Education and the Public Sphere/The Nomadic Hive

The Teach-In.
This space is ours. It belongs to us. On the evening of December 9th 2010 we attempted an occupation of this space. Room 43 of the National Gallery overlooked by Manet's "Execution of Maximilian".  We are a multitude of artists, students and lecturers. This space is public, it is ours, it belongs to us. This education is ours, it is public, it is free. We are sitting down aggravating this space because it is public space under the eyes of a political betrayal and abandonment. Look at the situation we are now all witnesses to. It has been creeping for the last 15 years. The state of our education system is changing. We are no longer in the grasp of free further education whose implications are for the greater public good, but capitalist education, education with a price tag that works towards economic gain. In other words, we are not expected to attend university to become educated and to educate, we are to attend university for private economic gain - university is treated as a savings investment. Else it is an elitist commodity. From now on the educated will sell themselves in the marketplace to other individuals who will have to sell themselves in the marketplace in order to feedback into this circle. To earn. To pay off debts. To become trapped in an economic sphere. To feed into a failing democracy that keeps letting the people down. To live, publicly.  To die having taken nothing. We are not commodities, we are human beings. And if they believe that we are truly the future of this country, and if they truly believe that education will bring financial gain to this country, then they would invest in us. And on Thursday 9th December 2010 this sad future is cemented by 323 MPs, twenty more than opposed this bleak future. Education is no longer a social good, it is a private gain - a commodity.

The Occupation of The National Gallery.
This space is brought to you in conjunction with Shell, Hewlett Packard, Santander, and, of course, Sainsbury's (not to mention many others). We sit here in the hope that our institutions will not become Goldsmiths McNuggets of London, or the Royal Wallmart of Art (and so on). We sit and as a multitude discuss, as a consensus decide. We wave our hands in a jazz like fashion to show our enthusiastic agreement, and together, as a solidarity, aim to resolve the doubts of the minority. It's a long process. One in which you question what it is you actually believe. What it is we are all doing occupying this space. This space whose workers also face cuts, redundancies and job losses that will not be replaced. (I bet they're glad they didn't have to invest in their education, or perhaps some of them did).  In here we are blind. What is happening outside? In the streets are violent confrontations as the news of a betrayal hits them. Here we are undeterred, we will remain. Our fight continues. And what a perfect time to form a manifesto. A Nomadic Hive, something to fathom out future actions. I organize my thoughts on paper and speak my case.
"Reaction. Reclamation of public space. Our space seems to be becoming more and more of a commodity, we need to take it back. This whole situation is a complete symptom of capitalism."
Hands wave at me, I have been agreed with on mass. More than this should have been said, these public spaces which are overcome by the public spectacle of consumer items, this is where a our reaction needs to take place. A representation of our beliefs. A public freedom of education. Lectures in the open. Spontaneity is encouraged.



The Spectacle.
This space is our space, this space is a prison. They are kettled in by the enforcing arm of the law. Delegation of power to control the masses - or, do whatever it takes to make these people do as we say. We, the Nomads, are overcome by solidarity. Group mentality. No matter how uncomfortable the minority within the group feel about the increasing numbers of riot police outside the gallery in Trafalgar Square, there is a sort of peer pressure to remain. What was going on outside? Here we have a power in numbers - our number amounts to one. If we leave together we are a force, if we leave alone, there is the possibility of being detained. We have rights, we can refuse to give our names - if you don't wish to become a number...
Our spectacle is something that seems fairly low key. We are asked to text everyone we know to let them know that we are occupying this space and we are not leaving until we have written a manifesto. For what good is an artistic representation if no public gaze meets it? The spectacle needs the spectator. That is what causes a reaction. That is what causes people to move. That is when solitude becomes unity. That is when the singular wraps its arms around a universality. What is happening outside? Word enters the Hive there are riot police on the balcony.

The Escape.
This space has become hostile. It is still ours but there is external pressure. How have things deteriorated outside? Solicitors pass out advice. Don't give them your name. Power in the buzzing of our hive. We have points on our manifesto. I can assess the seriousness of the police situation based on how many grown-ups remain in the room. But my friend is uncomfortable, she has previous with the traffic police and wants out. I'm split then. I want to see this thing through, it seems to be rounding up. We are best to leave as a majority - power in numbers, our number is one. My solidarity with my friend takes priority. I don't wish to force her to stay somewhere she feels uncomfortable. How many police are outside now? It maybe too late either way. At this point, a figurehead type woman steps forward and offers a solution. A way out through a side exit which evades the police. After all, though the workers here seem pissed off and inconvenienced, no one has formally asked us to leave; after all, this is a public gallery, they are workers for this public space, our space, the space in which we occupy. It is the word 'Public' which is at threat. Are we pissing off the wrong people? Should we be somewhere more appropriate? An obnoxious man tells her that she is interrupting our discussion, he is met by heckles. "Shut up, she's trying to help us." And my friend leans in and asks if we can do that? I catch the gaze of Maximilian who is about to be shot. We leave through the side exit with a few others evading the police and entering into the real spectacle. The one which belittles our tiny operation. Tourists, workers, passers-by, spectators gather around the flares, the smoke bombed epicenter, the protesters, the spectacle. The police were never there for the nomads, they were there for the increasing number of protesters retreating to Trafalgar Square. And because of this spectacle, no one knew there was ever an occupation of the National Gallery. More riot police arrive. Shortly after the hive disseminates. We retreat to the pub and consult the guardian news feed, no mention of any angry nomadic hives, no national gallery occupation.

