The Pearl Fisher

Hardback version now available!

2010-09-13T14:22:00.003+01:00

A hardback edition of The Pearlfisher is now available from LULU for the ridiculously cheap price of 14.99 (plus p&p) you can order it here. The price will only go up!!!

Pearlville

2010-06-29T11:37:00.002+01:00

Dear readers,

My new blog Pearlville is underway. If you are interested in following my latest adventures as I undergo a gruelling residency and show in Manchester please follow this link .

Further dedications

2010-06-21T20:48:00.001+01:00

And thank you to my dear mother and father for allowing me to call them elderly and for not criticising my punctuation in public

Epilogue

2010-06-21T09:27:00.005+01:00

The Pearl Fisher is complete. Faithful readers will have noted that one phantom post from the setting up of the Whitstable Biennale disppeared it has been rediscovered in damaged form and is reprinted below.

A complete transcript with some bonus material will soon be published in novella form. (well, within a year)

I would like to take this opportunity to say thanks for reading and a special thankyou for everyone mentioned who put up with my exagerations slurs and downright lies. (apologies to anyone I have failed to mention)

Annabel Dover
Sue Jones
Kate Phillimore
Hayley (Mistress) Lock
David Bethell
Andrew Bracey
Dave Griffiths
Monika Bobinska
Rob Smith
Rebecca Birch
Emma Leach
JJ Charlesworth
Daniel Hinchcliffe
Paul Becker
Nadia Hebson

and of course Mr Gerry Bown and the ladies of Oxford Bingo Club, Whitstable.

The Phantom Post
We have just escaped a term of hard labour. Hoping to see Sue and then trip lightly off into the distance, my companion and I arrived at the Horsebridge centre to find a hive of frantic activity. As is usual, I offered our assistance and soon we were setting up blackout for ......... .......'s video showcase. Mr ........, had no problem telling us exactly what to do. He was kind enough not to embarrass me by treating me as a fêted artist and allowed me to slip into a comfortable menial role. Later, due to my continuing chirpy helpfulness my companion found herself standing in wind and rain applying non sticky vinyl lettering to a dusty container. The "B" of Bienniale came off three times and I fully expect that passers-by may note it's absence tomorrow morn.

If you have enjoyed The Pearl Fisher you might be interested to know that a new shorter blog will be starting soon here:

http://pearlville.blogspot.com/ subscribe now to avoid disappointment.

Ghosts

2010-06-19T22:51:00.001+01:00

The sun was now right down over the rooftops and the red gleams fell on my face, so that it was bathed in rosy light. My ghosts slowly almost imperceptibly began to grow in clarity as I waited pressed against a wall for people to arrive. I had thought I would surreptitiously record the event on my new camera. However it soon became clear that my understanding of it's controls were somewhat beyond me. At first the flash refused to be silenced causing the occasional passer by to twist suddenly in my direction. Then when I had mastered this I found a torch had lit up shooting a piercing beam through the growing darkness. By now I began to fear that some people were looking at me more than the work (and with expressions that bordered on the hostile). I ran, wandering the streets restlessly, looking for flickering streetlamps amd bulbs that shone like the moon.

Now, seated on a bench facing the blackening sea, every trace of all that has been is blotted out. It is time to go home.

-- posted abroad

Whitstable Diary

2010-06-19T21:02:00.001+01:00

Calamity! My companion has been taken ill. Whether it was bad shellfish or merely exhaustion I am not sure. We were forced to rush back to the hotel where I have tucked her in bed with as many precautions as I could muster. She asked that the window be left open to allow "the soft evening breeze" to sooth her. I saw no harm in it and complied. I wanted to stay with her but she turned to me and taking my face in her hands said: "Alex you must go I could not live with myself if you did not".

So I left her lying abed her breathing shallow her face pale and set forth into the early evening light.

I raised my pace and headed back into Whitstable desperate to reach the centre before sunset.

Whitstable Diary

2010-06-19T18:27:00.001+01:00

Beaten back by the cold we have retired to our hotel for a restorative. The end is in sight though and we must venture forth one more time. As the sun sets tonight "Ghosts" will appear in the window of the Horsebridge and I will be cowering in the shadows. It is six thirty now, there are less than three hours to go.

-- posted abroad

Whitstable Diary

2010-06-19T16:47:00.001+01:00

My companion has complained that neither she nor her sister (visiting from the north) have featured significantly in the Whistable diary. Much chided I have resolved to correct this omission.

