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">And then there’s symbolism. In my ‘Bunny’ series, the colours are symbolic, and represent ways of dealing with my limited vision, at a time when I could only see blue, when yellow is commonly used in hazard signs since it is deemed easy for the blind to see. Red was lost to me. It was horrible, but the blue seem extraordinarily beautiful.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Back to green. It’s my favourite - all the lovely oil paint names like phthalo green (cadmium green sounds dangerous.) I am never happier than when lining up my balls of thread and choosing the best colour for a certain word in my text samplers. Especially when it’s green.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">On a tangential note, colours are amazing. Blind people sometimes have colours explained in terms of musical instruments. Violins are pale blue, trumpets are scarlet, cellos are mauve, I’d imagine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">But you can get immersed, wrapped up and lost forever in the act of deliberation, so I bought a ready chosen set of watercolours, which limited my options but did save time. I buy pastels one at a time, as needed. A fresh, vibrant pastel colour can really inspire me. I am such a wanker. I am also easily distracted by shiny things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Colour matters: for impecunious artists, failed experiments are costly, especially when the art-pixies don’t respond to your special ‘send me a wide-range of colourful materials’ dance (it’s great – I am like a whirlwind of tassels.) Collecting your shrapnel until amassing enough to buy a few pots/pencils/pastels and then have them not work, to be too similar, or weak is so dispiriting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">But here’s a funny thing: the colour I use most and therefore replace most often in all its textures, forms and strengths, oddly enough, is white. Figure that one out.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-11032535596729039372012-05-16T09:34:00.000-07:002012-05-16T11:18:17.967-07:00Install.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Just before my recent group show, I arranged with my fellow artists to meet and discuss the install. Now for me, installing work is no more of a trial than finding a good spot and hanging my piece on the wall, hopefully so that it stays.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I was blissfully innocent, until I attended my first group install at the art-school I decline to name, and watched in amazement as exhibitors arrived with spirit levels, tape measures, drills, cranes, statisticians, brain surgeons, all to appease our buffoon of a course leader who still said everything was at the wrong height.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I have had work installed by curators (one separated a diptych) and another placed my work next to a piece so beautifully drawn and exquisitely framed piece that I felt horribly inadequate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">But then, for Packing and Mourning, we met. I wanted to start the show earlier, but </span><city><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Shelton</span></place></city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">, a more experienced artist, an expert installer, builder, measurer and user of heavy machinery put her foot down. In fact, she seemed quite vexed, and was very firm with me. ‘What’s got into her?’ I thought. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">In the run up to the install, people began to approach me with caution, as if someone had died. They’d hold my hand, do the sad-face and peer empathetically into my soul. ‘Good luck with the install,’ they’d say, with tears in their eyes. What’s the big deal, I wondered. It’s only an install. My friend had her install the day after mine, and I began to join in, phew yeah, installing hell, I’d say, and bravely lap up all the sympathy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Then, on the actual day of the install, the lovely space where were showing our work decided to let us in three after we’d agreed. Oh well…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Then, well I realised everyone else was treating this complicated and difficult task with the dignity and gravitas it deserved. Young was taking out screws and then replacing them, Eija was carefully, oh so carefully, selecting from an array of her beautiful prints, which then kept falling of the wall. Young was still drilling and things were tense when she used all the fishing line but I had some wire. These things matter.</span></div>
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<city><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Shelton</span></place></city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"> was perched on a ladder she had ‘borrowed’ and was drilling, applying tape and helping us all. The counsellors arrived. We broke for lunch. There was more drilling, then some muted screaming and stifled sighs. Eija found a table. </span><city><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Shelton</span></place></city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"> confiscated the drill (it’s for adults) and Young started drilling and undrilling again. Eija found and rejected one TV set for her film, then she and </span><city><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Shelton</span></place></city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"> began to load the wide screen available in the space.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Eight men died. There was a riot. The language was anglo-saxon in origin. Damian smiled at my bunny picture. My ‘Travel Bag’ was expertly hung by </span><city><place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Shelton</span></place></city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">. Eija had enough tissue paper to spare. The TV was being difficult, acting like a diva and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>issued a list of demands after achieving full consciousness. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">When we finished, somebody said innocently: ‘How was the install?’ I felt as if I had done my first marathon. ‘It was fine,’ I said. And it was. Eventually.</span></div>
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<br />Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-30518283699984226392011-11-22T04:47:00.000-08:002011-11-22T04:47:58.324-08:00Form A Band<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyE6Z_m9CHVNakQ61CgB3fvfdZgD087PoE1lQBbRW8j6HqaFDIqNhggUMuNMWzRePpLLijdjYwKQ4RXT8ZKNEN_7YBaKIEJajTd4_I0P_pFmG9hL6DqB7BXSPyIt1cbnVp699UpCTy9NC/s1600/MadonnaGroove.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyE6Z_m9CHVNakQ61CgB3fvfdZgD087PoE1lQBbRW8j6HqaFDIqNhggUMuNMWzRePpLLijdjYwKQ4RXT8ZKNEN_7YBaKIEJajTd4_I0P_pFmG9hL6DqB7BXSPyIt1cbnVp699UpCTy9NC/s320/MadonnaGroove.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">As I write about my creative adventures, I sometimes wonder if I have missed out by not doing an undergraduate arts course. One thing I miss is the time to experiment and the space to fail. Because there’s more to being an artist than mooching around trying to look edgy, more than painting; you have to experiment, try different things. This, of course, is exactly what I am doing, but one practice is maybe a little bit too out there, even for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Aspiring artists must form a band. It’s the law.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I can’t play anything at all, and my singing voice has been accurately but brutally described as a merciless weapon of death, so I doubt my offer of lead vocals will be welcomed (mind you, that didn’t stop Ian Brown.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I asked my friends for help. <a href="http://www.carlajennifereaston.com/">Carla Easton</a> (her again) sings and plays keyboards and her work is really good (she’s also an excellent artist, but don’t tell her I said that). I asked if she wanted to work with me, but she just ignored me.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Then I asked my friend Michael McGoughrin. He’s in the 1990’s and plays with The Vaselines. I asked him to work with me. He was nice about it – shuffled politely but ultimately ignored me as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">The thing is, I don’t blame them at all, but then - you can’t blame me for asking. Being in band isn’t part of the curriculum at an art school, it’s just that so many bands have been to art school (or met there or have members who attended): The Who, Gang Of Four, Franz Ferdinand, The Three Johns, Jarvis Cocker, the list goes on.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">If I am to be an artist I must innocently form a band. I can’t play anything, nor can I write songs. Perhaps I can intone lyrics in an edgy fashion, and pretend I mean it to sound like that? Disguise my voice with technology, like Mogwai or the cast of Glee? Or better still, make a great track like Martin Creed’s Dreaming – Not Dreaming. Even Bob and Roberta Smith is in a band. I can’t compete.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I can try most things, I can try oils and watercolours, but just don’t expect to see me down playing the main stage at </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Glastonbury</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;"> any time soon. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">But it isn’t about the music. It’s about the idea of an art school, that giddy sense of can-do-anything, or three/four years of creative experimentation in front of a largely supportive audience, the ability to make and do what you want, and to express yourself in ways other than straightforward painting and drawing. There are no barriers: they all run into together, performance, painting, and fashion are estranged orphan children of the same parents who occasional attend family reunions. Even so, it is possible to flit between them all.