Thursday, 31 January 2013
Tuesday, 29 January 2013
Sunday, 27 January 2013
manipulated image
 |
| Another test of an image, should be able to do some more in a more focused way, especially of the current crop of British politicians, who are frankly either stupid , or deliberately screwing up the country due to a warped ideology. |
Manipulated image, first.
Not sure what to say about this , except that it is a useful technique. Satire , some visual violence, vaguely expressionist if you want to use that hackneyed phrase. Kind of cruel. Playing around with Photoshop. It is more to do with drawing and painting I feel, as it should be plain even to the most limited of intellects that I can barely wield a camera in any meaningful sense. Hard copies look pretty good. Got to get over to stbarnabaspress.com and get some big ones made.
Tuesday, 22 January 2013
Technique? What technique?
One of the joys of digital photography or indeed any art form is the capacity, as most creative people will tell you, of profiting from technical errors.
In my capacity as World's Crappiest Photographer I am having a whole lot more fun fiddling around with those black rectangles you get when you play with the knobs, dials and levers on a camera. Of course there are failures but I am quite happy recuperating digital information from the blackness in order to create, sometimes surprisingly beautiful images. I would not like to go out on assignment with such an attitude unless it was personal research. That as far as I can see is the real usefulness of Photoshop and RAW.
I would be the world's happiest man if I were able to take cool, commercial photographs like all the others. But no. All those years at art school and I am still technically an ignoramus. I think the next area will be building my own camera from scrap. Mind you, The Meatyard Blues are still in force. It is a rule in my house now. Never go out without the masks. But I am definitely thinking about building my own camera.
In my capacity as World's Crappiest Photographer I am having a whole lot more fun fiddling around with those black rectangles you get when you play with the knobs, dials and levers on a camera. Of course there are failures but I am quite happy recuperating digital information from the blackness in order to create, sometimes surprisingly beautiful images. I would not like to go out on assignment with such an attitude unless it was personal research. That as far as I can see is the real usefulness of Photoshop and RAW.
I would be the world's happiest man if I were able to take cool, commercial photographs like all the others. But no. All those years at art school and I am still technically an ignoramus. I think the next area will be building my own camera from scrap. Mind you, The Meatyard Blues are still in force. It is a rule in my house now. Never go out without the masks. But I am definitely thinking about building my own camera.
Monday, 21 January 2013
On Being an Old Codger.
Being an Old Codger, is I believe, a state of mind rather than a physical condition. There are members of my professional circles who are old codgers and they are at least 20 years younger than me.
However,lately I have begun to consider the signs of old codgerism in myself.
These may indeed include a certain grumpiness and an unwillingness to attend an AC/DC concert. A perpetual bad temperedness. A tendency to talk about the old days when younger people were not a threat to life and limb and wouldn't rob you blind in broad daylight.
Although I am a rather handsome devil, especially when viewed in a poor light, a strict and objective examination reveals one or two codgery traits. I appear, in the mirror, to be a person on the cusp of acquiring codgerism. It seems irrelevant to constantly append the word "old" in front of codger, as it should be plain to all that I am merely a step away from toppling into my own damp and open grave.
My beard is rather grey, rather than its rusty orange of yore, and believe it or not this unlikely facial addition attracted women faster than the Lynx advert would have you believe. My hair is a nexus of neglect. Professionals deal with it once every year or two. These are the two main indicators, but there are are others.
Sitting in the same seat in the same boozer for year after year is a good indicator. As is the wearing of a codgergown, or cardigan, as you probably call it. This garment should be grey, or a dirty russet brown. Real dyed in the wool codgers do not sit together in pubs . They sit separately. They occupy their own places in the public realm. But this is not to say that they do not communicate with each other.
The phrase "Spurs had a good weekend, then," may well float gruffly away from a corner table.
"Mmmmm....old whatisname played well, African fella," comes the reply from another darkened corner.
Then there is a chorus of Mmmmmms from all the other codgers and a rustling of daily papers.
Outside the snow continues to fall. In the carpark there is a man posing his children in order to take photographs. The children are wearing masks. Horror masks. From a local joke shop. He must be nuts.
However,lately I have begun to consider the signs of old codgerism in myself.
These may indeed include a certain grumpiness and an unwillingness to attend an AC/DC concert. A perpetual bad temperedness. A tendency to talk about the old days when younger people were not a threat to life and limb and wouldn't rob you blind in broad daylight.