But it did happen. We were there. We have a manifesto.

www.artagainstthecuts.wordpress.com

Misogynous/feminist political banner...

I went to the student protest in London today. This was a banner that was given to us for the march. We adapted it then sort of realised it's anti-feminist implications. We probably should have put a comma after the word no. Or a couple of other things could be happening. As well as protesting against the cuts in the arts (and humanities, and social sciences of course) we could be hi-jacking the march for an ulterior feminist motive (as in no cunts yes women). Or we could simply be reclaiming the word so that cunt has positive connotations - however this detracts from the actual purpose of the banner, our original (what we thought was sort of witty) intention of insulting parliament. Will upload more images from the protest once I have gotten my film developed. However, I ran out of film by the time I got to the Tory HQ so no images of the said 'riots' or 'violence'. More on that later when I've had time for my thoughts to gather.

The need to Write.

The need to write is linked to the approach toward this point at which nothing can be done with words. Hence the illusion that if one maintained contact with this point even as one came back from it to the world of possibility, "everything" could be done, "everything" could be said. This need must be suppressed and contained. If not, it becomes so vast that there is no more room or space for its realization. One only begins to write when, momentarily, through a ruse, through a propitious burst of energy, or through life's distractions, one has succeeded in evading this impulse which remote control of the work must constantly awaken and subdue, protect and avert, master and experience in its unmasterable force. This operation is so difficult and dangerous that every writer and every artist is surprised each time he achieves it without disaster. And no one who has looked the risk in the face can doubt that many perished silently. It is not that creative resources are lacking -- although they are in any event insufficient -- but rather that the force of the writing impulse makes the world disappear. Then time loses its power of decision; nothing can really begin.

Extract from The Space of Literature by Maurice Blanchot, pg.52
(University of Nebraska Press, 1989)

Why Parlour Press? Why Art Writing?

Why?

We all still have the naivety to say that money, that a steady job, that a stable home, that procreation, that ownership of land, that bricks and mortar, that wealth, are not (yet) important, are not the meaning of life, are not our destiny, will not define our purpose.

We still have the naivety to say that literature, that beautiful places, that observation, that human frailty, that excessive collections, that new experience, that shared experience, that self expression, that fragile talent, that subversive pages, that sharing, that showing, that embracing everyone and everything will somehow make the world a better place to live in. That love and experience needs to be shared, can be spread over everybody like soft butter.

Because we are young enough to dream, because we are old enough to know that time will not wait, we believe that this moment is all we have - we are going to make the most of it.

We wish to share our thoughts, our views, our obsessions, our eccentricities, our expression, our experience, our aches, our pains, our ecstasy, our minds, our craft, our talent, our skills, our passions with you. We hope that you oblige.

We will not sell out, we are not old enough to sell out. We will encourage beauty and story telling and share our art until it is absolutely necessary, absolutely essential to get a proper job!

I wrote this a little over a year ago when Libby, Lucy, Caitlin, Sophie and I set up book collective, The Parlour Press. It was written as part of the Parlour Press Manifesto. Currently, exhibitions/fairs are currently few and far between (Parlour Press Ladies will be in attendance at MMU this Saturday as part of the Fifth Manchester Artist Book Fair). Re-reading this serves as a reminder not only to invest more time into the press, but also defines my pursuit of Art Writing as a practice as oppose to getting a proper job. It's pretty relevant. It just gave me a little inspirational kick in the shin. Good Work!

Reading Crisis

What to do with all this time. How to fill it. How to remain distracted.
There is an impossibility in remaining focused due to the amount to focus on.
All these distractions, but what is there to distract from distraction.
That would be distractions close cousin, procrastination.
How to prioritise:
Earn money so you can survive here
Do not let earning money interfere with studying - the reason for being here
Do not study so hard that you forget to live and experience - inform all you think and work on
Do not experience and live so much that you forget to study/skip earning money
Have fun but don't get too carried away, so that you spend all your money on living, experience and intoxication... you need that money to live here
"This is such a fantastic city," Oh really? I haven't had the chance to look around yet. I only leave the east to go to work or school.
However very complicated everything is somehow fitting together. There is a definite balance starting to occur. This photo illustrates my biggest problem. Between reading what I want to read for fun and what I want to read for work. The lines between fun and work keep blurring, but I can't help feeling sorry for everything that keeps getting placed on the bottom of the pile (books and otherwise) acknowledged, but never quite getting round to. The list is inevitably growing. Adrian Rifkin handed us a reading list and told us not to worry about reading everything on there right away. Told us the pressing matters, a passage from Homer's Iliad, a chpter from Nietzsche's Human All too Human, and Roland Barhte's A Lovers Discourse (utter beauty). Everything else is for us to read between now and 2050. That advise will roll over....

Experience everything, miss no opportunity.