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Forming a band is testimony to the sense of possibility that exists at an art school, where people will tolerate your experimental noise and innocent (musical) fumblings, which is a good thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">As for my singing? One word people: earplugs. Good ones – the best.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-33415046476805440122011-11-17T02:23:00.000-08:002011-11-18T03:35:30.610-08:00Interaction.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8RQMZXMdrE_Fmrl1iRDTgyXF86_mevQ2haoPvKdebDHHMsg-3C614MJIDeUKd9erC8gqIIwAyP9dyuq_EUOjZhS1FePehrAeIcGX3dQ8YztJSUuLqbmsqT55TIAKwLTx40vTaLIunB4c/s1600/Interactive.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8RQMZXMdrE_Fmrl1iRDTgyXF86_mevQ2haoPvKdebDHHMsg-3C614MJIDeUKd9erC8gqIIwAyP9dyuq_EUOjZhS1FePehrAeIcGX3dQ8YztJSUuLqbmsqT55TIAKwLTx40vTaLIunB4c/s320/Interactive.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I was reclining on my chaise longue, sipping hand-squeezed kumquat juice and screaming at attendants for scrubbing the floor with their own clothes, and not toothbrushes (better detail, darling) when a thought occurred: can I persuade people to make my art for me?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Actually, that’s not strictly true. This might seem lazy, but I want other people to interact with my next work – even to participate in the making of it. I consulted my friend <a href="http://www.carlajennifereaston.com/">Carla Easton</a>, creator of some superb pieces which invite viewers to stand on sculptures and make the pieces sing. Getting folk to make your work and passing it off as your own – that could save some wear and tear on my joints. But that’s not the point. It’s about input, and participation, and a different view.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">And also laziness. Well on my part anyway. Carla’s work meanwhile, is (I hope she doesn’t mind me saying this) entertaining. People clamber over her work, initiating a joyous cacophony of recorded pieces, triggered when they tread on hidden points of contact.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Carla said: ‘<span class="apple-style-span"><i>When I made my interactive sculptures I required interaction in order to activate the piece. So the pieces already existed as objects without interaction but once played with it was the activation and the relationships formed through the activation that became the work.</i></span><i><br />
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<span class="apple-style-span">So you need to figure out if the finished painting is the piece or if the passers by being part of the finished painting is the work I think. And the tricky thing is getting people to want to take part. You have to figure out why it is essential that they do and try and invite them in.’<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">My wise friends are genuinely helpful. Dismissing all my servants, I decided to make a collaborative interaction, and took my trusty watercolours to my life drawing class <a href="http://aytn.co.uk/">All The Young Nudes</a> at The Flying Duck (many thanks). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Handing the set of paints and a blank page could be unnerving even for a seasoned artist, so I set rules: one colour, and one stroke or action. The result would of course be abstract, not figurative (or so I assumed.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I applied the first stroke, which could have been made into anything really – it was quite amorphous which in itself set the tone, and passed the baton/brush to Charlie, who ran with it, adding well-placed mauve stipples. People kindly joined in: some appeared to be doing their own thing, others apparently reacted to what had gone before. The choice of colours was telling: nobody selected the same shade as their predecessor, and everybody worked with in contrasts. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">One maverick waited to the bitter end (I had to declare the piece finished) and placed his mark with a black thumbprint. And I wanted mavericks, so was gratified to see stippling, dots and watery hues running deliberately across the page. So intriguing is the result that Joanna of AYTN has suggested a follow up session, on a larger scale than A4. </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">This is one form of practice I can tick it off my list with big plus sign. No hive mind here: but any individuals making work in harmony, started by my one brush stroke. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-85911263126608341252011-10-23T10:22:00.000-07:002011-10-27T07:33:23.567-07:00Pricing<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">The BBC’s recent excuse for a show ‘Show Me The Monet’ (if ever an idea was generated by the title arriving first, that’s it) was a sort of Dragon’s Den meet </span><st1:place><st1:placetype><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">School</span></st1:placetype><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"> of </span><st1:placename><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Saatchi</span></st1:placename></st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">. Artists showed their work to a panel of (supposed) experts, and looking directly into their cold dead eyes, named their price. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">The Artdragon’s then said yes. Or – more usually, no. One candidate was still studying at the RCA. With a knowing sneer indicative of: “We’ve got a right one here,” the host introduced the first challenger, who had set his price at (wait for it…) £50,000! <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Wow.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Asked to justify this, he said unabashed words to the effect that he was an excellent artist, would one day be hugely famous, highly collectable, and art-lovers should snap him up. Then came the silence. The panel were aghast. They all said no, but you could sense that they admired his spirit, even as they spluttered a refusal. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I like that attitude. Pricing work is always so hard. I have been asked to put a price on my work several times, and never know what to say. How do you value art? The more beautiful it is, the more you can pay? And does size matter? Apparently, it does: larger pieces make more money, unless they are too big, in which case they might not sell at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Do you take into account the time taken to make a piece of work. If that was the case, then some of my text embroideries take months. So by that logic, I should sell for shed loads of money. It’s also hard to time how long something takes. My hand-tinted photomontages can actually take ages to make, as I layer the colour gradually, wait for ink to dry etc, but I suppose they do not look expensive (whatever that means.) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Funnily enough, I understand that some artists adopt gasp-inducing pre-emptive pricing as a ploy to avoid selling work, because emerging artists need the money, but do not have much work to sell. Tricky. And then you’ve got galleries taking a hefty slice - I’ve seen commissions of up to 40% being mentioned. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Artists must aim at their market level, that is, if nobody’s heard of you, they won’t pay loads of money for a small, rough sketch. Oil paints are really expensive, but if you cover a massive canvass, how can you cover your outlay?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">When I had work in an exhibition, I had to settle on a price, just in case one of those desirable sticky dots might be placed on my work. What a nightmare: the medium was photomontage hand-tinted with ink, pastels and even felt pens. The paper was thin and exactly A4 size the frame was plain and basic. I grabbed a number from the air – no harm done as no offers were made. But what if someone actually wants to sell or buy my work? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I’m going to have to sort this out, ready for the day when my genius is recognised. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-17488197773716973302011-10-16T03:57:00.000-07:002011-10-16T04:13:46.881-07:00Framing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8mBokiDKYt_4lwbKjxdtJmXrli5sg-aDkxsmZ5l7oY-kYdYuR6cXUv5QW0MO0sUKHvR_hjQyheVxGLI-oCJrw-2P5RNoFCSjcNoVKeLP3pUsjXX54A2VyZ9CBJjsst5nyipW1q6Ee0skc/s1600/P2110099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8mBokiDKYt_4lwbKjxdtJmXrli5sg-aDkxsmZ5l7oY-kYdYuR6cXUv5QW0MO0sUKHvR_hjQyheVxGLI-oCJrw-2P5RNoFCSjcNoVKeLP3pUsjXX54A2VyZ9CBJjsst5nyipW1q6Ee0skc/s320/P2110099.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Recently, I had to embark on a great traumatic artistic life-choice. The stress was so great I swooned. It even brought on one of my heads. Oh, woe is me, whatever I shall I do? If I don’t make the best selection, people could actually die. The life of an artist is fraught with life-wrenching decisions. That’s right: I had to choose a frame.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">My decision seemed to shock the framer: I didn’t want my sampler covered in glass, just a simple, rustic dark wood casing. Initially they looked at me as if I’d asked for colonic irrigation to be simultaneously administered, but nonetheless, once I explained my reasons, they did their best.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Once I had a summer job as a frame-maker, polishing glass for mass-produced prints. Nobody cared about the frame, not me, the manufacturer or the shop that sold them. All that mattered was the glass: it should shine like crystal in the sun. Frames were cheap, tawdry and plastic.