That time of the month.

It's about time, new post. Lots of wandering and pondering has been occurring in Angus HQ. Laptops shat the bed so it's kind of hindered me in really getting it out there as and when my pathetic epiphanies occur.

Anyway. I guess this post is to the future, whatever the fuck that might have instore for me. It's just another torrid arguement in my head. What to do with myself, where to go, it babbles on all through the day until I've had enough of thinking and just want to lay down very still. This directly spills over into my work. I can never reach a conclusion about anything, the very act of trying seems fradulant and I'm half tempted (although never fully) to fuck it all off.

It's the love/hate relationship to work, the frustration at much of the work that is made and claims to be contemporary. Not all of it but there are definite strands that I hate. Work made without depth, without investment, without consideration of audience of effectiveness of communication, about dickheads who subscribe to the "art" lifestyle, who spend the days contemplating abstract theories about how their twig interacts with the space. I'll tell you, much like every other object interacts with a space. It's there. Granted there are the people who make art great, who do it with sensitivity, with integrity, and above all without that smug face that smacks of a superiority complex. But you know how it goes, as with any group of people with something in common, tar and brush leap to mind.

I think the vessels I make, the forms, the indulgence in squishy gooey earth, the strive for objectivity. It's that annoying niggle of having a massive problem with something, in this case, contemporary art, yet all the time remaining engaged, interested, reluctantly reading e-journals, bitterly flicking through the art magazines. Contemporary art is like a massive throbbing insect bite. Well bloody annoying, you know you shouldn't you don't want to, but you're going to, you're going to scratch it with a frenzied satisfaction, until it bleeds. Making art, that you want to resist, yet knowing that whatever you do, because of where you're making it, and the time in which you make it, the background, the education, all of the crap that's been dumped in your mind.

I'll end up making what it is that I try so hard to detatch myself from.

How do you transcend this generality?!

BAhhh!


Rant over. Have a picture.

"The sprawl from my brain to your hands."