Down and Dirty.

Has been an interesting few weeks. Shit hit the fan. So when it all goes balls up, obviously the best thing to do is get out to the countryside and dig in stupid weather for clay.

Got a train out to Hadfield, at the start of the North Peaks. Later found out this is Royston Vasey, and you can bloody tell. It's pretty backwards.

Anyways, after a rainy trek onto united utilities land, a few cuppas, and a bit of poking about in mud, decided to just go for it, whip the spade out and just see what was underneath. By this point it was pissing it down sideways and bastard windy and needless to say I had begun to question the rational behind why I was doing this?


I put it down to my turbulant relationship with the concept of the artist. Sitting in the studio, drinking tea, doesn't feel like I'm doing anything. I kind of feel that I should endure some self flagellation in order to be entitled to say "I spend my days making art" As if I must experience the unpleasant in order to relish the priviledge. The sheer tedium of digging, drying, processing, and making my own clay felt like something I had to go through to really appreciate my medium.

The whole ridiculous nature of this act, appeals to me. Something about the earthy and archaic steps I'll have to take for very little dividends is funny. It raises questions for me regarding the importance of art in contemporary culture, how much effort is put in, and how effective it is in communicating and exploring shared themes. I feel art should strive to try and strike up a dialogue with an audience, and it only feels right that if I want to communicate the frustration and contradictory nature of art I should put a bit of investment in. I don't feel it's enough to just bung something on a plinth anymore and expect it to talk for itself.

I want to make something beautiful, metaphysical, form that could evoke a shared memory. Shape and art has the unique ability, above anything else to let us step back and allow ourselves to be absorbed in something that we haven't yet invented words for, that we can't vocalise emotionally. Odd that.

It's also the bloody pits sometimes. Form can be vacuous detritus masquerading as something more meaningful. Art's a riddle. And the journey I'm going through with it this last three years still whacks me in the stomach periodically, right back down on my arse again. Should it be such a ball ache?