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Hours of work goes into something as simple as a picture-frame. I never believed how much it would matter. Prints and paintings seemed to arrive complete and ready-made as if by magic and frames were simply what you stuck a hook on to hang your print on the wall.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">My photomontage was due to appear in an exhibition. The colour is predominantly silver and yellow, and I asked for a simple metal frame. The framer was again shocked. The ruined the effect somewhat by presenting it creased, and then looked at me as I was asking for them to clip my toenails with their teeth when I asked for it to be repaired, saying that people want their work creased. Yeah. Sure. I’m new around here, but come on. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">At my first exhibition opening, and conscious of that damn crease (and my long toenails – they refused clip them) I viewed my work, simply thrilled to be there. It was placed at exactly the right height, and hung expertly and precisely straight: I was amazed when I first saw perfectly aligned pictures measured out with tape measures and spirit levels.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">There was just one problem. My piece was next to the best frame in the world. It had a mirrored edge: a vintage frame, chanced upon, and snapped up at a flea market/antiques fair, I’d imagine at flea market and snapped up. It fitted the work perfectly, and enhanced the drawing - my first experience of frame envy. I stood gazing not at that frame. The work was excellent (as you can see) but my thoughts were solely on that frame. Bring it to me!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Over the months, I’ve learned a lot. You need a relationship with a good framer. They must be consulted, as they know what’s right. And yes, when I showed my painfully honest friend my tiny one-sentence sampler, roughly framed in thick dark wood (my attempt at authenticity) she announced that it was clumsy, and damn her - she’s right.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">That’s when it finally hit home: framing matters. Now I want double mounting set in antique silver for my next photomontage. Another new obsession, and more expensive shiny toys to buy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-40702920113990766422011-10-09T07:20:00.000-07:002011-10-18T07:22:34.472-07:00Banned!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwuAF0yTVwnnMFQ8qqq_b6QRG8xYsdv6QtJFW7CKelCDrsbnEvK2G1fa7YqJBlplUf5HPNSVWJzbXW0aKedTywoItJYtjV8dBrdfl23OwLF2D80rfwC3Zn2kTY5ZYUof5jXMi6IA2BDPvA/s1600/WTF.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwuAF0yTVwnnMFQ8qqq_b6QRG8xYsdv6QtJFW7CKelCDrsbnEvK2G1fa7YqJBlplUf5HPNSVWJzbXW0aKedTywoItJYtjV8dBrdfl23OwLF2D80rfwC3Zn2kTY5ZYUof5jXMi6IA2BDPvA/s320/WTF.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">When did you last say fuck? I said it loudly yesterday; read on you’ll appreciate the irony. A few posts back, I said that I was controversial - well now I’ve actually been banned. At first it seemed sad, then I thought it was funny. After a while though, I became angry. I’ve been censored.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">An open call for submissions went out, asking artists to depict their home town. I found some graffiti on a </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Glasgow</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"> wall (see above) and defied anyone to say it wasn’t the very epitome of </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Glasgow</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"> cheek, bolshy confrontationalism and also - humour. Yes, it certainly contains liberal use of the word fuck, but so does daily life in </span><st1:city><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Glasgow</span></st1:place></st1:city><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">. The graffiti has been visible in public for at least two years.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I submitted the carefully sewn mini-sampler to the competition (there’s a £500 prize/commission.) I was thanked via twitter so things were looking good. A few weeks later, I was interviewed for the accompanying book and website, and my profile featuring the piece was put up online. The exhibition opened, but I couldn’t attend.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Good job really. I contacted the organisers (all artists themselves by the way) and asked for a picture of my work in the show. They emailed back a few days later, and said that – mindful of their audience – they couldn’t include my work in the exhibition, despite having said there were no restrictions. I think they were feeling doubly awkward as (only when the programme was announced) did I reveal that this was going to feature in an article I was writing, and would have been the happy ending to the quest I mentioned here for getting my work shown. Oops.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">There were many ways around this for the organisers. First of all, make sure that any limits on what is permissible is shown clearly, as well as flagging upfront in the terms and conditions. Or they could stage the exhibition with the words: ‘Adult Content’ (we’ve all seen that). The show is being held in a town hall where the word fuck has been heard regularly, possibly for centuries.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I honestly thought that battle had been fought an won. I rue the day that people began to swear all the time simply because those carefully valued transgressive words lose their power if overused and now we need new ones, as fuck seems tame. But saying fuck out loud is one of life’s greatest joys, and most of us do it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">This blog is about my being an innocent artist, and I innocently thought that art involved freedom of expression. But artists censoring, or allowing others to censor their fellow artists for something so trivial – is so wrong, misguided and reactionary as to be surreal. Those silly people took the gloss of what could have been some excellent news. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Having said that, trying to be positive, I have been banned from a gallery and have now arrived. I learned to describe myself as an artist. Perhaps now I have earned the desirable soubriquet ‘controversial’ whenever (if ever) my work and name is mentioned. Fuck yeah!<o:p></o:p></span></div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-30089677589117499862011-10-04T10:10:00.000-07:002011-10-04T10:10:38.354-07:00Painting In Public<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQJE1_ezvvkBfaPwj0cT46INhCoyrgJpm-XTZAzkffey5D85nzW2K6fMK2OhmKT1zFgQuzlQY4LItrXt3bDcSYY91DNSCyFw4YxMZ8AFbk5G9HHZOFRc7uaCWIOJZYFfd0SXat1w0hSTVA/s1600/Ria.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQJE1_ezvvkBfaPwj0cT46INhCoyrgJpm-XTZAzkffey5D85nzW2K6fMK2OhmKT1zFgQuzlQY4LItrXt3bDcSYY91DNSCyFw4YxMZ8AFbk5G9HHZOFRc7uaCWIOJZYFfd0SXat1w0hSTVA/s320/Ria.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">One sunny day, I wandered outside to paint. I am not an expert and am practicing, or stumbling through basic watercolour use and abuse; not always pretty but always productive. I’m learning – usually daubing and making shapes, nothing more, but it’s great to see some sunlight while I mess around.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I settled down by seafront, where there was an inspiring sky: grey clouds shot with pinkish light and dotted with fluffy white baby clouds. Oblivious to much else, I started to paint and soon a small knot of people were openly staring at me and my work.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">It didn’t occur to English-speakers that I am English, or to others that I speak several languages. Diligent readers might recall that one of the stated aims on starting this blog was to hear someone say of my work: “a bloody two-year old could do better than that.” Within minutes, I had achieved one of my ambitions, although that said, they were fine words from a man with breasts larger than my own wearing knee-length socks with open-toed sandals.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Everyone assumed I was painting for their entertainment, and that it was perfectly acceptable to peer over my shoulder and comment loudly, even tilting my sketch pad so they could see my painting. It’s also intriguing that my work was being assessed solely for how much it might be worth. Some observers made it clear that they believe all artists are paid Damien Hirst-amounts of money, when I want to shout that I make no money at all. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">They discussed the art they show at home, which - intriguingly - was often acquired on holiday or while travelling. I thought: make me an offer, which I know is unlikely as I am playing with colour, experimenting with contrasts and combinations. ‘I like that one,’ smiled a German woman, hurried away by her husband with the word ‘bier’ pre-imminent in his destination.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Next I tried mixing colours, while some slightly more appreciative Dutch pensioners smiled politely. It was unnerving. I felt unable to play. I gathered my pots and stuff to sit elsewhere, but it was like art-busking. I ran out of water, and moved on the fill my cup under the beach shower, but someone followed me. I put some distance between myself and my ‘fans,’ settled down and started to paint again. Because people had to make an effort, and couldn’t just sticky-beak as they pass, I found some peace and quiet. When I looked up, however, three more passers-by were staring. They<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>obviously felt they had the right to watch, as if I should actually move round so they can see. Still, at least they were quiet.