Apologies ...

... for not being in touch much. The thesis is taking up most of my life, and even though I am somewhat in S-n-M love with the British Library, it is still a time and energy consuming bitch. I do regularly culturate myself, however the two exibitions I've recently been to were closing on the day of my visit, so I did not see much point of reporting it here and consequently making you terribly sad that you couldn't go. On the weekend, despite the promised ridiculous amount of sunshine, possibilities of getting a tan and a beer in the park, I will continue to get fucked upwards and sideways by academia. But alas, there is hope! I may get so bored that I will be so much in need of procrastination that you will, yet again, be able to enjoy my miserable ranting! 

Orphans' Easter

There is a delightful tradition in Hungary originating in the countryside that on Easter Monday the boys come to the houses of the single girls and they 'water' them to presumably make them cleaner (?) or more attractive (?) so as to help them find themselves a man, while chanting some little poem to speed up this process. The girls, in exchange, give the boy brightly painted eggs. Of course modernity and city-life has considerably altered this little custom. Now it is more often than not cheap perfume that is sprinkled, leaving you stinking to high heavens at the end of the day if you are not careful. It is possible that instead of eggs the boys are given money(!); how terrible is that? And the poems have gradually transformed from cute, into flirty to outright offending sometimes. But no matter how much modern times have altered the habits of Easter Monday, today I am definitely longing for them. To eat ham, hard-boiled egg and horseradish sauce with the family! To wake up to my father mischievously sneaking into my room and soaking me in my own bed and then cook for the boys, family members or friends, who trickle in during the day for a bite, a painted egg and to see my sister and I standing in front of them, in raincoats, prepared for the screaming and the shower to begin.

All I want is a bucket of water to stick my head in this hangover Monday morning. Friday's housewarming was a success, we managed to not piss off any neighbours and friends from all parts of my life seem to bond with each other and with M. I just let about two hectoliters of beer somehow trickle down my throat, so I just sat in the corner lovingly and sentimentally admiring all this bonding. Saturday, M and I started exploring our territory, marking it not (necessarily) with urine samples, but with the (non-) memories of alcohol fueled nights. First on the list was the two centrally located, non-paying Camden establishments, the World's End and the Camden Eye. Cool-randomer numero uno of the night was the old dude who, out of his numerous fanny-packs, was selling cigarettes for 4 quid and tiny bottles of vodka for 3. Or lighters if that was what you wanted, and I am sure that wasn't the whole extent of the contents he carried around, just to make you the deal of your life. Cool-randomer numero dos was the guy dressed in black with large circles of make up around his eyes, from Glasgow. Surprisingly we did manage to understand him, and he shared with us the reason for his celebration, as around supper-time he managed to bump into Pete Doherty and was extremely excited about that. On this note I gotta say, maybe his story left such an imprint on my mind that I could've sworn I also saw PD from the bus the next day jumping into a cab with two other people. Anyway, the PD fan from Glasgow decided to hug it out with M, he kept saying that we are such good people and extensively wishing M good luck on his start in London. I think M was just simply over excited about his first drunken chat in London. Well, I understand. The dude was fun. 

Hoping for a quiet night in, because I was aiming to go to the library the next day, I laid low, trying not to arouse the attention of anyone who might want to party. This of course shot to hell, when a friend appeared with a bottle of vodka, which I of course topped up with an other one, and we proceeded to have a raging night in Proud, the hip-hop, tip-top club, Camden's belle-de-jour. The two main rooms contain different and ever-changing music styles, but if you want to drink yourself silly before hopping on the dancefloor you can do that in the stable boxes located all the way to the terrace kept up for the crazy smokers. Really great place, will be returning soon. 

And now, for your viewing pleasure the photo of the day

Must do tomorrow

Unfortunately, my habit of leaving everything to the last minute is clearly noticeable on this blog. Just as with Crash, where I arrived breathless on the very last day of exhibition, I got to the British Museum, the day before the last of the Revolution on Paper. Apologies, but it is a must see exhibition, so drop everything on your all-too-hated Monday, and take a walk through the wonderfully funny and socio-politically insightful prints from the early 20th century Mexico. 

Ok, there is a slight possibility that I might be a bit bias about this exhibit. Having lived in Mexico for three months, it is only natural that I may feel a deeper connection with the contents of the prints. I highly doubt, for example, that anybody would feel the sort of piss-myself excitement of looking at a nude sketch of Dolores Olmedo by Diego Rivera, had you not wondered her beautiful gardens with peacocks, house-galleries filled with a unique and magnificent collection of works by Frida Kahlo and Rivera and played with the almost-extinct Xolo dogs (that are bald!) in the shade of the maguey cactuses. Or looking at fragement sketches of Orozco's murals, and feeling the pangs of acutely tear-jerking nostalgia, recalling standing in front of and admiring the full mural of Omniscence, stretching two stories, at the Casa de los Azulejos in the heart of Mexico DF. 

But even if you don't possess this over the top sentimental attachment to the country, it is nevertheless worth inspecting a nation's struggle for independence from the point of view of shrewd visual commentary. It is also the most extensive such exhibition ever put on in the UK, and you can discover such 20th century art-celebrities as 'Emiliano Zapata and his horse' by Diego Rivera, or observe the ever-present relevance of criticism of capitalist media control, or the Churches fight against secularism and its bullying of indigenous cultures into mix-and-matching local and Catholic religion.