Lucienne Cole's event at the bingo hall was like a little flash of jolly Lynch. It started before my companion and her delightful sister could avail themselves of the free teas and iced buns, but they were soon distracted and smiling at the raucous brass band's rendering of "Ride of The Valkyries" and the half accompanied half acapella tapdancer. Then it was over, my companion leading the charge to the bar.

Whitstable Diary

2010-06-19T16:10:00.001+01:00

Loud music, bright lights. Crushed into the Oxford Bingo Hall for Lucienne Cole's performance. There are over a hundred people here. All, it seems, equipped with iPhones

-- posted abroad

Whitstable Diary

2010-06-19T14:59:00.001+01:00

A sudden heavy shower from the sea struck us in the open. We sought shelter in a fish shop huddling with customers and other biennale visitors. It was a strange meeting I have noted across Whitstable. It would be a fitting image to characterise the biennale as a Dracula landing in an oblivious seaside town. A foreigner causing a brief unhomely uproar before moving on neither party being certain why he was there at all. So far I have visited a screening of work curated by Mr Dillon including a fascinating display of French machismo and a shooting. The gunfire was aimed at a drumkit emblazonned with the name "Pearl" I felt each bullet as if they were aimed at my heart.

As the gunfire ceased a shower arrived. The filmic rain more soothing than the real.

Next to the British Legion to see "Call" where a small group of art followers and regulars seemed equally confused.

Whitstable Diary

2010-06-19T12:10:00.001+01:00

I was disappointed that the coffee at the reception was instant but we were late arriving. We had journeyed from our hotel in a frantic frightened zigzag. Darting down dark alleys and cut throughs avoiding thin black clad figures.

We were able to relax at last seated next to an ex naval diver at Ruth Beale, Karen Mirza's: "The voyage of Nonsuch" demi poetic film study of spatial archives. Afterwards while my companion corralled the diver I looked at the snapshots of Mr Cushing posing in the scenic spots of Whitstable and vowed to visit them before the sun sets tonight.

Whitstable Diary

2010-06-19T10:23:00.001+01:00

My loose tongue, and looser wits, summoned a dark messenger in the night. I have offended a man and feel truly terribly about it. Within these pages even I have found it hard to untangle the real and unreal and a monster of the ID has risen to bite me.

The morning light has brought with it a cold tearful feeling behind my eyes. We are to travel first to a morning reception with the Mayor at Whitstable's eccentric and quite homely museum. There to drink coffee and eat cake and enjoy the show.

Whitstable Diary

2010-06-18T19:51:00.001+01:00

-- posted abroad

Whitstable Diary

2010-06-18T15:29:00.001+01:00

Whitstable Diareze

2010-06-18T13:50:00.001+01:00

I have the travelling nerves. My companion is trying to soothe my nerves with calming words and gentle touches but I am wound to such a degree that it is as if she is attempting to smooth the sea with her tiny hands. My condition is not helped by the many stops and starts which entail a constant gathering and ungathering of bags, papers, food, and beverages. Then there is the fear of standing in the wrong place of missing the connection, every instant seems an age whilst we wait.

-- posted abroad

Whitstable Diaries

2010-06-18T10:48:00.001+01:00

Our train is due to depart Ipswich at 1208 from thence we travel to Stratford, transfer to Stratford international where we will collect the fast train to Rochester and change for our final destination Whitstable, arriving around three in the afternoon. My companion still obsessed with her buboes has laid out a few things to make my weekend more pleasurable. She is the most kind and thoughtful person I have ever known.

Whitstable Diaries

2010-06-18T08:44:00.001+01:00

The morning papers have brought to my attention the timely death of Mr Sebastian Horsley. A thoroughly louche artist of the basest tastes. My companion has fond memories of fending off his attentions at Sarah Lucas' petit hameau in Suffolk.

-- posted abroad

2010-06-18T07:25:00.001+01:00

I am cold. Has it rained in the night? It is too early to rise. I am unwilling to draw the coverlet back and face the day so I lie here and write in a cave of my own making.

My companion awakes! Her pale skin ghostly in the grey light. I wish to write more about the coming day but like a morning cat she is in need of attention.

-- posted abroad

Lucia

2010-06-17T20:20:00.001+01:00

As if joined by some sort of psychic connection. Sue just texted me to check if I would bring spare DVDs.

I have filled the day with petty distractions so that I would not brood on tomorrow's task. For a long time now I have been hamfistedly building a second bicycle a big sister for 'The Phantom' she is called 'Lucia'. It has not been a straight forward build involving a deal of swearing and expense. However, I decided this morning that enough was enough it was time to bring her to life. I pushed on. Front wheel regreased, clad in shiny black rubber, pedals fitted and bolts tightened and we went for a first ride. I returned to tighten the saddle which was pointing sideways and we went for our second ride. It is always a bit of a risk riding a bicycle built by an amateur as slipshod as myself but generally it went well.

