Dead

Pearlville ends. Suddenly and without fanfare.

The Pearl Art Prize

I have been away for some time, plotting in the basement. I am planning to make a video presentation of Operation Pusscat. I have ordered a pointer with a light on the end. I have designed a poster and logo for what will be "THE PEARL ART PRIZE", and that is about it. This paltry amount of work does not really excuse my lack of activity but Christmas is approaching, my mind has been on other things. Christmas is the only event that makes me feel more inadequate and disappointed than putting on an exhibition. But I still love it. So Merry Christmas readers and here is the logo.

What's in a Name?

William Shatner taught me a lot about what it is to grow older. I watched avidly as he wrestled men in rubber suits (often losing his shirt) and women in green body makeup (often losing his shirt). At this time he was James T Kirk, a laughing loving fighting hero. Later they swapped his initials and he became T J Hooker. Thankfully he no longer lost his shirt, although occasionally his hair would lift. Thomas Jefferson Hooker (Presidential? American?) James Tiberius Kirk (Imperial? American?). Miss AFJ Dover, when her ribs are healed, can perform an excellent "TJ Hooker roll" to steal the duvet I wouldn't call it elegant but it is effective.
She is sitting next to me at the moment writing her PHD while I ponder the rejection email I received from the fair Fiona at Standpoint. At first I paid it no mind, merely filing it in my (quite full) rejection folder. Since then, however, it has begun to trouble me. Why did I receive an email when it stated on the entry form that no further communication would be entered into? Miss Dover did not receive a rejection email. Indeed because of this she still holds some hope (a little bag is packed by the front door) calling out "Standpoint!" as every email arrives. All I can think is that, in my old age, I have become, like Mel Gibson (sort of), an artworld paranoiac. Did anyone else get that email?



This is another matter. At work we have just received these instructions on filling out the electronic registers. It looks straightforward enough.

Electric Moving Shadow Garden

Today's title is stolen from Andrew Bracey's essay in the "Unspooling" publication, a rather smart little book that arrived without fanfare yesterday.



It is a mistranslation for 'cinema' from Mandarin Chinese. I love these sort of (literal in this case) Chinese whispers. Apparently he wanted to use it for the title of 'Unspooling' but wasn't allowed. Now I want to make an electric moving shadow garden in my basement studio with strange flowers and flickering creatures. I shall experiment on bodies from the local morgue and seek out quickening fluids and etherial breath.

I finally had an email from Standpoint today. They had many excellent applications (not mine). The inestimable Mr Bracey was interviewed today, if he gets it Miss Dover and I will press our faces against his studio window for days and days on end. So now to read the rest of "Unspooling artists and cinema" and sulk into my tea.

No Future

Every time an email arrives my phone emits a self satisfied burp and I, eager for adulation, rush to see who it is from. All last week (and this) each time we heard this prefiguration of joy Miss Dover or I would yell out "Standpoint" and collapse into hysterics. Easily humoured we were well aware (especially as the week wore on) that Standpoint were not calling and we would not have to do a presentation on Wednesday. One of the non STANDPOINT! emails was from M's new Italian (or French?possibly Swiss) intern Miss Pietrobon who sent me a request for titles, sizes and prices for the work selected for the London Art Fair. She ended her email with:

"I hope to receive a quick response from you."

So I thought I'd better crack on. A couple of hours with a tape measure and a thesaurus and I was there. During the process I remembered my art teacher at school. Mr Hiddon was a science fiction illustrator, a fact he kept under wraps. It was only when I spotted his name next to a beautiful painting of a derelict spaceship that I realised he had another life beyond the rule of terror in his art room. The ship hung in space (as they do) but out of every window and hatch squeezed some sort of blob-like alien plant life. I titled some of my foam filled cars in his honour.

I couldn't find an image of this ship so here is something else. It isn't by Mr Hiddon, I think he would prefer it that way.

For Legal Reasons the Contents of this Post May be Fictional

I learnt recently that you can have just about anything printed on an AA sign, "Nazi rally" or "Hamster Baiting" might prove difficult but there is certainly no need tell the truth. In fact if there is an AA sign in place perhaps whatever it indicates will come into being. In Ipswich, for some time now, there have been a number of such AA signs pointing towards the "Saatchi Gallery" apparently housed in the old art school on High Street. It is a new venture and does indeed have a show of work by Saatchi artists which ends in January. Next up is an exhibition of famous-ish and not so famous ex students and teachers who worked or attended the art school in it's glory days.
Yesterday a friend of mine accidentally ended up at Juergen Teller's birthday party. I don't think he wanted to be there and managed only to acquire a number of excruciating memories. ( of which, accidentally head-butting Sadie Coles when going in for a kiss, and having his exquisite gingerbread house compared to Heston Blumenthal's life size one are but two). Soon he was mercifully ignored and was able to overhear Sarah Lucas and others laughing hysterically about Ipswich's "Saatchi Gallery" and wondering what it was. "I must ask Charles when I see him tomorrow" says one. Perhaps the signs won't be up much longer.

M

I hear car doors and children, probably off to church or Christmas shopping. Miss Dover still sleeps. My night tremors keep her awake so I let her rest in the mornings. Monika arrived yesterday with her mother, a delightful Polish lady whose family had escaped the Nazis before the war. We ate biscuits and I showed her my family tree. Miss Dover and I had worked ourselves into a frenzy of anticipation before their arrival, pressing our faces anxiously against the window, peering down the street. Two smeary prints stand as slovenly testament to our nerves. It is ridiculous really, M is shy and gentle and seemed to enjoy her visit. At the end she said "I think I'll take" and indicated several pieces (the things I thought she might like). Afterwards though I fell into a sort of post interview paranoia. Should I have said this? Why did she not want to take that?


I had had another interview, only a day or so before. HR was ready to see me to arrange my reentry into working life. I was surprised to see that Miss W was a pale young lady some years my junior and, although she obviously had skills with the sniper rifle and email, in person was not as frightening. My phasing in (I like this, it sounds like Star Trek) begins next week. Whether or not I will ever be allowed to use the back door remains to be seen although I am hoping that my mentioning of the disability discrimination act may help.