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">And then at last, a Russian billionaire arrived. Well, I say billionaire, but I mean a daft bloke with a orange plastic blonde to impress. He asked how much to buy my paintings. I said he can’t afford it. He offered five hundred Euros. I said, come back with three hundred in cash and it’s yours. Off they went.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I never saw him again. I am sure you are as shocked as I was.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-8888740778949877732011-09-28T01:04:00.000-07:002011-11-18T03:50:42.637-08:00Psychology<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbFGV539BEmHt18GV6RMW0NRViAofTauxMeDEP6GDazzgAzDTw-OkQBuXe-uE5gPNnrbVaI8irtbgBbeQgizbkyUZmHCTrbUBhCrxQcHPxy4N4FKc8AHVQGreiKm67cX0S11E0nyJqBGcL/s1600/DamagedGoods.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbFGV539BEmHt18GV6RMW0NRViAofTauxMeDEP6GDazzgAzDTw-OkQBuXe-uE5gPNnrbVaI8irtbgBbeQgizbkyUZmHCTrbUBhCrxQcHPxy4N4FKc8AHVQGreiKm67cX0S11E0nyJqBGcL/s320/DamagedGoods.JPG" width="258" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">How many Freudian analysts does it take to hang a penis? I mean my mother…I mean a painting!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">The answer is all in the mind. When we make art, we reveal the innermost workings of our psyche. Look at my embroidered samplers and you can clearly see my mental bits and pieces. Apparently.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">At the art-school I decline to name, a certain lecturer was very keen on art and psychology, and during lectures on the subject revealed details of her own neuroses, dramatic epiphanies reached after much gruelling and intense psycho-analysis. Amongst other afflictions, she admitted to being an hysteric, although had she crossed my palm with silver, I could have told her that ten seconds after meeting her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">But look, it’s all about being deep, and revealing yourself in your work. And so we reach confessional art, and of course must refer to Tracy Emin who, with her unmade bed and other stylised personal outpourings looms large. Hang on - why do I mention her so much, when I’m not a huge fan of her work? It’s odd, but she does keep recurring. <i>Mummy! Why were you so cold?</i> Ah, that’s better!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Anyway, obviously when you put yourself into your work, you can’t help but reveal some of your innermost thoughts. I pause now and take a deep cleansing breath, remembering that I frequently draw bunny rabbits. How does that make me feel? What’s up doc?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Back to my point, though. There is the work of the crazy kitten man, for starters. He drew lovely cute cats, but was sectioned in what was then called an insane asylum when he went mad (...pauses for readers to say <i>because he painted cats</i>…) and his mental torment showed in his work. Cats, previously portrayed as idealised creatures living pampered lives in a paradise of slow-moving mice and bowls of cream were painted looking distressed and surrounded by jagged lightening halos. Yes, he was trying to tell the world something, but don’t worry he recovered, once more to draw pretty, happy cats.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">We have surrealists like Dali and all those other artists who begin their conversations ‘last night I dreamed about etc.’ But you switch off because they are boring (other people’s dreams usually are) only they get Turner nominated and have dedicated South Bank Show Specials and I’m not bitter or anything.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I don’t know how to reveal more about myself. I tell people, as honestly as possible can why and how I choose my subject matter. Except again this isn’t how it works. You have to complete your work, and then even if it contains the slogan: ‘I am well mad, me!’ observers make their own interpretation. It’s like the dream I had last night where I was naked but I couldn’t move in the train station, and people were staring and pointing. There was a giant bunny rabbit! <i>Help me!</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Oh, good grief. Shall we let it pass? Good art is based on ideas. It usually reveals something about the artist. I’m off now to draw lot’s and lot’s of bananas and cucumbers. Stop looking at me like that.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-53739680546898927892011-09-22T03:51:00.000-07:002011-09-22T03:51:19.596-07:00Landscape<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiChyphenhyphenBDN32dFjoCHMcGi9c7csATSOY2gVLWzXzRhjXn27GMgKw6pM0B3XVfEwO0ytlTT-GFC-7u0GFNvsEgZrKSIntEnOs4K8K4GK4fF6w77VmGN1M8G4BCMLKE3jTl3H57nIDGVjI9c3NO/s1600/Eart2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiChyphenhyphenBDN32dFjoCHMcGi9c7csATSOY2gVLWzXzRhjXn27GMgKw6pM0B3XVfEwO0ytlTT-GFC-7u0GFNvsEgZrKSIntEnOs4K8K4GK4fF6w77VmGN1M8G4BCMLKE3jTl3H57nIDGVjI9c3NO/s320/Eart2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Nature is beautiful, and doesn’t benefit from or deserve the indignity of my meddling, clumsy interpretation, abstraction or replication. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to play with what I find.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I believe that landscape art can add to its surroundings, especially where work is placed wisely within the scenery. It can enhance rather than ruin the beauty of some magnificent views, especially when skilfully applied, using natural abundant natural materials close to hand, like Robert Smithson’s Spiral Jetty, Avebury Stone Circle, and anything by Andy Goldsworthy. But again, I am not a funded artist and am currently staying in a commercial sunspot, not a humbling wilderness, so must curtail my soaring ambitions.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">At least am close to the seaside. I began casual beachcombing, hoping to discover found objects to use as material, harvested carefully for a work to be lovingly made, but intended to vanish when waves wash it away. I admire the transient nature of most landscape art.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I found myself on a shore where found objects are anything but natural: nature is covered by a carpet of cigarette ends, littered with lolly sticks, paper cups and empty cans. Every morning, a massive tractor arrives and churns up the crystal sands (beautiful to look at, painful when found later where it doesn’t belong.) I had to look hard for nature, rather than come across it. I tried using the rubbish, but it looked horrible. I couldn’t even find any seaweed, and had to rise at an ungodly hour to see the beach where humans had (sometimes literally) left their shit lying around.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I wanted flotsam: floating branches, or a few jewel-like pebbles, shells, fresh and also rotting seaweed, mermaid’s purses and empty crab shells. Seashores are always overflowing with material and supplies. Not this one. More than anything, I wanted some stones, but even the beach pebbles were man-made: crumbling fast-food chicken bones, shards of polished glass, and some eroded red bricks. So I gathered what I could, and made the work above. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">The sea was rough, and the shore had a steep incline after which it was too deep for me to paddle safely, and I didn’t want to drop and lose my camera. I made one small piece but the minute my back was turned a terse and fearsome, topless Brunhilde trampled and crushed it, deaf to my shrill objections.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">And so I got up early, and placed my planned creation on the shoreline close to a clear but empty rockpool. I gathered the stones, which changed colour as the water touched them and created a footprint in the sand, pressing them into the earth. Slowly, the sea washed them away.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">This is one experiment that left me unfulfilled. I need an empty beach or landscape, or at least more space. Even the photo had to be cropped savagely to remove the shadows of curious onlookers, who were entitled to watch but did get in the way. And do you know, I never saw a single seashell on that seashore.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-78008447706543898822011-09-17T01:37:00.000-07:002011-09-17T01:37:00.487-07:00Pushy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKBd7R8st3rwe2VbhEuRrPDylws5NfoZrH7VsRjEH-3lOe4usvmPNcbmlxr2ka1VYVs3bb2BuggrIXhW-T6HZoBNoF_nGyCIhZjSf5ZcOrEsjm4MJcOn2aaVzM2_YtuSL_awmqfqF-XiP/s1600/graveyardbunny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFKBd7R8st3rwe2VbhEuRrPDylws5NfoZrH7VsRjEH-3lOe4usvmPNcbmlxr2ka1VYVs3bb2BuggrIXhW-T6HZoBNoF_nGyCIhZjSf5ZcOrEsjm4MJcOn2aaVzM2_YtuSL_awmqfqF-XiP/s320/graveyardbunny.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Artists are as shy as woodland creatures. They hide, and only emerge at twilight when tempted by a trail of warm white wine in paper cups. After establishing trust by telling them you love their work they might even drink out of your hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I am not like that. I don’t believe there is some kind of fairy art-mother who will correct my use of colour, improve my brush strokes, and announce: “You shall be selected for the next Saatchi New Sensations show!” before my slot on The Culture Show (but then I screw up by leaving after midnight and all my work turns into Vettriano looky-likeys, and I am forced to paint a portrait of the queen, or am I alone in waking up screaming after that particular nightmare?)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">But I don’t have an agent, a gallery, or any representation at all. My exhibitions so far were down to my own efforts, or a gallerist coincidentally stumbling upon my work online.