Experience Everything/All of this has happened since:

Amidst the banks crashing and colliding, an event which, at the time, evoked no real emotion in me beyond an "oh", an era was occurring that would carve itself into my memory greater than any other before it. With Mercury in retrograde, as Mars in Libra aligned with Pluto, a darkened shadow fell upon Saturn's moon Titan. This lead to a peculiar kind of gravitation pull, one so great it triggered a plummet within my heart which coincided with a glance into a pair of eyes. It remains to this day beating low. That unusually low beat activated a creative surge, which also continues to this day. I sat often, staring, contemplating a mathematical problem of emotional proportion with ever changing values and infinite possibility. The solitude and staring equates to one thousand five hundred and eighty four hours (and counting) since that plummet, leaving little time for much else.

Russell Brand and Matt Morgan leave my itunes library forever. Ridiculously I feel like I have lost two good friends. I would visit them once a week, we would share in jokes, they did most of the talking. I was gutted that I missed "that" podcast. I felt that the people who never used to join our weekly gatherings should have butted out.



A crash of personalities resulted in a constant grey cloud that hung over our house. It's silver lining was so bleak that it barely enabled us to find the key hole in the front door. A sunken druggy presence, which was completely un-intimidating and non-threatening, eventually turned two outsider souls to antisocialism and depression. Screaming lows and arguments. I closed my door on them. A sallow head reclusing into books and the written word. One harrowing scream caused me to rush from my room, expecting to find serious injury, I found one of those souls screaming at the front door, unable to unlock it. I opened it for her, realising that it was her final straw.

Gunmen. Men with guns. It takes years of psychological harm, then one object, a gun, one moment of madness and one final straw for a backlash of hurt feelings and international headlines. 15 dead at a school in south west Germany. 10 dead at a college in Finland. 7 dead on a bus containing the Sri Lankian Cricket team.

A labyrinth web was woven. A group of us found a comfortable nook and remained there. A set of overlooking eyes caught mine from time to time as they moved across the nook. As they focused in on me, I was struck like a fist to my low beating heart. We stayed in that nook so long that we forgot the route out. When we got out, nothing had changed yet everything was different. We all had to find new ways to settle and move on. It hasn't been easy to shut out.

I stayed awake the night of the US elections. Barrack Obama became President of the USA, a country in which I am not a resident and have only visited once. I loved what Obama represented. I expected an immediate change to the world. But nothing happened. I waited for a few more weeks, still nothing. Eventually I gave up waiting, then something new happened, Barrack Obama became the first president to have his official presidential portrait taken with a digital camera.

I know in the depth of my stomach it's a lie, a trick. You are a fraud. A self harming soul placed one heavy hand onto my self harming soul and there I received and sent pleasure resulting in momentary inflation of the ego and self image. The ability to feel a sudden connection between myself and another rarely happens so I became dazzled by it's appeal. This dizziness and lapse in judgment on my part resulted in disorientation. Fear was constantly pumped from my heart into each one of my organs resulting in the occasional anxiety attack. Once it was over I cried emotional rape, though I cried silently behind my closed bedroom door. Not one tear was wasted. I don't cry anymore. (revision: 3/11 I do)


Jade Goody dies. It seems like the most symbolic life and death of this generation. She became a reality TV star and remained famous for doing nothing. She was loved by us, then we tore her apart, then we loved her again, with the aid of Heat, Closer and Now. She shown a new side to herself, turning from the bullied to the bully and plummeted in our expectations, again on reality TV. Then she became terminally ill. She allowed the cameras to witness her death, she invited us all to her death bed. She died at 27, it is the rock and roll age. Brian Jones, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Jean Michel Basquiat, Jade Goody.

My neighbor utilised my self harming soul and good nature to form a self destructive cocktail but only after I had tasted hers. Sat by a pool of her blood, a craft knife (naturally) and a severed wrist. Shaking but clear. In that pool I could see a reflection of my heart. I couldn't go there. I drifted. Who could ask for better friends, really. And who could ask for better enemies. (Know your enemies). Disconnected from the event yet able to find symbolism in what I saw, I created a world of new imagining. A world exactly as this but with no people. Nothing but loneliness, nature and pure pointlessness. This fantasy makes me happy. Interceptions come in like an overheard police radio. Unclear, unknown and striking me as the thoughts of another. Abstracted visuals as if glancing into the landscape of another's memory, beyond comprehension but so completely beautiful. And what beauty I found in that blood. Disconnected from the event.

A car crashes into a Fiat Punto killing a father and son. The driver was drunk and otherwise engaged in performing a sexual act onto himself. He is jailed for 8 years, banned from driving for 15. I doubt he will ever drive or wank again.

She had been wailing all night. In complete honesty I knew what she had done but I didn't want to deal with it so I went back to sleep. April 10th, I ask her to open her door. No, she responds, you'll be mad at me. Upon hearing the no all I wanted to do was walk away and get on with the day, but that is not the right way to behave, that is not how a human being should respond to this kind of situation. Behind her door is an empty bottle of cava and five or so empty boxes of Ibuprofen. Then I shake, but remain totally clear. The ambulance arrives, staring, alone, still contemplating that mathematical problem. The grooves of the floor of the ambulance had collected grime from every accident it had visited, a time line, a biography a complete history of this van. Now I am part of that. Life and death. Four hours wasted in that hospital. The company of Henry Miller made that personality's tedious existence bearable for those tedious hours of my life. What a waste.

Kerry Katona is drunk on national TV. This Morning. God love Warringtonians, or Warringtoners as some prefer to be called.

