Fall

Miss Dover fell down the stairs today. She was attempting to ascend to the top floor of Jobbington Community College (our place of work). The stairwell gets progressively hotter the higher one climbs and it has been suggested that it be used as a challenge in the next series of Superstars. She has fainted before while making this ascent and had made representations to the powers that be to be allowed to use lifts. The lifts, however, tend to break down if used and her request was denied. So today, within reach of the summit she passed out and fell down fracturing her rib. Claims Direct are camped like paparazzi outside our house as I type this report. They laid flowers at the door an hour ago and occasionally take a peek through the letterbox. All this could be some sort of karmic revenge. Miss Dover is in the process of making a number of films and photographs in places where such activities are strictly banned. Yesterday I was inveigled into carrying a small video camera around a very dark house. I was so rigid with fear of discovery that I shuffled round as if a ferret had managed to get halfway up my trouserleg and I, understandably, was trying not to enrage it. I will post some stills tomorrow when my Internet returns to functionality (if I survive my possibly litigious meeting with HR)

Plans

Leon seems to be the place for meetings or work. Most tables seemed to hold groups of people talking over empty cups of coffee. Miss Dover and I had a rendezvous with Lock, Lomax and Thompson who sound like a legal firm of some note. We were planning the next stage of The Count of Montecristo, an evolving beast that looks like becoming as long and involved as Dumas' novel. The meeting went well largely due, I think, to Lomax's business acumen. I have been at other artist meetings that have lasted five hours and decided nothing. Ours lasted half an hour during which time we decided upon the episodic nature of the show; future venues to approach; the purpose of a (speculative) arts council grant application, the hire of a writer and an island holiday for six.

Would you like to know more?

Yesterday I had a phone call from Miss MacDonald at Standpoint. I handled it with my usual aplomb. At first I thought it was M calling about the London Art Fair so I launched into an exhuberent "Hi Monika" before the (exasperated?) caller was able to stop me and explain that I had failed to put my cheque in with the application. Of course I denied everything. 5 minutes later I called her back having found the cheque i teh bottom of my bag (Freudian slip?). Miss MacDonald was very good about it and told me to pop it in the post, there was buzzing in the background. Today I am receiving, and sending, communiques. Sophie Cardonne sent a proof of the Saison video publication for next year which I foolishly replied to in French. I am an idiot sometimes. I sent Holly (at the Norwich Arts Centre) some images for the website http://norwichartscentre.co.uk/in-close-succession/ The show opens in January. I was most excited, however, to receive the photographs of Operation Pusscat from Spectrum Photographic. They are a series of A4 black and white prints of my grant application and emails. Here (in order to keep up the pretension) are some more black and white photographs of my photographs. I think I am quite pleased with them, but then, as they cost over £130, I have to be.

Finally on the Unspooling microsite there are some new essays commissioned for the show. I especially like Daniel Miller's piece. http://unspooling.org/discussion.php There is more but my feet are cold I cannot go on any longer.

Pearlville!

I have just received a lovely set of photographs of Pearlville from Andrew Bracey. I don't know who to credit for them but they are much better than the ones I managed to take on my phone. [stop press... They are by Brian Slater!] I must type quickly, it is so cold I can only spend short bursts at the computer. I need a suit like the eye maker in Blade Runner.

Virtually real.

There's a dead time in the timed central heating in my new abode. It switches off at 11 and does not return until 4. This means that by about 2:45 the house begins to freeze and I have to engage in manly aerobic pursuits. I've only noticed this because I am not at work. Instead I am watching the snow through the window and the progress of the student protests on twitter. Apparently the HR representative with whom I am to meet is very busy so a 'window' may not occur for some time. I believe until that time I am on gardening leave. I have also heard (though this might be a rumour) that if I say I feel I am uneasy about entering the building through it's main entrance then to quote cinema "you shall not pass" will be ringing in my ears. Meanwhile twitter unspools claim and counter claim about the demos and I have closed the curtains to keep the heat in.

"Once you choose hope, anything's possible" - Christopher Reeve

My belly button fluff production is increasing exponentially. Yesterday, before my bath I discovered 3 distinct and sizeable blue grey pieces which I place reverentially on the side for later. Miss Dover has posited that my increased mobility is the cause for the rise in productivity. Indeed I have been very active distracting myself in the setting up of the perfect studio (pictures to follow). On my way into town I saw this sign. It was perhaps a little obvious but I experienced an extra frisson when I saw that "Aspire" pointed at our local congregation of heroin addicts.


Oh and by the way, as she brushed her teeth this morning, Miss Dover saw Mr Pig eating the fluff I had so carefully put aside.

A Christmas Carol

I have realised why the Standpoint Futures asked for no staples in our applications. Imagine the scene in the top room of a London gallery. An intern sits on the floor next to a sack of mail. Watched by a chuckling curator he, or she, diligently opens the envelopes, dropping the cheques in one box and the applications into the shredder (bedding for the gallery hamster). While she does this the curator notes the names of non London based artists and begins to weep with laughter.