Keen to fill more time I have since replaced the handlebars with narrow courier style ones which will allow me to squeeze between buses. This can only hasten my demise.

My companion has contacted me. I am to meet her at the station very soon. She has fainted on the Metropolitan line after drinking her bodyweight in Belgian chocolate milk. I must hurry.

-- posted abroad

Preparations

2010-06-17T16:30:00.001+01:00

I have received several positive replies to my rather belated invitational missives. It seems striking at the last minute is an effective approach. It always amazed me as a youth that those seeking to destroy the vampire would prevaricate to such an extent that just as their mallet would fall so would night.

I am considering packing for my journey to Whitstable. I will
bring my Laptop, and spare DVDs just in case. A disguise may also be useful if my work fails to impress. I have the fear again, a sort of creeping dread overwhelms me. My companion usually helpful in such matters ( largely it must be said by telling me to shut up) is away at a conference in Brighton. Her main preoccupation is with her bites which refuse to heal. One, on her hand, has taken on a crunchy consistency making a clearly audible noise on compression. She has just sent me this image of a staked hand.

2010-06-17T12:07:00.001+01:00

The morning light can be an intensely painful experience at my new lodgings. As yet uncurtained the sun always manages to send a deadly shaft through a chink in the blinds directly into my right eye. It is always my right. This inevitably leads to rising at dawn or at least a cursing and rolling over. This morning the searing pain was heightened by my foolish nocturnal gambollings. Nevertheless I have risen and have been sending out reminder invitations to the Biennale. This was reasonably straight forward although because of changes in email providers and software I have found myself painstakingly rebuilding mailing lists. It was, however, a meditative process which allowed me to mull over my ridiculously ad hoc Internet provision. I am currently in the thrall of two btopenzone contracts both of which are entirely useless as btopenzone quite frankly doesn't work. They continue to draw money from me on a monthly basis, a galling irritation. I have since purchased an embarassing pink dongle (from another company) which refuses to let me on dangerous sites like Twitter and will not allow me to prove my age however hard I try. As a result of this I am aging at an accelerated rate and may soon be eligible for a senior discount. This is evident in the pile of hair on my living room floor. It has not fallen out but is significantly greyer than I remember. I had the idea that I would cut my hair and finish off the performative sideburns so that I, and they, would be at our best for the opening weekend. I have not been to a hairdressers for nearly twenty years mainly fearing that disapproving tsk tsk and the inevitable question "who cut this last?". On reflection perhaps I should have gone to a professional but it is too late all is lost. The sideburns are now too short and my hair patchy like a dog with mange.

Undead!

2010-06-15T23:04:00.001+01:00

"Baudelaire did not come to Brussels until 1864, when he was already ruined, financially and physically. He was miserably poor. His work had failed to gain proper recognition... His publisher had gone bankrupt. He was slowly dying of syphilis." Christopher Isherwood, September, 1946

I have just finished reading "My Heart Laid Bare" Baudelaire's writings during his, seemingly miserable stay in Brussels. He reveals himself somewhat as a nineteenth century Jeremy Clarkson perhaps with a dash of Sean Connery thrown in. Quite often he admonishes himself for lack of work. It is in the throes of this sentiment that I feel more kinship with the man (rather than the women thrashing and Belgian hating). I really must apply myself more diligently. More than four films lie half done on camera or computer. Hundreds of little gold dying spacemen are yet to appear, and in truth may never appear. I am also as yet (still?) undecided what to show in Southend and I am barely beginning to think about my forthcoming residency in August. I fear I will not attain the crypt before sunset! Or is it sunrise?

(image of marauding undead on a kitchen table taken during a meeting between my companion and her phd supervisor)

In my bath

2010-06-14T23:02:00.001+01:00

Lying in my bath, my companion washing my hair. I thought I would like to write something about having a thought at that moment, a sort of eureka. I thought it could form some sort of moment of realisation such as when Van Helsing's eyes fall on the closed curtains in Castle Dracula. However, lying in my bath, I soon realised I would not have such a thought and without the thought there was not much point in writing about the moment.

2010-06-14T21:01:00.001+01:00

Back in Ipswich and the everyday toil of work. Chance to go through my emails and specifically to deal with a request from the redoubtable Mr Bracey who had sent me the following message clearly typed in haste.