All those people. All those brilliant people. Full of ideas. I want to reach inside the minds of each and every one. I want to relate to all of them. I want to touch their thoughts. None will fall. We remain solid beings. Beings with depth. Somewhere between intellectuals and creatives. Some neither here nor there. What beauties though. And under those watchful eyes. Inhalation. Laughter. Anxiety attack after anxiety attack. High achievement. Speak up. Slow down. Flight or Fight. Those eyes. Reading erotic material. Throwing up in bars. Being carried outside by the bouncer then laying in the middle of the road. Homing in on solipsism. Me. Only. Who could touch me really? Was it not all illusion created by myself. I connected to that road, that is the only explanation I am able to give. Those eyes linger on! They had me pinned. All I could see, because even though I am familiar with my surroundings, I am unable to see anything at all really. What was I waiting for? That suicidal friend takes me home. It was still early. We caught the second to last bus of the evening. I wake up to find a cigarette burn in my ear.

A mother in West Yorkshire kidnapped and drugged her own child. I was never quite able to comprehend what she hoped to gain from this, some form of monetary reward I think. The child was 10. Parents will continually fuck their kids up, but this one goes beyond.

Inhalation. Loneliness. Solitude. Deflation of ego. I am left with an headache and a bitter taste in my mouth. I think I want vengeance but I am unsure of the injury, whether a wrong has occurred. There are still more roads ahead of me, I may find myself laying in the middle of a few from time to time. There may be more red puddles to catch my own reflection in. The blood spilled that night was never cleaned up. It remained a dried up memoir of idiocy, selfishness of life and death, for all of us. Afterward, the people I told about the event would ask me if I was ok, not her. I responded in a human way, not a honest way.

Michael Jackson died the day that I discovered my final grade. It put a full stop to the days events Despite everything that had happened, I find myself with a first class honors degree. And what will cling to me most about the day Michael Jackson died? Those eyes, holding onto me like a cruel embrace that goes on too long. The usual conspiracy theories ensue, I take great interest in them.

She fell. I caught her twice. They fell, but they're getting better now. I fell. I was lifted momentarily by the actions of others. Those eyes fell, and I have no idea what this means. Intoxication. Disconnection. Vomit. Infatuation. Limerence. Suicide attempts. High Achievement. Lows. Loneliness. Lust Friendship. Dependence. Loss. Highs. Obsession. The influence of everyone. It turned out to be the greatest time of my life. I'm still counting the hours, the events, the landscapes, the experiences, the memories, everything. Experience everything, then create from everything you experience. And that is what I have learned, and that is how I live now.

Katie Price and Peter Andre split up. Well I saw that one coming.

All this happened since I met you. I'm not holding you responsible, but I am not taking the blame either.

The Election "Youth Vote" Still Confused?

VBS have a great election guide aimed at the (there's that word again) 'Youth Vote'. In fact these are more compelling than the televised debates...

Lib Dems Like them Young



Conservatives Like them young, posh and drunk



Labour like them that can dance!

Qualities Not Policies!

On a recent walk down Brick Lane, I was intercepted suddenly by a young chap who could, seemingly, only say two words: Pirate Party.
First off sheepishly and rushed, not very clear at all, I continued to walk. Then "Pirate Party," he repeated. I was a little perplexed, unable to relate what he had just said to my current position and situation, I hesitated giving him a bewildered look. "Pirate party?" Finally, in a sort of pleading tone, offering me a flyer. Ah flyer, Brick Lane, hipsters, an equation begins to form. "Oh," I thought, "A pirate party, that sounds fun. It's probably related to a pirate radio station round here - do they still exist? Surely in London. At the very least it's a party for pirates where everyone drinks Dark and Stormy's (giner ale, Sailer Jerrys and lime)." So I took the flyer and said "Ah, yes, Pirate Party." At which point I turned to my friend Eddie and said "Look at this Eddie a Party for Pirates."
Upon closer inspection of the uninspiring flyer I realised that it was not a party for pirates but a political party formed around the sole policy of legalising file sharing. A bullet point briefly outlined this policy, then below it, two more bullet points - sort of afterthought policies, where upon someone within the party realised that this sole policy is not solid decking for a Pirate Party. It seemed the party leader (Captian Black Beard as I will from now on refer to him,) tucked into a copy of 1984 and came up with a couple of paranoid Orwellian points, anti surveillance, anti mass corporations. To be fair to them I enjoyed their policies, created by my generation for my generation and although Captain Black Beard would never make PM he is at the very least doing something to get his voice heard and may one day get himself into Parliament.