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">And so I am being pushy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I want a show and to sell some work, but I have no idea how to go about this. So I updated my artist CV, polished the bollocks-speak in my artist statement, and emailed galleries, asking simply if they have space or time to show my work. Aw bless my naïve little soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">And of course, I’m still waiting. Even the gallery that asked to show my work was incommunicado, and was amazed when I tracked her down via the clever people at BT and was crafty enough to phone. She seemed confused, but I twisted her arm, and she has agreed to show work...eventually. (I know: a gallery owner being flaky and disorganised. Astonishing.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">And there are so many galleries in every city. There are public galleries, boutique private galleries which choose work on the whim of the owner, strange galleries where they sell only chocolate-box landscapes and cat portraits. I am grateful that this campaign is possible using email, as postage would bankrupt me. I am also certain that those emails are instantly deleted.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Perhaps I should use the old-fashioned postal system, and send carefully printed examples of work, my cleverly designed business card enlcosed, but there is something contrived about that. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">When an emerging artist is adopted by a name gallery, you wonder how this came to be. Perhaps it’s word of mouth, or who they know, or maybe those artists are pushier than I am. Possibly, there’s a knack, a trick to sending emails or invites. Is it the timing, or the title. Is it down to the image and personality of the artist: must they be authentically wizened and crazy, child-like, amazed and trendy, or stoically professional and business-like?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I know I am unlikely to be selected for a retrospective at The Tate, but a well-chosen piece exhibited in a regional gallery: is that too much to ask?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I need advice. Seriously – is anyone out there? How do I this, because being innocent isn’t going to help with this part of my project.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-65521963168088067032011-09-10T03:34:00.000-07:002011-09-10T04:18:49.081-07:00Sculpture<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4orlVlZisty_LB4cDu8XmDBdvs6D1kn8pKY0QHCTYEUqTHObY2C3xya0WY4I2MIm66RPEX9C7sUbHtU-VoGfS0jeW10n9lwI7caWox3JjQQi3kRHsuVRSotuwiguKEcOzAWfutQu9cnf_/s1600/Scul1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4orlVlZisty_LB4cDu8XmDBdvs6D1kn8pKY0QHCTYEUqTHObY2C3xya0WY4I2MIm66RPEX9C7sUbHtU-VoGfS0jeW10n9lwI7caWox3JjQQi3kRHsuVRSotuwiguKEcOzAWfutQu9cnf_/s320/Scul1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-large;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I was really looking forward to the sculpture experiment part of this innocent artistry mission, partly because I think sculptors are mad. I used to go to the club-night in an art school years ago and the following day, the dance-floor was usually littered with blood and body parts: for some reason all those rugged sculpture boys (and they were boys) were the meatheads of the place, and wouldn’t stop fighting. Maybe all that carrying and carving lumps of wood and rock had knocked the sense out of them.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I can’t see myself using marble (oh come on – how the hell…?) Nor can I picture myself standing enraptured in front of a rock waiting for its spirit guide to communicate, or for the shape to emerge. Predictably, when male artists ask the stone what it wants to be, the answer is often a naked lady.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Also, I loathe most of those awful mannered marble efforts, like Cannova’s creations, finding them prissy. As for classical Greek sculpture, I want to replenish their original gaudy colours, because they are too pure and soulless without it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I will not be forcing massive ingots of metal through a grinder, or nailing forests together. I must accept the limitations I am working with. I can’t see why sculptures must be massive, or even made of stone (despite that making the majority of purchases for the those fantastic new outdoor sculpture parks) so I decided to make some micro-sculptures. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">As for materials, well I am still travelling, and will always remember the joy of luscious Mediterranean fruit, sometimes standing over the sink as the delicious juice ran down my wrist. I wanted to use, and channel this image, while evoking the legend of Persephone and the pomegranate pips. I began by saving and scrubbing all my fruit stones, and consulted my talented friend <a href="http://www.sybren-renema.com/">Sybren Renema</a> who had the following advice:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">(1) The back is just as important as the front<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">(2) The sculpture tells you when it is finished<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Wise, useful and inspiring words. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I’ve bought some metallic ink along. While researching icons, I was reminded that we now associate precious metal, especially gold, with being tacky, and with bling, and with nouveau riche notions of value. It’s easy to forget that gold is appreciated not just because of its price, but because it is beautiful. It glints in the sun.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I assembled some stones, and encased them in metallic thread. It was the most intricate to achieve, and took the most forward planning. You can see the result above. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-line-height-alt: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">When every task is over, I must decide what to do with anything I produced. I can’t possibly carry all of my creations, but I’m pleased with this piece, and I might try sculpture again. I think the setting contributed to the work, and having seen it glistening in the sun on crystal sands, the ocean sparkling in the background, I can’t imagine that it would look effective on rainy concrete. I might keep it, just to make sure. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-32683854762236184412011-09-06T05:03:00.000-07:002011-11-18T03:52:05.747-08:00Wrapping<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOrhz1GUfb-C8MS6dtSby9L4N4hK2NCLtbY3OEd5WYVJHFV3eWRwjv_dLya_2OIMTgIb3sudMAdfQwmac-mHlZ6_hqBbLMKpMg4AJ4sgSHiqMWJNqJIjR_6k-Q4xs580MKPSQs4OuixVP/s1600/Wrapped+chair2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOrhz1GUfb-C8MS6dtSby9L4N4hK2NCLtbY3OEd5WYVJHFV3eWRwjv_dLya_2OIMTgIb3sudMAdfQwmac-mHlZ6_hqBbLMKpMg4AJ4sgSHiqMWJNqJIjR_6k-Q4xs580MKPSQs4OuixVP/s320/Wrapped+chair2.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I’ve been dying to do some wrapping. I’ve long admired the colossal work of Christo, and (ambitiously) that’s what I want to try next. I dreamed of wrapping entire buildings until they billowed with silk, but reality bit: my plan was flawed as I would never gain access to a bridge. And so - there being no Reichstag readily available - I had to settle for wrapping a chair.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Before beginning, I asked my friend James, who reminded me about the practice of wrapping by choosing an excellent shrouded object as his facebook profile picture. I asked for his advice, but it’s a library shot of a statue being transported, although he does have a wrapping qualification, albeit to do with conservation. Neither of us know much about, or have shown any prior talent for rapping (getting that gag out of the way) and so I will wrap alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I am currently on the road, and in preparation, borrowed some toilet paper from my pensione (which is like Fawlty Towers relocated to Hoxha’s Albania) and brought out the muslin I am using later to sew on. FYI: you should be grateful you aren’t my sherpa – I packed a rucksack full of art-supplies which makes me walk with a stoop. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">There was a chair in my ‘pensione’ (I am shuddering at the horror, the horror of that pensione) which was crying out for a fresh lease of life as an art object. I was contemplating its undeniable and majestic serenity when a cheery ‘HOLA!’ intruded. It was the cleaner, who graphically and effectively mimed ‘do you need any more bog-roll?’ and in reply I gesticulated: ‘I’ve plenty thanks for asking.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">But that chair looks lonely. Perhaps I am anthropomorphising a chair, but it does suggest a past life. The varnish is chipped and yellowing. The plastic cover is worn. The toilet paper doesn’t look right; too obvious and clumsily symbolic. Muslin is the way forward. I mummify a sad old chair, which sits in the sunbeams blazing through the window. We have both been in better places.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Wrapping is like dressing an artefact in different clothes. Wrapping bestows an object with new layers, making the viewer look afresh. When hard edges dissolve, we seek clues in an anonymous bundle of covers as our preconceptions are seen at another angle. What’s angular and harsh becomes smooth, and unknown.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">It’s impossible to look at objects wrapped in muslin and not think of mummies, those vainglorious attempts by pharaohs to become immortal, a visual echo I appreciate, along with a remembrance of crepe bandages. I wish I could have placed the chair outside to record the entire process, but think the hotel would have objected (anyway: my room was four flights up with no lift.