"hi Alex,
hope all is well and Wynstable is all going well.
just thought i would say that i am really pleased you are all booked in for august, i am gettign really excited about you coming.
I was also wondering if you were planning on keeping one of your famous blogs when you are up. I ahve jsut had a meeting with AND festival adn they are keen on there being some form of 'viral' type things that lead up to the festival adn i thought of your blogs without mentioning it at the meeting of course!).
also i am not sure if you know but we have a definte title for the show it is now
UnSpooling - artists &cinema
best wishes,
Andrew"

I had, only a day before, been speaking to my companion of my desire to never write another blog again. I replied in the affirmative suggesting the title "Never Say Never Again"

-- posted abroad

Invitation?

2010-06-14T19:23:00.001+01:00

A few days ago I was delighted to find this (below) in my inbox. Actually what I found was a jumble of images and words which I have painstakingly restored to what I hope was it's original state.

INVITATION

Photo: © Brian Dillon

You are invited to attend the opening of the 5TH WHITSTABLE BIENNALE 2010

The 5th Whitstable Biennale will open on Saturday 19 June 2010 on Whitstable's main beach at 12 noon. The Biennale has commissioned major new works, all of which explore different aspects of performance and film. For two weeks the seaside town of Whitstable will be transformed into a centre for contemporary art.

See the Whitstable Biennale 2010 calendar online for the main festival programme.
Special performances and talks on Saturday June 19 2010:

12.00-13.00

Main launch on the beach, with Whitstable Brewery Ale, at the Biennale HQ next to the Royal Native Oyster Stores, Horsebridge Rd CT5 1BU.

14.15-15.45

UR-NOW: The Ruins of the Contemporary
Talk at the Sea Cadets Hall by Brian Dillon with some of the
artists from the film programme he has curated for this year's festival

16.00-16.45

67 Made in Heaven
Luciennne Cole choreographs a performance at the Oxford Bingo Hall

17.00-18.00

Social History and Telling Tales
Karen Mirza & Ruth Beale host a screening of vintage films with local historian and collector Tony Blake at the Sea Cadets Hall

Whitstable Biennale full programme details : http://whitstablebiennale.com

Book a place on the Bus, for the Whitstable Biennale 2010 opening. Leaving from London in the morning of 19 June and returning to London the same evening
NB Seats are going very fast so BOOK NOW to avoid disappointment.

More information to follow on the Performance and Screening Programmes

-- posted abroad

Brussels to Ipswich

2010-06-13T15:35:00.001+01:00

Reflected glints skid across the ceiling of the carriage. Each signals presence of a mobile phone. As we cross borders they also chirrup or burp or honk warnings of the dangers of data usage abroad.

We have entered the tunnel. "no service" has been declared. Even two days without email, or Twitter has made me feel bereft and nostalgic as of a youthful love affair.

My companion is sleeping now, calmly and sweetly like a little child. Her lips are curved and her face beams with happiness. Thank god there are such moments still for her.

Twenty minutes before light.

My companion has awoken just before we arrived in England she said she felt we were exiting the tunnel. As she spoke the carriage grew light once again.

Antwerp to Brussels

2010-06-13T15:32:00.001+01:00

On the train to Brussels Nadia points out street of women in windows. They sit or dance in their undress. My reflection in the window stops me seeing properly.

At a Market in Brussels

Horta's house is dead

Eurostar

Evening Antwerp - The lock keeper's house.

2010-06-13T15:24:00.001+01:00

The resident artists are making presentations about their work. One, a driven obsessive is planning to travel home to America encased in a shipping container. Everyone thinks he will die. Paul reads a section from his new book. A tale of a nineteenth century painter which reads like a thoroughly reasearch biography. It is all a lie.

"Magic Moments" is being played by the DJ. All the Belgians have rushed to the dance floor and are gyrating furiously.

Second Day Antwerp City Centre

2010-06-13T15:19:00.001+01:00

I have counted. I have fourteen bites all itching and weeping. Can hardly hold the pen due to large swelling on my fingers.

Sitting in large square listening to cathedral bells play "Candle in the Wind" next to me an intently bent old lady works feverishly at a sheaf of papers covered with strange symbols. Once completed each sheet is folded in half and placed in front of her.

Our waiter looks like Bela Lugosi.

A group of teenagers opposite poke fun at her age and concentration. They line up cigarettes to be smoked later.

Across the square is a photgraph of a missing woman.

-- posted abroad

Morning - Antwerp

2010-06-13T15:13:00.001+01:00

In the kitchen, Nadia has made us a delightful breakfast, she too is bitten on the head. Introduced to other artists. All are wraith like, I feel out of place, Sophia has sharp white pointed canines protruding just a little too far. She is standing next to Nadia by the sink. I am reminded of Dracula's three ladies, smile nervously and look around hopefully.