Current candidates arguing on TV, policies sounding so in line with each other that you want to bang their heads together like one of those executive toys. I suppose this image is what makes a hung parliament seem so attractive to me. Watching Brown, Cameron and Clegg out-smug each other is enough to make me want to throw my vote away completely. It is like listening to school children debate why their Penguin bar in the yellow wrapper is better than one in the red or blue wrapper and vice-versa. What should I be looking for in an MP? The similarities between them, the overwhelming sense of a perverse personality pageant, that this election is turning into, is leaving me more than a little confused - and I do not want to stick around for the bathing costume round! Such confusion leads me to look for qualities rather than policies, the best looking one, the one with the criminal record, the one that rides a bike, and if all else fails then my favorite colour. But surely these 'qualities' are all mere psychological distractions, facades. Faced with such a dialema what more could I do? I asked the internet. A Yahoo questionnaire asked to rate a series of ideals based on what was important to me. 56% were in line with Conservatives. 55% were in line with Labour. 54% were in line with Lib Dem. Fuck off if you think I am scrawling a cross next to blue. Yes he is an entertaining marionette but his publicity is about as opaque as a sheath of ice. Surely this result further outlines my dilemma. What I would really like to see is something fresh. The Labour, Lib Dem, and Tory leaders are less gray then their predecessors, but they are hardly fresh meat. They are something for their generation, for the baby boomers, and that is who they speak to. Perhaps my 'youth vote' should go to a 'youth candidate' regardless of their party. And let us not forget that there are other options, other parties, none of which can take majority power but more seats in parliament do indeed mean a louder vocalisation of the things that matter to you. Captain Black Beard for example does not want to be PM, he merely wants to be heard. So what are the real alternatives?

If we all were to suddenly vote Lib Dem then there would be a fantastic opportunity facing us, a hung parliament, a chance for true change in our political system, something that would very much appeal to the youth voter who sees the forefront parties as out of touch. It would be a great opportunity for demoracy, as it stands, do we not just vote in a dictator for four years, and if we don't like him elect another?
The Green Party are in touch with many youth concerns however these concerns are being yelled over by a bunch of baby boomers claiming that "It is a waste of a vote," but in the long term, is it? By the time we come of age, could the Green Party stand a chance of ultimate power?
And if you really want to waste that vote a walk through London provided my with a few other real alternatives. The Christian Party who will make sure your five year old will not get a sex education. The Animal Party who will provide a sort of NHS service for you budgie. The Respect Party, a humanitarian option.The BNP who will legalise lynching. And if you truely truely want to toss that vote in the bin and say screw you Great Britain there is always the No Candidate Deserves my Vote Party.
And of course there is the party for the digital age - those bloody Pirates.
If all else fails you could just resort to anarchism.

If I am a true representative of the youth voter, then what policies interest me? It isn't immigration which more often than not comes across to me as an inexplicably acceptable form of racism. It isn't economy, which I truely believe is a man made force that has completely uncontrolable, that is the monetary equivalent to a tsunami or hurricane. I suppose it is Earth and Humanity. Something less corrupt, something liberal and peaceful that truly works for the people, for the world. Although that party isn't bothering this year... I think I'll just leave it until the last minute, trust my instincts on the day.

So who are you voting for?

Further reading:
Charlie Brooker
How to save the country by accepting that your parents have fucked you over
Political Debate Game
Blue shows it's true colours... again

Invalidenstrasse: Berlin - You're Right and I'm Wrong!

There is a presence that sits like a romantic figure. Not romantic like Paris, it doesn't punch Japanese tourists into a delusional state, it is alone, misunderstood, sturm und drang, untamed and utterly charming. It's pull is like the subtle gravity of another planet, slight, and so essential to life, or at least my life. It pulsates as if it were Europe's heart, sort of central but to the left. And what could I do but succumb? I wrapped it's lasso around my waist and gave in to its force, slightly apprehensive of what I was to find, but full of lust, and revealed to find, at the other end of this rope, a lover - Berlin.

I fell in love with Berlin.

Not quite as I had imagined. Influences of post war dereliction, Kraftwerk, Metropolis, David Bowie, Iggy Pop, division and being told how it is quite a modern city, I had expected something shiny and metallic crossed with something half built and seedy. Take the U-Bahn for example, I expected a smooth phallic steel train shafting an equally smooth steel tube. Not quite. London's underground system is probably more similar to this x-rated vision than any other, (particularly the Westminster stop). Berlin's underground system is nothing so grandiose it is just another underground system. So my delusions of a futuristic city fed mostly by an electronic soundtrack/soundscape (Kraftwerk/Neu!) were lost - however maybe I'll just displace them unto Munich. (Just google imaged Munich - DAMN IT!)

All the time admiring it's rugged, wayward, good looks. Caressing the streets surface and digging at it, finding it a tear deep through it's center. It has healed though the scars are still visible, bullet holes occasionally visible, else subtly covered in fresh cement. Berlin played the center stage throughout so much of the last centuries political turmoil. You walk around on a grave yard, but oh what buds of beauty and character has rose from it's grounds. It is only through learning Berlins past that I was able to appreciate and admire its present. Of all cities I have witnessed, I have never found a place with such rich character. Not yet ruined by the gentrification that is brought about through money and consumerism, Although the side-effects of Capitalism starts to show and you hope that there is enough resistance left in the Berliners to fight, so that the face of Berlin will remain bristly and wise instead of clean shaven. "Poor but Sexy", not rich and banal.

Language barriers rose then crashed down on us as we snuck into the holes of the city, not too far from that well trodden tourist path. Attempting inconspicuous behind a Lonely Planet Guide, behind a city map and behind a U-bahn map, stopping occasionally at street corners for reference. Had we polished up on our Deustche we would have been braver, ventured further from the path and touched some more of it's far out sweet spots. As it stood, we embraced as sheepishly as acquaintances, when I have learned some of the linguo we shall converse like long friends, and embrace like lovers.

