Friday, May 19, 2006

Paperworld at Transition

It's the end of the week. I'm dog tired. It's the opening of Paperworld at Transition tonight and it's going to be a long trek there and then home. I'm sitting in the bar at the ICA with nice people. I've just finshed work. I am drinking a beer. I could fall asleep in a moment.
How fragile it is sometimes, that commitment to go to a private view. If I sit here a second longer I know I won't go. I'll get another beer, cosy down, have a chat and then tube it home, get into bed, have a lovely sleep and -
And I'm up and I'm heading for the bus and I'm going!
It takes an age to get there. The bus I need doesn't show and I have to detour about,
wasting time travelling. Time I could've spent sitting in the bar...time I could've spent sleeping.
Of course this is no one's fault but my own. It's another opening and I need to record it - however briefly, inacurrately, subjectively, ignorantly, poorly. This blog is my work. Your show is my work.
Lisa P is there on the balcony, but soon after she's gone. There are lots of people here again. Transition always pulls them in. And Transition always runs out of alcohol when I arrive. My timing is appalling in this respect. I get the last cup of red wine before it goes. Later I see Sarah Doyle walking thru the gallery with some more bottles in a box. 'I'm very popular,' she says...
I get talking to Karen D'Amico. Or rather she talks to me and I listen. I'm far too tired now to have a conversation. I realise that I forgot to bring any vocabulary, grammar or interesting thoughts with me tonight. I take a few photos while she talks, holding the camera up without looking and doing crowd shots. 'Don't mind me,' I say, looking around and generally being quite impolite, 'you just keep talking...'. I don't think I make any sense even when I do speak.
Mark Pawson is there handing out invites for the show he has coming up in Brighton. Rosie and Harriet from Tatty Devine are there. Space Station Sixty-Five. Lots of others. Ingrid Z from that fateful cake eating night at Residence is there. I say hello. She is inscrutable. I make a note to go back to Residence some time.
Rosemary Shirley is there from the small but perfectly formed Leisure Centre. We talk briefly about Karen magazine and I tell her that she and Karen are part of the 'nu village' scene. You can have that one for free. It's all garden fetes, local community, infrastructures of locality, connections to wider concerns than art...
See, told you I wasn't making any sense when I did speak.
I take a crowd shot outside and some guy starts jumping around, trying to get into the frame (above). This is Asif, partner of Sarah Doyle. He is chatty and funny and I nod and laugh a lot. Until he offers me a sweet, that is. Even as he produces the bag I have that nagging thing about sweets from strangers going round my head. Anyway, I take one and pop it in my mouth. It is absolutely vile. I spit it out. Asif is laughing. He points to the bag. 'Norwegian,' he says, 'salt sweets.'
I take the gun from the holster I am wearing, cock the trigger, then blow his head clean off. I start shooting all over the place. Blam! Blam! Soon, the corridor is a bloody mess.
Man, I'm tired.
Cathy is closing the door, virtually pushing us out onto the balcony, saying 'I'm going to have a lie down.'
It's a very good idea - and after many hours of travel, pouring rain and trying to rid my mouth of a disgusting taste, I do indeed get to lie down too...


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