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I think I will return to wrapping objects, but ideally with more space, and better materials. I <i>knew</i> that length of muslin would come in handy, although I have yet to use my value pack of J-cloths. Give me time people, as I might be heading to </span><st1:state><st1:place><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Berlin</span></st1:place></st1:state><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">, and the Reichstag beckons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-53225643387096787232011-09-01T13:07:00.000-07:002011-09-01T13:07:45.270-07:00Nature<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqNGYh3yrAOkQLxZULEGPBnHtjIfdkB7a11H257pGdNFZ_5f6Hl9flhw-CZzWs8jdFFG17V-RoLbx_5layfIKRL66Ypd0MF0GFa58f4kJTF0RE7tdWvACjKYx3s3vDZlTrewlE9ecmQTF6/s1600/Botanics1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqNGYh3yrAOkQLxZULEGPBnHtjIfdkB7a11H257pGdNFZ_5f6Hl9flhw-CZzWs8jdFFG17V-RoLbx_5layfIKRL66Ypd0MF0GFa58f4kJTF0RE7tdWvACjKYx3s3vDZlTrewlE9ecmQTF6/s320/Botanics1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I hate nature. It smells. Worse still it’s been known to bite as well (although it is usually edible, which we can all agree is a good thing.) You can perhaps understand that I am asking myself why I have spent so much time painting and drawing its many bounties. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">By rights, as an aspiring artist I should be wandering forlornly around the hills and dales, wearing a beret, oil palette in hand, pausing only to weep at the majestic beauty of nature before rigorously painting it (sometimes actually paint onto to, or use it to create work.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">I recently read a fantastic quote from Georgia O’Keefe who said words to the effect that she painted flowers because they stayed still. I echo her sentiments: I’m the same with creepers, grass and ferns. I am supposed to transport myself into paroxysm of ecstasy over a tree, due to an epiphany that humanity is but an insignificant part of nature. But I don’t. It’s a tree. A very nice tree, but a tree nonetheless.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Actually, the only piece of art that I would buy (and as you will see, it will never be available for purchase) is of flowers. It’s a cave painting, where stone age artists painted poppies. It’s beautiful, and on seeing it, Picasso said: we have learned nothing. That’s the exception though.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Okay, I’ll keep trying. Does still life count? I gathered an abundant basket of fruit (well some plums and a banana) but to be honest, it didn’t grab me. I tried photographing the sky, but it seemed pointless: you’ve seen my photos, and I’d rather look at the sky in reality than have me replicate or abstract it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">And so again, I spent some hours drenched by water from a dripping tree, a tree determined not be a vision of green exploding with autumnal hues, but grey. With every passing second,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it got greyer.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">One word though: greenhouses. I found a greenhouse and fighting an urge to complain about the humidity (turn it down for art’s sake) I worked for some time. The benefits were obvious: I wasn’t shat upon by a seagull (the acknowledged lot of landscape artists everywhere.) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">When I first began drawing, I used flowers: cheap flowers, which I then watched slowly die (makes me sound truly morbid but seriously - it’s only a bloody flower) and drew them in colourful pastels. I got bored soon, because they didn’t move: they were dying, not living.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">However, I did find that sketching flowers helped me use colour, and proportion and they stayed perfectly still (except the slow process of wilting). I know that in the future, I will be found wandering amongst hosts of golden daffodils, sketching until I get it right. I will not be defeated by flowers. Flowers are pretty and frail, but they are also my enemy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Oh why bother? Nature is green. It has the best reds, which we then try, hopelessly to replicate/emulate with acrylics, but nature always wins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-49164570506933639692011-08-30T01:06:00.000-07:002011-08-30T01:37:11.532-07:00Performance<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-shZ7SaLSxL-fzwpm2J-h-sshFmfOQkc216Kaf2bKJL5qgu6nam8inoAZq9myE4CJrM4C4rHtbEVFFmyVLoWXGBVi9-RE1LUbZRolo_CXYi3HCRfAwP2bPAJVEa7jMJ4IfljNKwjhBjey/s1600/BunnyLamp.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-shZ7SaLSxL-fzwpm2J-h-sshFmfOQkc216Kaf2bKJL5qgu6nam8inoAZq9myE4CJrM4C4rHtbEVFFmyVLoWXGBVi9-RE1LUbZRolo_CXYi3HCRfAwP2bPAJVEa7jMJ4IfljNKwjhBjey/s320/BunnyLamp.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Performance art is weird isn’t it? It straddles the gap between mime, acting and unfortunately, on occasions, straightforward annoyance. But I was truly eager to try it, perhaps more than anything else on my ever lengthening art-to-do list, which is why on one glorious sunny day, I was seen wearing (<i>please no – not a bunny costume!</i>) a bunny costume while wandering around a park. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Whenever I witness performance in a gallery, I am never sure exactly how to react: do you applaud, or ignore it? Maybe critique it as you would a painting, or stand and gaze in awe? It’s so very difficult. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I’ve seen a few performances recently: one involved a breathless woman skipping around whilst reciting snatched phrases from a script. Most people sat still and scratched their chins (when not glaring at me, the philistine who forgot to turn off her mobile phone. <i>Really</i> sorry about that.) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Another was unexpected and sinister: two cloaked figures brandished small ornamental pyramids and enacted an elaborate ritual, to rapturous applause when - eventually - it ended.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">And I’m still wondering: when performance occurs outside gallery confines, where does it exist? Is it real only when others can see it in the form of a film and/or photograph, or do you have to be there? I plan to use the subsequent photographs for some more photomontages, but seriously, to enjoy the performance itself, you really had to experience it yourself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">My make-shift costume was resonant of, but did not replicate, a bunny. I met a friend/collaborator in a park, who managed to attach the home-made rabbit ears. I couldn’t see a thing when wearing the eye-patches painted over with tippex, which was the point of it all. I walked aimlessly around, pausing to pose for photos (and messed the image up slightly by having a bulging carrier and handbag in full shot.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">The totem/metaphor for my time spent blind has become a giant bunny rabbit (it looked like a bunny – it was actually a man waving his arms around.) That bunny has been appearing in my paintings, but the vision of a huge rabbit must have come from my own unconscious memory. It is part of me, so I absorbed and became it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I didn’t bother with the full-on furry bunny costume I toyed with previously (most notably for graduation day at the art-school I decline to name, an omission I now deeply regret.) For the performance, it would have too much, more so than bunny ears. As I wandered around amongst some lush foliage pausing next to street lamps apparently straight out of Narnia (how appropriate) everything made sense. I couldn’t imagine painting or sewing about this one moment in my life, that is, showing others what I had seen, namely a giant bunny.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Onlookers remained aloof, although I had been willing to engage with them. People were curious, but this event occurred next to an art gallery, so perhaps rabbit-related performance art is commonplace. Please note: I am available for formal functions. See my agent – the guy with long ears and big teeth.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-52692188164741980252011-08-26T09:05:00.000-07:002011-08-28T03:22:12.270-07:00Philosophy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82WVy-0CU8O3-l90J_exO5Mxd4qaDnIiwpOcwiXWmvBnU5uwiaT9Fvu6NTA2sDfuHU4eulWutU6NUrgMKKE3n1yoPmfOFM9hsLI4-zNuwc0EkUuyl9CWHsQXKiZQzA7uminAbv0Vc9W0M/s1600/SpeechBubbles.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82WVy-0CU8O3-l90J_exO5Mxd4qaDnIiwpOcwiXWmvBnU5uwiaT9Fvu6NTA2sDfuHU4eulWutU6NUrgMKKE3n1yoPmfOFM9hsLI4-zNuwc0EkUuyl9CWHsQXKiZQzA7uminAbv0Vc9W0M/s320/SpeechBubbles.JPG" width="299" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I joke about an awful lot around here, but on this point I am deadly serious: the artists I know are some of the cleverest people I have ever met: universally and routinely erudite, eloquent, literate, informed, storing a specialised knowledge which is carefully shared and generally worn lightly.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Also – they are philosophers. Seriously, they can’t order a shandy without quoting Badiou, which put me in something of a quandary, if not a major disadvantage. I am not schooled in philosophy, especially aesthetics. When anyone suggests I try, I start to sulk, mumbling: ‘can’t make me.’ When I mentioned this, the artists insisted that philosophy would help. At certain institutions, philosophers were even kept on hand in case of emergencies: “…quick – pass the Plato. No – wrong man, stupid. He’s having an existential crisis!