Although I loved Berlin I fear it is unrequited. Naive British un-assertive tourists. Culture occasionally collided. Misunderstandings. "Fuck off". And the biggest train ticket mistake I've ever made resulting in the most expensive two minute train journey I have ever had to pay for. A fine - Forty Euros each, just under two weeks left to pay it and absolutely no idea of how to pay. And so I left on bad terms, our first argument. Berlin I love you but you're bringing me down.

"Can we at least keep our train tickets as a souvenir?"
"No"
"Oh please, we have paid (40+25=65)  €65 each for them."
"No"
"We're not going to use them again, we are going to the airport, look (pointing to the suitcase). We're clearly tourists."
"No"
"Well thank you very much for ruining our holiday!"

This is my only souvenir:

:

Berlin just say the word and I will take you back! We still have a long way to go before our love affair can end. There is still so much I have to learn about you. Oh yes Berlin I will take you back! In time.

Immortalised by google maps in a poncho!

Just a quick one... It was last year. Before I was aware that I possessed enough intelligence to get a first class honors degree, get on a master of fine arts course, yet somehow did have the intelligence to know that wearing a poncho is super cool. When I still rocked a short red pixie crop. This blog was not even a twinkle in my eye.  I was walking from my house to the bus stop, on my way to university when the Google Maps car drove by and brapped me. I was eager to tell everyone of how happy I was about being immortalised in a poncho, but was never able to find the image. Today, my mum found it!
Here it is.

Don't believe me here it is a bit closer.

Wait if you don't know me, which unless you are Lucy Vann/Libby Scarlett/Caitlyn/Sophie Lee/Helen Kirwan (my most dedicated readers!) you probably don't... Those who know me, know this is me - immortalised in a poncho on google maps. That IS living!

Watch Out London

I got this in the post today...

:)

Off the back of this...

Watch out London!

You Broke My Sitar Mother F*cker...

Ladies and Gentlemen may I present The Brian Jonestown Massacre...


Yes Yes YES!

If you do not own a copy of DIG! (The Brian Jonestown Massacre vs The Dandy Warhols) BUY A COPY NOW! However, if you're not into your garage drone, your rock stars thinking that they are Jesus, taking all the drugs, feuding, fighting, being a general mess, but somehow able to write and perform truly brilliant songs, then I wouldn't bother. Brian Jonestown are one one of the most insane, engrossing and utterly brilliant bands touring. I have my ticket to watch them at Manchester Academy 3 in May, it will be the second time I have seen them live. The first time was two summers ago (anecdote to follow). This is what I expected (extract from DIG!)



Their whole set consisted of no more than 5 songs. 5 long songs. The front man, Anton Newcombe, (as you may have discovered from the video) has issues. They used to be drug issues, ego issues, superiority issues. These days he is off the drugs, but is still a mess. He stormed off stage numerous times leaving the band to continue alone - often elongating the already drony songs.  He would return looking ill, eyes rolling back in his head, occasionally wretching as if to vomit - although he never did and at one point he cried. I suspected he was shooting up, however I was later to discover this was not the case.

Now, I may take every opportunity to complain about my hometown, but one thing I cannot fault is some of it's cats (if the word 'dig' can make a come back I'm pretty sure 'cats' as in daddios not actual cats (yes daddios) can make a come back too). There is a small alternative community and only two small alternative places to drink that are open beyond 12. As a result everyone knows everyone. And, we all have shit hot taste in music - oh yes, oh yes. All rather cool characters as well may I add (no pictures just trust). So consequently (and without arranging it) the BJM gig turned into a sort of Wazza field trip. After the gig a BJM guitarist (Ricky Maymi) was smoking out front, being harassed as should be expected, by fans. Of all the Wazza massive, Jules Barrat (previously mentioned here) has to be the biggest BJM fan, maybe even beyond wazza, perhaps in the world.

JB: "Mandi, that's Ricky, I have to speak to him. It's important."
Me: "So do it then. He won't mind. Look everyone else is."
JB: "No I can't, I'm too nervous"
Me: "Don't be silly. Just tell him you enjoyed the set. Introduce yourself. It'll be fine"
JB: "Will you introduce me? please?"

ENTER Helen (HK). I have spoke of Helen on this blog before. She is the one that lives in Paris. Previously, she and I had been discussing in a nonchalant manner, how it was sweet that Ricky BJM is just coolly smoking amongst his fans.

Me to HK: "What do you reckon?"
HK: "yeh,"

So we approach. Helen is an attractive lady, very natural, tall, long blond hair and an extremely cool composure. Not too many people are naturally cool, Helen is. At this point Ricky BJM is surrounded by people. Andrew (who was doing his usual crumbling in the face of fame) had commented to me about how hideous Ricky's Brothel Crawlers were, was now complementing the man himself for having superb taste in footwear. I was cringing.

Me to Ricky: "Hey Ricky great set, this is Jules..."
JB: "Hi tonight was so cool..."
Ricky to Helen (because suddenly, to Ricky at least, all the other fans had disappeared and there was only myself and Helen stood there): "Hi I'm Ricky, who are you?"

and then the consequent greetings and introductions ensued. Jules began jumping around for his attention to little avail. Before we knew it, everyone had cleared off, Jules had given up, and there were just the three of us, Ricky, Helen, Myself. He was into Helen. First he invited us to Big Hands for a drink. Now our main problem was this: it was the summer, and I was a student at MMU so had a house in manchester (strange this past version of myself is sort of at a point where a book is about to close, where I become another me and start playing the lead in a whole new book. Completely unaware of all the madness that was to encapsulate me the following term - which retrospectively has to have been the strangest, most mentally/emotionally taxing year of my life! I will write about that year on here when I have gotten far enough away from its chaos.) However, I hadn't yet picked up the keys but my house mate had - only she wasn't answering the phone. We had no digs for the evening so had to catch the last train home. We couldn't stay. Simple as that. We explained this to him.

