Reconstruction
Had a most pleasing weekend, with Monky coming to Lahndan Town to do lunch and exhibitionism (Seduced at the Barbican to be precise):
http://www.barbican.org.uk/artgallery/event-detail.asp?ID=5625
Our general attitude to sex is still so strange, even in a world where you can't walk 10 feet without having it waved about in front of your face (as it were), and both me and Monky found ourselves amused by the overly reverential tone of the Barbican masses. I'm sure a wind chime shaped like a knob with wings was intended to be funny after all ... surely.
We also marvelled at the rampant egotism of Jeff Coons, made up like a 14-year old with a foundation habit, shagging his faux porn-star wife and pulling all the nauseus fake ecstacy faces which apparently constitute good sex these days. Luckily this was neatly balanced by a beautiful set of photographic diaries by Nan Goldin, detailing the gentle chaos, intimacy and lack of egotism that form a truer passion and love. Playing out to an extended Bjork song (which I would dearly love to have - called something prayer???) it was enough to give Monky the sniffles, and make my heart glow and melt simultaneously. There was also a video (face and shoulders only) of a woman receiving oral sex, which I found much more .... searching for the word here ... entrancing than I thought possible.
I'm sure standard porn has some interest or use to people, but I've got to think that anyone dedicated to that plasticised and pumped up crap is missing a trick. Most of the exhibition was curious rather than the kind of stuff to make you want to run off and do anything wicked, but there were definitely a couple of installations that made me wish for something better in my own life. Me and Monky went for lunch afterwards and discussed the disappointment of being that kind of girl without that kind of man, how meeting nobody "like-minded" in such a long time turns you into an unrecognisable creature (the cynical hard-shelled kind) who on those seldom occasion where hope appears, finds themselves acting the opposite way to how they truly feel. Monky ordered a big pot of mussels, and I confronted my fear of the shell fish, and discovered - shock horror - that they're actually rather tasty. I then proceeded to steal as many as I could off her plate, which she endured with Monky-like poise.
I also went to see Sweeney Todd with Johnny Depp and co. in, which was quite entertaining, though felt a bit too theatrical to be altogether my taste. Also Alan Rickman (who I feel torn over - deep voiced genius or creepy old man???) wore a pair of trousers that frankly gave me the heeby-jeebies. Me and Schwesty also discovered the most god-forsaken bus stop in London (and I've waited around in some veritable crap-holes in my life). Even though there were two of us, and we were later joined by some fairly harmless looking Chinese chaps, it felt as if we were in a Crimewatch reconstruction (imagine standing by the side of the IDR in the dark waiting to hitch a lift from a serial killer). It was a bus stop so terrible, I started to feel as if I wanted to take everybody I had ever known there, just to share in the experience of primal despair that it conjured in my mind. When the bus finally appeared things didn't really improve. We were sat behind a guy prattling away in another language (Turkish perhaps??) who you could just tell from his mannerisms was a wife-beating prick. He spent the whole time berating a very thin, meek looking blond with a baby, which finally ended in him throwing a bottle of juice over her (and anybody in the vicinity) just as we were stepping off the bus. We were both very glad that journey was over, and in that English sort of way, left her to her fate - grateful for not existing in that twilight London world where taking your baby for a ride on the bus at 11pm, with your scum bag boyfriend, is normal life.
http://www.barbican.org.uk/artgallery/event-detail.asp?ID=5625
Our general attitude to sex is still so strange, even in a world where you can't walk 10 feet without having it waved about in front of your face (as it were), and both me and Monky found ourselves amused by the overly reverential tone of the Barbican masses. I'm sure a wind chime shaped like a knob with wings was intended to be funny after all ... surely.
We also marvelled at the rampant egotism of Jeff Coons, made up like a 14-year old with a foundation habit, shagging his faux porn-star wife and pulling all the nauseus fake ecstacy faces which apparently constitute good sex these days. Luckily this was neatly balanced by a beautiful set of photographic diaries by Nan Goldin, detailing the gentle chaos, intimacy and lack of egotism that form a truer passion and love. Playing out to an extended Bjork song (which I would dearly love to have - called something prayer???) it was enough to give Monky the sniffles, and make my heart glow and melt simultaneously. There was also a video (face and shoulders only) of a woman receiving oral sex, which I found much more .... searching for the word here ... entrancing than I thought possible.
I'm sure standard porn has some interest or use to people, but I've got to think that anyone dedicated to that plasticised and pumped up crap is missing a trick. Most of the exhibition was curious rather than the kind of stuff to make you want to run off and do anything wicked, but there were definitely a couple of installations that made me wish for something better in my own life. Me and Monky went for lunch afterwards and discussed the disappointment of being that kind of girl without that kind of man, how meeting nobody "like-minded" in such a long time turns you into an unrecognisable creature (the cynical hard-shelled kind) who on those seldom occasion where hope appears, finds themselves acting the opposite way to how they truly feel. Monky ordered a big pot of mussels, and I confronted my fear of the shell fish, and discovered - shock horror - that they're actually rather tasty. I then proceeded to steal as many as I could off her plate, which she endured with Monky-like poise.
I also went to see Sweeney Todd with Johnny Depp and co. in, which was quite entertaining, though felt a bit too theatrical to be altogether my taste. Also Alan Rickman (who I feel torn over - deep voiced genius or creepy old man???) wore a pair of trousers that frankly gave me the heeby-jeebies. Me and Schwesty also discovered the most god-forsaken bus stop in London (and I've waited around in some veritable crap-holes in my life). Even though there were two of us, and we were later joined by some fairly harmless looking Chinese chaps, it felt as if we were in a Crimewatch reconstruction (imagine standing by the side of the IDR in the dark waiting to hitch a lift from a serial killer). It was a bus stop so terrible, I started to feel as if I wanted to take everybody I had ever known there, just to share in the experience of primal despair that it conjured in my mind. When the bus finally appeared things didn't really improve. We were sat behind a guy prattling away in another language (Turkish perhaps??) who you could just tell from his mannerisms was a wife-beating prick. He spent the whole time berating a very thin, meek looking blond with a baby, which finally ended in him throwing a bottle of juice over her (and anybody in the vicinity) just as we were stepping off the bus. We were both very glad that journey was over, and in that English sort of way, left her to her fate - grateful for not existing in that twilight London world where taking your baby for a ride on the bus at 11pm, with your scum bag boyfriend, is normal life.
posted by TheMightyDing at 13:13
1 Comments:
You'll be pleased to know that the CD with the Bjork track is winging its way to me via Amazon, along with the catalogue (10 quid off woo), so I will send you a copy of it when it arrives. Meanwhile you can get a recording with the clicks of the slides and coughing and shuffling at
http://bjorkish.tomekson.com/secretgarden/PrayerOfTheHeart.mp3
I didn't think I had poise... I was honestly quite happy for you to pilfer the shellfish. At least next time you will know what to go for...
With regards the being that kind of girl- It's the lack of options, the feeling of a life not able to be fully lived that gets me- The images in the slideshow were of people living as best they could for themselves and for each other, for the moment and for the future. Your summary about what goes into a truer passion and love is excellent and I think very true.
When things like the juice-throwing prick exist and take action, does it ever make you feel somewhat grimy and horrible inside? I feel like that when I see people being put upon or obviously living a difficult life of abuse, though I never do anything about it. I feel like, what can I do, what business is it of mine, but why the fuck do you have to act and make me feel bad. Grr.
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