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