"Well what time is the first train tomorrow?" 6am "Well forget the bar, come and smoke with us on the coach, you can get the first train."

(Appologies I cannot get this the right way round)

As much as we knew we would look back and think 'damn', there was absolutely NO way that at that moment in time did getting on the BJM tour bus and getting intoxicated seem like a good idea...  No, now come on, seriously. Alright, we could see how it may come across as an appealing proposition. We had already seen the state of Anton. We had already seen DIG! numerous times. We were two young, attractive - well Helen at least - ladies, if we were to get on that bus... So, being the losers are, we justified our reasons for leaving, silently, politely declined and said that we have to go for the last train.


"No, I can't just let you go" that was said to Helen not me, think of me as Helen's chaperon in this story. "Where's the station?" ten minutes that way. "Right I'm walking you."

And that is how Helen and I got escorted to platform 5 of Oxford Road station by Ricky Rene Maymi of The Brian Jonestown Massacre. Between finding out about Helen, and exchanging emails, he also revealed some of the mystery behind Anton's onstage behavior.

"Anton has two problems, alcohol, and his mental health condition"

Anton, as you saw in the above video, became angered when ever anyone on stage messed up, now, he has been through psycho-analysis and is off the heroin, he realises that it is himself that he has a problem with. That now, if Anton messes up, he fights him self. He breaks down and has to pull himself together. Occasionally, this means leaving the stage, and, yes, crying. But he's dealing with it. And they are still awesome live.

Two minutes after the train departed, my house mate rang me to ask what was up. I told her not to speak to me.

 

A week or two later, I recieved an IM from Helen (she had returned to France, at that time a small town in the south called Valance).

"So.. What are you up to the day after tomorrow?" Why? "Ricky emailed saying he can get us two VIP passes to - Garden Nef Party Festival - Angoulême, Poitou-Charentes, FRANCE" this was the line up: Iggy & The Stooges + The Hives + The Raconteurs + Justice + Nada Surf + Hushpuppies + The Do + Moriarty + Brian Jonestown Massacre + The Kills + Simian Mobile Disco + Patrick Watson + Archie + Bronson Outfit. In other words, yeah, awesome! I would happily of watched seven of those bands, and that is a lot for such a small festival. I would to fly to paris and jump trains the rest of the way, meeting Helen there. I would backstage it with Iggy and Alison Mosshart.  I speak zero french and I hear they aren't that helpful to English speakers over there, so train hopping in unfamiliar territory where I am absolutely alien was not the greatest idea... I had no money to fly at such short notice. Helen was also struggling finding trains and then affording trains... then there was her boyfriend - he would want to come too, "Hey Ricky could you spare us one more ticket for..." So we bailed.

DAMN!

This one is for Jules. It has been a long time my love. See you at BJM '10

WORLD UNITE/LUCIFER YOUTH FOUNDATION

 

A real allusive, enigmatic Mancunian alternative!

WU LYF!

The Political Personality Contest...

But first...
I perhaps have a secret shouldn't but would crush on Charlie Brooker, that is despite his hate of the Mac/Apple brand. This is a great satirical look at how to put a tedious news edit together from the brilliant Newswipe (BBC4 Tuesday evenings)...



The following is a clip from the great eye opener, the archive footage meddler,the amazing documentary maker Adam Curtis (taken from the same Newswipe series). The clip shows, briefly, how we have all turned into Richard Nixon - thanks to the people that exposed the man - the media. Actually this is a generation absolutely paranoid to the point of confusion, no one knows who to trust, it isn't the Governement, it isn't the Media, it isn't even ourselves. Perhaps we need someone we can trust in control of everything, maybe Mr Curtis himself could step up - although it is true that he too is guilty of this fear mongering. Maybe Curtis does not belong to the documentary genre but horror genre. Use of archive footage and popular rendering nosalgia and a feeling of the uncanny within us, whilst juxtaposing familiar sights with the 'truth' - which apparently is more terrifying than any poltergiest or zombie b-flick. Is it a wonder then, with all this fear mongering fed on mass to the public, why people don't vote? Take the equation: confusion plus paranoia, then divide the sum by consumption which makes us not give a shit at all really. The average night in front of the news should go a little like this:
"Oh, there's a war on is there? What? It's illegal and the Tony Blair tricked us all? That is absolutely terrible. I feel so manipulated... Oh look Argos have a new catalogue out, I wonder if they have that new iPod with a built in camera!"
We are quite content to forget about all that worrying stuff for a packet of Malteasters and a new pair of jeans. It's ok, someone else will deal with all those important, moral dilemmas, Eastenders will be on in a bit, oh look Cheryl Cole's got a new bag, that's nice. In fact it I'm beginning to wonder if democracy is in fact out dated and what is actually needed is some new radical system to shake things up a bit. It is obvious that today's PMs and Presidents are selected on what is close to a Big Brother style personality contest. In the end it is the contestant with the nicest smile, comforting body language, and lowest CO2 footprint that'll win. The spin, the policies (because there are few discernible differences there) are of lesser importance. With most mainstream parties sat in the middle, and the only real alternatives being the BNP, it is no wonder that the whole thing finds resolve as a personality contest. In fact maybe more people would vote if politicians were put through a BB style campaign before election.  When I was in primary school we staged a pretend vote. We had party representatives talk to us about what they each stood for. The green party handed out cool flyers with a superhero and 3D text bludging from the paper into our retinas, screaming "SAVE THE WORLD WITH THE GREEN PARTY", who could resist that? But in the end, at the mock booths in the assembly hall, all it really came down to was your favorite colour. I picked yellow, but to this day I wish I would have picked green, those flyers were really something!