Although I am a rather handsome devil, especially when viewed in a poor light, a strict and objective examination reveals one or two codgery traits. I appear, in the mirror, to be a person on the cusp of acquiring codgerism. It seems irrelevant to constantly append the word "old" in front of codger, as it should be plain to all that I am merely a step away from toppling into my own damp and open grave.
My beard is rather grey, rather than its rusty orange of yore, and believe it or not this unlikely facial addition attracted women faster than the Lynx advert would have you believe. My hair is a nexus of neglect. Professionals deal with it once every year or two. These are the two main indicators, but there are are others.
Sitting in the same seat in the same boozer for year after year is a good indicator. As is the wearing of a codgergown, or cardigan, as you probably call it. This garment should be grey, or a dirty russet brown. Real dyed in the wool codgers do not sit together in pubs . They sit separately. They occupy their own places in the public realm. But this is not to say that they do not communicate with each other.
The phrase "Spurs had a good weekend, then," may well float gruffly away from a corner table.
"Mmmmm....old whatisname played well, African fella," comes the reply from another darkened corner.
Then there is a chorus of Mmmmmms from all the other codgers and a rustling of daily papers.
Outside the snow continues to fall. In the carpark there is a man posing his children in order to take photographs. The children are wearing masks. Horror masks. From a local joke shop. He must be nuts.
Sunday, 20 January 2013
Thursday, 17 January 2013
Sunday, 13 January 2013
Thursday, 10 January 2013
Performance Pieces
It's the word Perform that really jumps out. The typeface is similar to the one I am using now.
Perform. Just the word fills me with anxiety. What if I don't live up to expectations? What if I fail?
Beneath the word Perform,on the right, in a smaller font and in a typeface that puts one in mind of a 70's
science fiction show called The Six Million Dollar Man, is another word.
This word is Wellbeing.
Wellbeing. Am I healthy enough? Am I sufficiently hale and hearty? Possibly I am not sprightly and limber.
Perhaps fungi is multiplying in my various nooks and crannies. Surely one or more of these conditions must apply to me.
This brace of words, this typographical exhortation, makes more sense when the words are discovered in their natural habitat.
They are part of the graphic design of the point of sale unit known as a condom machine.
I come across these things on a regular basis in the bathrooms of various pubs and supermarkets although it has been a while since I actually operated one.
I usually ignore them and kind of sidle past when I exit the toilet. Furtive and fraught, that's the way.
Machines these days seem a little more racey than the ones of my youth.
Three products can be purchased. Apparently, these objects will enable me to Play Hard. Possibly even
All Nite Long.
These items are, from left to right, condoms of an allegedly and excitingly superior quality.Then we have a vibrating penis ring. Finally there is herbal performance enhancing tablet. The text is reinforced by a reddish image of a photogenic couple looking fondly at each other. "Fetch the vibrating penis ring, darling, and I'll get the performance enhancing herbal supplement."
There is another nightmare associated with these wall based dispensers of sexual efficiency. You never know if the machine is empty or even working. It is a question of trust. You put pound coins in the slot. Quite a lot of pound coins if you want the truth. Then you press the relevant button.
Naturally the machine refuses to dispense. So you tentatively tap the side. Nothing. So you look for an exit point where your returned pound coins should be. Nothing.
So, you give the machine a shake, just to encourage it to either vend or cough up the money. AND THE ALARM GOES OFF.
Perform. Just the word fills me with anxiety. What if I don't live up to expectations? What if I fail?
Beneath the word Perform,on the right, in a smaller font and in a typeface that puts one in mind of a 70's
science fiction show called The Six Million Dollar Man, is another word.
This word is Wellbeing.
Wellbeing. Am I healthy enough? Am I sufficiently hale and hearty? Possibly I am not sprightly and limber.
Perhaps fungi is multiplying in my various nooks and crannies. Surely one or more of these conditions must apply to me.
This brace of words, this typographical exhortation, makes more sense when the words are discovered in their natural habitat.
They are part of the graphic design of the point of sale unit known as a condom machine.
I come across these things on a regular basis in the bathrooms of various pubs and supermarkets although it has been a while since I actually operated one.
I usually ignore them and kind of sidle past when I exit the toilet. Furtive and fraught, that's the way.