Emiliano Zapata and his horse, Diego Rivera, 1932, lithograph © 2009, Banco de Mexico Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, Mexico D.F. / DACSFair enough, you don't really have to 'discover' this one, it is the first thing you see as you walk into Room 90. It's good it doesn't poke your eyes out.

 

José Chávez Morado (1909 - 2002)

The Laughter of the Public - away with your nonsense

1939, Lithograph

A gachupín commonly refers to an immigrant especially a Spaniard in Mexico. The gachupín here is tooting the horn of 'Free Press', which, according to the little limerick on the side is 'Is neither free and is neither press', it is essentially a mouthpiece for pro-fascist propaganda. 

José Chávez Morado (1909 - 2002)

Symbiosis, c1940, Lithograph

A beautifully simple representation of a painfully complicated and sensitive subject. The Christianization of the indigenous population in Mexico was a forceful and sometimes violent process. It is very interesting to see how not only Christian churches were built upon the ruins of destroyed sanctuaries of the natives, but how Christian traditions and the cult of the saints were built on local ceremonies and superstitions. 

Leopoldo Méndez (1902 -1969)

Poltical piñata, 1936, Woodcut

The piñata represents President Plutarco Elias Calles and his Constituional Revolutionary Party, which is represented as a disguise for Capitalism. The worker using the baton marked 'Feliz Año 1936' is cheered on by a group of spectators, showing that the print could have possibly been designed as a holiday card, hoping for the defeat of Calles and Capitalism in the coming year. 

José Guadalupe Posada (1852-1913)

A Skeleton from Guadalajara, 1910

Photo-relief and letterpress

'The word Tapatia in the title is used colloquially in Mexico to describe people from the city of Guadalajara, which is regarded as the city that most fully embodies Mexican identity. The verses, written in the first person, recount the way in which the skeleton has defeated people from other states in fights. The scene is set in a Mexican cantina, a bar traditionally reserved for men, and a likely home for such a macho figure, even if a female skeleton is peering over his shoulder.' (quote: the little tablet next to the print)

Of course I couldn't resist the temptation of purchasing the book (it was half off!!) which contains all the prints and others not included in the exhibit, and extensive history of the era and background on its artists! A treasure for all lovers of Mexico! 

So go ahead and don't do what you are suppose to tomorrow, and enjoy the savvy puns made at the expense of political climate, capitalism, religion and everyday Mexican life, which are not without actuality for today's casual museum-goer and occasional thinker. 

A new-born Londoner and car-porn

Having lived in London on and off for over three years, I have come to realize that I take many things for granted and some essential actions of my day-to-day life have become instinctive rather than conscious decisions. Examples could include the way you hold on the stairs of the double-decker in order to avoid diving headfirst downstairs when the crazy driver is abusing the brakes, or that you refer to things half-hour commuting away as 'in the neighbourhood' and you have long stopped being (or you never really were) amazed by the efficiency and ease of the Oyster card system. So when M arrived on Monday I knew I am in for one of the biggest challenges of becoming a 'Londoner', that is guiding a new-comer in the maze and chaos of this metropolis. 

'I can see the modern dick building. I am outside where are you?' Liverpool Street station was possibly the most harrowing first impression that my incredibly calm and chilled out man could have gotten. 'Why is everybody running?' and why is everybody dressed for a funeral? - could also have been an appropriate question in the heart of the City. Having a newbie around is like watching Bambi learn how to walk. The neighbourhood still consists of the area within walking distance, but it is growing corner by corner, day after day. Maybe next week I can trust him to get on a bus and find his way back? Oh, the worries. 

On an other note, I went on another book-binge, and got the following treasures:

Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami , because I just loved loved Kafka on the Shore, and now my friend has lent me What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, his memoir. Ay, I can't wait for the Murakami overdose! But it will have to wait, because I also have the following works jumping up and down and yelling on my shelves 'read me! read me!': The Piano Teacher by Elfriede Jelinek, The Essential Tales of Chekhov edited by Richard Ford and my current reading material Crash by JG Ballard. 

Being as awesome and horrendous as it is, I had the luck of not only visualizing the disturbingly pornographic images of scrap metal in my head, but see it interpreted by numerous artists at the Gagosian Gallery. The homage to JGB revolved mainly around the many folded visualization of the components of the equation

 

LORIS GRÉAUD

The Future, 2009

Oil on canvas

57 x 41 inches framed (145 x 104 cm)

Oddly enough I did find some of the installations, that at first glance had nothing to do with sex, erotically charged. One of the rooms consisted of 3-4 meter screens showing various massive mechanical constructions operating, and as the metallic sounds filled the space, they slowly and somewhat gracefully made you feel tiny, helpless and fragile. And a little horny. I know this sounds weird and I still don't know if I felt this way, because of my preconceived idea that I should feel this way; because let's face it I was at an exhibition about a man's work whose characters get off on car crashes. Or there is truly something sexually arousing about technology, our helplessness without it and the dangers within it.

DAN HOLDSWORTH
Untitled (Autopia), 1998
Chromogenic print
Diptych: 41 7/8 x 52 3/16 inches each (106.5 x 132.6 cm)
Ed. of 5