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">But if I am to be a real artist, that is – a wise and learned one, then I must play the game, which means reading (or actually studying) philosophy. And I’ve tried. Honest. I read Aristotle, but he didn’t work (made him sound like a floor-cleaner, haven’t I?) Heidegger? Baby steps…I did time with Baudrillard and other French chaps, but soon realised that as with all the better things in life, I’d rather do it than think about it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Until that is, my friend Mark (a fervent Deleuze man, just so you know) suggested reading up on Foucault. I did, nothing too weighty, just a few short articles and essays, so I don’t get a medal or anything, unlike my friends who sit casually sunning themselves and genning up on Debord (they are all French aren’t they?) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">And then I read about heterotopias. It was a revelation. It wasn’t about disciplined thinking. You see, I had noticed that certain places were fruitful places to gather material for my samplers based on overheard conversations and graffiti. Heterotopias are ‘other’ places, situated outside of the mainstream. They are ‘elsewheres,’ like prisons, airports, and – I have argued – public toilets and Café Nero (sue me. I own nothing…) all untied from the usual boundaries and rules, disconnected from usual behavioural norms. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">It hasn’t changed my work, but it has unveiled why I do what I do: explaining why I go to places where they are simultaneously welcoming and yet alienating (well - do you spend longer in the toilet than is necessary, and yes, women as well?) And why it is that people feel able to sit a crowded coffee bar and talk loudly so that all may eavesdrop the details about their reasons for having an abortion. It’s a heterotopia: a place outside the world, and yet still in it.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">So that’s it, then. I have philosophy. It doesn’t control or dictate what I make, but it does clarify what I do, especially for funding purposes, providing effective, reasoned legitimacy for sewing rude words. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">So who do I read to explain why I then sew the overheard words into a sampler. Perhaps it’s because I am weird?<span style="text-transform: uppercase;"> </span>Marvellous. Anyway: must dash. I need the heterotopia.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-36143750372175076632011-08-22T03:25:00.000-07:002011-08-24T12:42:31.823-07:00Oil Paints (and Poverty)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE6Z8EOtwUPjaJM9DqztKGIF69AfPQczBEEK6_YwwkLBKiNUbBpaNfP47-c5sdXd3bGSDJQrNJPK-zfIHk_IZpqeYqSxMNWbZ_jTT85RbQmywMlkxHcZeytO5Zf6I1V4T1HNbO4g4L-pY8/s1600/Riarail.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE6Z8EOtwUPjaJM9DqztKGIF69AfPQczBEEK6_YwwkLBKiNUbBpaNfP47-c5sdXd3bGSDJQrNJPK-zfIHk_IZpqeYqSxMNWbZ_jTT85RbQmywMlkxHcZeytO5Zf6I1V4T1HNbO4g4L-pY8/s320/Riarail.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Recently I’ve been lurking outside art supply shops with my face against the windows, gazing longingly inside like a hungry Victorian urchin, gasping: <i>please sir: can I have some oil paints?</i> For ages I was fine with sewn text art – totally affordable, but then I had to go and get ambitious, which costs money, lots and lots of money. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I’ve closed my eyes and asked the art pixies for oil paints (and an easel) (and brushes) (and linseed oil, turpentine, and rags) but nothing happened. I will even supply the deluded and self righteous sense of doing proper, traditional art, like Caravaggio and other similar chaps of the renaissance persuasion. And no: acrylics won’t do – they also dry to fast. But at least I’m poor. Poor is authentic. Poor is how proper artists used to live, until they started covering skulls in diamonds.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Yes, I am poor. Too poor to achieve my art. I’ve even done my special naked voodoo oil-paint dance, and that was expensive after paying the fine and everything (although I did get all five tassels spinning in different directions.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">At the time of writing, I am faced with a choice: food, or oil paints, which means I’ve arrived: I am a poor, impoverished artist, faced with pursuing my creative muse or eating real food (and not the cardboard box that food comes in).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I’ve been testing the boundaries of watercolours and they have been found wanting. They dry too quickly, colours are insipid, and they are not suitable for layering. I’ve done my best, I really have. Watercolours are fine for sketching, but I want some oils.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Oils are what I want. Oils are what I need. You can layer them on with a trowel (so symbolic) and amend work a few days later. You can place massive 3D splodges of colour, and then form it into a shape. I know there are skills: canvas stretching, under painting, etc, but lack of skill has never stopped before (cue indulgent pause for readers to enter your own gag here.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I am currently all over the place (by which I mean I am travelling *further pause for reader to insert own gag*) and couldn’t carry a box of oils, but even so, I am still craving them. The smell is so evocative, and oils are not considered dry until 60-80 years old, at least. I’ll be dead by then. Still: I love the idea of finishing work, and then scraping or wiping off an entire layer.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">All of which is entirely academic: I can’t afford oil paints, and am resigned to this until I look at the names of the colours: Alizarin Crimson, Viridian Green, Prussian Blue, Rose Madder (need. Need a lot.) I have to find some ‘trainer’ oils, and use them up to practice, refining some semblance of a technique. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Food or paint - hardly Sophie’s Choice is it? Even so: I want some oils. (And canvasses. And an easel.) Art pixies? Where are you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-32197510741220014672011-08-19T11:22:00.000-07:002011-08-19T13:30:27.315-07:00Conceptual Art<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAWO_y7cFx9taIyNfJxaw815h0SsoPfQ5l3OwgPk6c6287SQZpyl_7Qp6LZSGVMcnIUelI73TVwzeDqtNMqRQwBYRWS60dPzExusH9heWC_UlKCQ2thfYwQP9kiszXiUR-aItLBN9liicu/s1600/images.jpg.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAWO_y7cFx9taIyNfJxaw815h0SsoPfQ5l3OwgPk6c6287SQZpyl_7Qp6LZSGVMcnIUelI73TVwzeDqtNMqRQwBYRWS60dPzExusH9heWC_UlKCQ2thfYwQP9kiszXiUR-aItLBN9liicu/s1600/images.jpg.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">How do you know when you’ve encountered conceptual art? When you recognise it for yourself, or if someone points out that you’ve been standing in it?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I ask because conceptual art was high on my list of ‘most dreaded’ perhaps because of all the practices (I must practice getting used to saying that: ‘practice’) it's also most likely to inspire the reaction: “Call that art?” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Don’t think I am dismissing all conceptual art, especially as the only artwork ever to have made me cry in public arguably qualifies for that label: Steve McQueen’s ‘For Queen and Country,’ where he turned snapshots of UK military personnel killed in action into postage stamps. I cried. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">My best guess is this: the idea is everything, so without a grand philosophy the art produced is creatively worthless (that’s if any is produced). So w<span class="apple-converted-space">here will it end? The absolute limit must be someone walking into a room and declaring their concept to anyone present (actually, do we even require an audience) then adding: will this do? Or writing an idea on a piece of paper, and passing it around, so that people can read your thoughts. Oh, I feel like such a fool: I bet that’s already been done, hasn’t it?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">With a heavy heart, I began my research (conceptual artists love their research) and immediately encounter a problem: what the hell is conceptual art? Nobody seems to know, not so that they can explain it to me anyway. In desperation I consulted the wise and flawless oracle that is Wikipedia, which summarised the notion nicely enough: <span class="apple-style-span">‘Conceptual art</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="apple-style-span">is</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Art" title="Art"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">art</span></a></span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="apple-style-span">in which the</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Concept" title="Concept"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">concept</span></a>(s) or</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Idea" title="Idea"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">idea</span></a>(s) involved in the work take precedence over traditional</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="apple-style-span"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aesthetics" title="Aesthetics"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none;">aesthetic</span></a></span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="apple-style-span">and material concerns.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Right then: inspired I use all the usual buzzwords and phrases, like there being no need for a gallery outcome or an artefact, s</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">o I don’t really need to make anything, which is difficult as I also term myself as a ‘maker’ (listen carefully, I shall say this only once: my text embroideries are NOT CRAFT!!!) Anyway: I am not averse to the occasional installation, in fact I have some form in that regard. I like the notion of ideas led art, but I am floundering. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">And so I need to conjure up a concept. Well it just happens I have one close by that I made earlier, and it’s this: we can organise our lives online. We don’t book with travel agents, but seek all info on the web. How far can we go? By far, I mean can I get to </span></span><st1:state><st1:place><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Berlin</span></span></st1:place></st1:state><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"> – can I find a life, ie a home, a gallery show, friends, everything, all online? Ideally, my admittedly ambitious ‘outcome’ will be an installation of my project shown in a Berlin Gallery, along with footage/tweets/posts about the journey both real and metaphorical.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Speaking of concepts, here’s another idea: a novice artist tries to organise a solo show or sell work, on the basis of experimenting with various visual art forms all for the first time. It’s certainly a concept. But is it art?</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-77400666512954857922011-08-14T04:52:00.000-07:002011-08-16T01:00:57.554-07:00Silk Painting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSwH68Tf0hj8pmRdUOFFpOt34OCSJCmXvyFieS6xi4_Rb-3ImJKbc46u0gsWvkzavNpWcqQQK7SQRNHDaK8ljUIw6VF24VO_JRhV5uweEznMZABm2UN4EkwEHu7ZdztcD5pTvnBb67HAi/s1600/watercolour2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240px" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSwH68Tf0hj8pmRdUOFFpOt34OCSJCmXvyFieS6xi4_Rb-3ImJKbc46u0gsWvkzavNpWcqQQK7SQRNHDaK8ljUIw6VF24VO_JRhV5uweEznMZABm2UN4EkwEHu7ZdztcD5pTvnBb67HAi/s320/watercolour2.JPG" width="320px" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">In my mission to try as many forms of visual art I can, the more refined skills were not top of my list. I want to do all the hip, edgy practices, like performance. But I’ve had no instruction in technique, and so when I was offered the chance of a free class in silk painting, I accepted. I was supposed to paint pretty pictures of flowers and ferns, but here’s how it all went if not wrong, then certainly different. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I am already dangerously close to working in the dreaded field known as ‘craft’ simply by the act of sewing, and so painting cloth with pretty paints is another step down the path towards craft fairs with cross-stitched kits of pretty cats. Silk painting is delicate. It is dainty. It is everything I am not.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">The instruction session was held in the classroom of <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Glasgow</city></place>’s Winter Gardens. We were all given a square white scarf, and taught the basics. I loved this bit: I felt like a Victorian girl being given instruction on an improving pastimes suitable for a young lady, perfectly upright in a crinoline.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Stoking the fire of inspiration smouldering within my bosom to an inferno, we wandered around the massive greenhouse sketching plants. I did my best, and I will say that at least, the colours were lovely – albeit in February, mostly green. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Next came the tricky part. When we returned, we learned how to stretch the silk hankie on a frame, and drew an outline with a thin line of wax from a tube. Already it started to go haywire, as while everyone else was rigidly drawing a defined plant, tongues out in concentration, I thought – ooh, bright colours and lovely patterns. Penny, she like colours! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Again, my instinct for abstraction kicked in. Accurate plants are nice and everything, but when you step outside the line, the beautiful clear primary colours splurged and splodged all over the material, running into each other and making new colours. I was entranced. The lady next to me overflowed with pity. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">But I was on a roll! I began to peel off the barriers (is this symbolic – a landmark moment do you think?) and went <i>wild</i> with colour. It’s funny: some artists have an innate skill for replication and accuracy, but as I discovered with watercolours, I love making bold statements of shape. And so the (to me at least) beautiful oozing, creeping splodges grew. And grew. The woman sitting beside me gave a look that indicated she thought I was ‘special’ then backed away to paint <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>more ferns and branches. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I couldn’t stop. I was happy, dabbing and daubing. The teacher stood beside and stared for some time, before offering, tolerantly and as if she didn’t want to make any sudden movements: ‘Yes. It’s pretty when that happens isn’t it?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">If I really was a young Victorian lady, I would have been given laudanum, committed to an asylum for moral insanity, or forced to scrub the poor by my weeping mama who swooned when shown my work. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Not all experiments are successful. This one? Epic fail. (Watercolour above, silk has been 'filed.')</span></div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3460944694527403640.post-86369467205722155792011-08-08T23:57:00.000-07:002011-08-08T23:57:43.834-07:00Crits<br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtRRQWpzzdelTA4hKifGs_IIDr4cc0WCi4dyAKfy_bUCdygfuzGWk02cI35sCZ6S2V9WzJJSrUPq1xfbNHaHrfXPyZOlSYpvcpg7Co_sv2n2ypfZU-lPJSUhM2C6NIKBpddLp6MyMabBc6/s1600/AmISafe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtRRQWpzzdelTA4hKifGs_IIDr4cc0WCi4dyAKfy_bUCdygfuzGWk02cI35sCZ6S2V9WzJJSrUPq1xfbNHaHrfXPyZOlSYpvcpg7Co_sv2n2ypfZU-lPJSUhM2C6NIKBpddLp6MyMabBc6/s320/AmISafe.JPG" width="229" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Making art means being judged. Fair enough really, as artists are usually asking for money in some form or another, either by dreaming of gallery commissions and sales, or hoping that art-lovers will take the time and pay the fares to view and then buy their work. Artists learn fast that gallery reality involves overhearing unasked for opinions, all delivered with the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>discretion of a furious, neon pink buffalo. They grow accustomed to being critiqued in terms such as: “This picture’s crap and the artist is a twat.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">In art-school crits, students gather round to appraise work displayed by fellow emerging artists, a process intended in part to acclimatise students to the cold hard world outside. During a crit, students say: ‘Your piece doesn’t work as a coherent installation, neither does it engage or communicate your intentions of exploring the ephemeral nature of meaning. And there’s far too much mauve.’ You know – stuff like that.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">But do not fear the appraisal, despite there always being that one harsh judge who boldly, exactingly and infuriatingly states that they do not like the sculpture, but can’t explain why (others are insightful, so listen to them). Crits might seem like Stalinist denunciation sessions, but need not be if they are helpful and kindly done, which however negative, they usually are.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">For artists who have flown the warm, nurturing nest of art-school, self-evaluation is difficult. Some retreat to a highly critical other-world, where nothing looks right and not understanding why, they chuck everything in the bin. Others submit mediocre or utterly terrible work because their quality-control/ego meter is calibrated to assure them that everything they do is <i>brilliant.</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">During my time at The Institution I Decline To Name, I attended what I thought was a crit. My embryonic installation attracted thunderous indifference, after which, things got weird. One student glowered at us silently near a plinth, then shared details of their terrible life, before offering up the ‘creative response’ - a recording of someone screaming, madly and loudly for <i>ages</i>. Did we have any thoughts? Talk about uncomfortable silences.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Another student presented some research papers but half-way through began to weep inconsolably for no obvious reason. After our ordeal was over, we were rewarded with applause. Which is why I was delighted to attend a proper crit session run by the excellent <a href="http://www.daviddalegallery.co.uk/">David Dale Gallery</a> <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">Several aspiring creatives, half-crazed from working alone, spent most of a grey Sunday helpfully and supportively appraising work. I submitted my larger, colourful sampler-style embroideries for comparison with the silver-on-muslin work I am struggling with, mainly because it’s a nightmare to make (I have some sight problems). Others were looking for an opinion about subject matter, and how to improve their presentation.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.0pt;">The people at David Dale were critical in its true meaning, not in the common understanding of brutally slagging things off. Thanks to their feedback I feel able to decide which way to go. Now I am a great fan of crits, mainly because (get this) nobody laughed, not even a sly giggle. Even better, nobody cried.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Penny Andersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17847985957965471844noreply@blogger.com0