Machines these days seem a little more racey than the ones of my youth.
Three products can be purchased. Apparently, these objects will enable me to Play Hard. Possibly even
All Nite Long.
These items are, from left to right, condoms of an allegedly and excitingly superior quality.Then we have a vibrating penis ring. Finally there is herbal performance enhancing tablet. The text is reinforced by a reddish image of a photogenic couple looking fondly at each other. "Fetch the vibrating penis ring, darling, and I'll get the performance enhancing herbal supplement."
There is another nightmare associated with these wall based dispensers of sexual efficiency. You never know if the machine is empty or even working. It is a question of trust. You put pound coins in the slot. Quite a lot of pound coins if you want the truth. Then you press the relevant button.
Naturally the machine refuses to dispense. So you tentatively tap the side. Nothing. So you look for an exit point where your returned pound coins should be. Nothing.
So, you give the machine a shake, just to encourage it to either vend or cough up the money. AND THE ALARM GOES OFF.
Monday, 7 January 2013
Daisy, Daisy ,give me your answer, do.
The condition of work today is fraught with worry and stress. The workplace has become a site of anxiety.
In part this is due to the government of these islands of ours who seem to be turning the jobless poor and the working poor against each other. People in work are desperate to hang on to their jobs, no matter how bad the working conditions become.
A blog is not the place to whinge on about one's work. I am lucky enough to have a fairly pleasant, if rather stressful, language based job. For those of us who ply this sort of interactional trade there are some benefits.
It helps if you view the students as material and the spaces in which you are contractually obliged to encounter them as studios. I find Joseph Beuys quite helpful here. I view relationship building as crucial
to the type of work I find myself performing. My wife and children are not so lucky Our relationships are much more volatile .
The mood of the nation is depressed. The weather dull and grey. I know no happy people. Negotiating middle age is difficult as, essentially we are waiting for older people to die, as we become older ourselves.
So in work, the young worry about their jobs due to performance expectations, while for other colleagues their stresses are much closer to home, or even in it.
And yet people soldier on, day after day. I was surprised however to feel so stressed at work on the first day back after a holiday. I have always had feelings of ambiguity towards self imposed servitude but unless I win the lottery life will only improve incrementally, if at all.
As an artist I find that I need to do a lot of archiving of useful material. Essentially this means sorting out helpful press photos, or litter as I unhelpfully remind myself, culled from various magazines and tabloids.
These scraps of visual information are inserted into plastic leaves which are then added to folders. Not too interesting in itself I suppose when compared with the majesty and wonder of the universe. But at least I know where stuff is.
In part this is due to the government of these islands of ours who seem to be turning the jobless poor and the working poor against each other. People in work are desperate to hang on to their jobs, no matter how bad the working conditions become.
A blog is not the place to whinge on about one's work. I am lucky enough to have a fairly pleasant, if rather stressful, language based job. For those of us who ply this sort of interactional trade there are some benefits.
It helps if you view the students as material and the spaces in which you are contractually obliged to encounter them as studios. I find Joseph Beuys quite helpful here. I view relationship building as crucial
to the type of work I find myself performing. My wife and children are not so lucky Our relationships are much more volatile .
The mood of the nation is depressed. The weather dull and grey. I know no happy people. Negotiating middle age is difficult as, essentially we are waiting for older people to die, as we become older ourselves.
So in work, the young worry about their jobs due to performance expectations, while for other colleagues their stresses are much closer to home, or even in it.
And yet people soldier on, day after day. I was surprised however to feel so stressed at work on the first day back after a holiday. I have always had feelings of ambiguity towards self imposed servitude but unless I win the lottery life will only improve incrementally, if at all.
As an artist I find that I need to do a lot of archiving of useful material. Essentially this means sorting out helpful press photos, or litter as I unhelpfully remind myself, culled from various magazines and tabloids.
These scraps of visual information are inserted into plastic leaves which are then added to folders. Not too interesting in itself I suppose when compared with the majesty and wonder of the universe. But at least I know where stuff is.
Sunday, 6 January 2013
School Day.
Not much to be said for a school day, even more so on the first day of a new year with a bunch of completely new people to deal with. Winging it is the way to go. And the pub at lunchtime if they have not increased their prices too much. I have got to do this for the whole year. How many late buses will that be?
Friday, 4 January 2013
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