Successometer... Burroughs... Backmasking

Forget the Goatskin certificate stamped with "first class honours," forget job offers and internships, Google is the new commander and chief when it comes to post graduate success.
That's right I Google myself when I am bored! And others it is true. But that is only because I rely on Google to indicate/gauge my own success. And at the minute I am feeling pretty swell as I have just discovered that one of my zines "Altered Meanings," is included in UWE (Bristol)'s Artist Book Special Collections.

William S. Burroughs believed that when you rearrange text you find a new, more honest meaning. Three notable Burrough's books were written in this way and are now known as the Cut Up/Nova Trilogy. Messages can be hidden but pertrude on a subconscious level. Many other Authors and artists have adopted this technique. Similarly hidden meanings and honesty are believed to be found in back masking (famously adopted by The Beatles and famously not adopted by Led Zeppelin "If there's a bustle in youre hedgerow, don't be alarmed now," becomes "Here's to my sweet Satan, I sing because I live with Satan" hmm) and there is a whole form of psycho analysis based around this technique. Again it can be found in images, subtle placement of images, or images flashing rapidly in between frames on film all are said to speak to the subconscious and somewhat controversially. Back to Burroughs, the man was fascinated with both mind control and how the 'man' wishes to control and cure the human condition - whether this is through machine, medicine, lobotomy, sex...

"but words are still the principal instruments of control. Suggestions are words. Persuasions are words. Orders are words. No control machine  so far devised can operate without words, and any control machine which attempts to do so relying entirely on external force or entirely on physical control of the mind wil soon encounter the limits of control."

Language is most definitely a virus that controls us, it has placed the question of purpose into our mouths. It has lead us to become destructive. It has lead us to become paranoid. It is probably innate. Language is the human condition.

I am interested in how the subconscious speaks to the conscious though dreams, through literacy, through free flow writing, self expression, dreams and spontaneity.  How it sort of irons out our conscious thoughts and can almost become a new voice of reason or chaos respectively. This Altered Meanings project is ongoing so watch this space for more developments.

Northern Soul Dancing...

Nowhere to Run Spotify Playlist
www.mandigoodier.co.uk

My First Artist Book...

Here is my first ever self published book, made when I was six/seven. It was a school project called "My Best Fiend" based on a childrens book of the same title. It is full of naive drawings and endearing spelling mistakes. It also makes very little sense to any one who isn't me...

Here is the synopsis (complete with spelling mistakes)

"This is a story about my best friend (who's rely a fiend.) Read about the gunge and waht about school and the lake."

"Like thay alwas say 'you little devel' ha ha ha"

Here you can see I dedicated it to Karen Moriarty, however it was originally dedicated to Mrs Dickinson. I changed my mind because I probably had an attack of conscience and was unsure how appropriate it was to dedicate a book to a teacher I adored. (Yes I thought about stuff like that at such a young age!)

"The man went flying on the gunge."

"Karen shouted note fight. But we all put our names on the bottom. Karen put teachers have fat toes. And accidentally put my name on too."

"Next day was satturday and Karen went to a lake and fell in."

£12.99 at the time - bargain! Imagine what that Mandi Goodier original is worth now!
(also dig the way I spelt published - puberlished)

All in all the story was pretty rubbish as were the illustrations. I was generally good at story telling and drawing but obviously just crumbled under the pressure of a potential publishing deal - which I clearly blew! We got up to much better mischief than that in reality. We used to sit at the back of the field, in the over grown bit, eating wild berries and being late for class. The teachers always complimented us on our vivid imaginations! There was one game called treasure where we hid each others toys, Karen brought in some fake gems, I buried them and lost them forever. We used to play farm yard animals at break time and eat all the crisps on the ground that the other kids had dropped, when the playground supervisor saw this, she made us stand by the wall for the rest of break, we commenced drawing on the ground with stones. The time I had to sit in the naughty corner for biting a kids shoulder, Karen came and kept me company even though she had done no wrong. I made up a sweet ghost story about the fallen rail track that ran across the back of the school (if you ever make the journey Manchester - Liverpool via Warrington, you pass my old primary school) I invented a psycho killer I dubbed the Red Murderer. Before we knew it kids were coming up to us from all directions and years, reporting sightings of a sinister red shadowy figure, or hearing crying babies (his victims - I watched a lot of horror movies!) Come to think of it, maybe I was the fiend! I have not seen nor heard from Karen since the age of eight. I thought I saw her one time a couple of years ago sat in the street, I just walked past not saying anything.