My companion retells the story of the eminent artist who still pursues her succulent flesh, they all squeal with horror and delight.

Morning - Antwerp - the lock keeper's house.

2010-06-13T15:01:00.001+01:00

Blood suckers at work in the night. I heard them and rolled over. In my delerium I thought they would take my companion and not me. She is a redhead and notoriously attractive to mosquitoes. I have two large lumps on my head, they itch intolerably. My companion is unbitten. She tells me I snored loudly all night.

-- posted abroad

Night -Antwerp

2010-06-13T14:29:00.001+01:00

Dark water and rushing wind. I am woken again by a bell. A school bell, it sounds on the half hour. Something is in the room with us. My companion sleeps soundly.

-- posted abroad

Antwerp - later

2010-06-13T13:13:00.001+01:00

Drinking wine mixed with pear juice. Paul Becker and Nadia Hebson have given us their studio to sleep in, a massive room overlooking a working industrial canal. At night 'AIR Antwerp' looks an exciting place to work. Nadia is slight and catlike with small sharp teeth, she is nervous about a talk tomorrow. Paul (my companion describes as "a black bear") appears full of humour and sadness. They are fine hosts.

-- posted abroad

Antwerp

2010-06-13T11:38:00.001+01:00

The following posts are taken from notes made while travelling to and from Antwerp. They are edited only for sense and in some cases are merely impressions of fleeting thoughts and events.

Thursday night about 10 o'clock - Antwerp.

The taxi driver does not want to let us out. The address Mr Becker gave us drew his sat nav to a wasteland by the docks. There is no sign of life.

Suddenly a light in the distance! A large shadow in the distance coalesces into a large gothic manse. A man is waving in the window. We leave our reluctant driver and decide to head across the waste carrying our own cases.

(Photograph of the window at which Mr Becker stood. In daylight)

Antwerp

2010-06-10T17:44:00.001+01:00

My companion is prattling on about her dreams. One involved her shoes being full of miniature frogs another was concerning a room full of friendly cats. She has an interest bordering on obsession with the lower creatures. I had always interpreted it as a sign of her nuturing feminine side but I am beginning to doubt this assumption. Our train has been moved to platform nine. Apparently my companion informed me of this several minutes ago but I was oblivious in my musings.

-- posted abroad

Antwerp

2010-06-10T17:25:00.001+01:00

The collonnaded waiting area at St Pancras International is not a peaceful place. Three parties of children, one sporting white baseball caps another maroon and the third red are waiting in excited groups their chatter echoing harshly across the unupholstered space. We are an hour and a half early, this only because we managed to waste considerable amounts of time wandering slowly between LK Bennett, WHSmiths, Paperchase, Accessorise.....and eating a barely acceptable Scotch egg and sausage role at the extortionately expensive Purdeys and Byrne. Check in and customs were relaxed experiences until I was forced to hurriedly empty my pockets at the metal detecting arch. I had not recently taken stock of how much it was possible to fit into a pair of reasonably generous trousers. I now know. My companion knits while I write. Only an hour and fifteen minutes to go.

-- posted abroad

2010-06-10T15:35:00.001+01:00

The man in front smells odd his finger nails are long and dirty. He is reading a model train enthusiast's magazine but I am not sure these things are connected. We shall soon arrive at Liverpool street, the man in front is talking about his cross London plans in a northern accent. We are thinking about the same but while he has to get to Marylebone we do not.

-- posted abroad

Antwerp

2010-06-10T14:53:00.001+01:00

Ipswich 10th June
Our train heads south through East Anglian farmland. The weather has turned again to overcast with a misting rain though the temperature is holding. We expect to arrive at St Pancras International at least three hours early but both my companion and I will remain in a restless state of agitation until we alight in Antwerp this evening. In truth we were both ready to travel by ten this morning and had to fill our time by sending work to open shows (my companion) and film festivals (myself). I have decided to enter "Call" into the Impakt film festival in Amsterdam where I hope it will make it's continental premiere.

-- posted abroad

Fatigue

2010-06-09T20:53:00.001+01:00

Almost too tired to attend to this writing. A day helping students set up their first show has drained the vigour from my body. Mistress Lock is sending repeated messages urging me to take tomorrow off. In truth her urgings are more like threats and conjure in my mind age old fears both pleasurable and perturbing! I HAD intended to only put in a morning's work but now feel that this will draw down such approbation on my head as to make it unbearable.

This mundaniety aside we travel to Antwerp in the afternoon to visit My companion's dear friends Mrs Hebson and Mr Becker. They are part way through a residency in the city and have invited us to visit. Their lifestyle is an itinerant one, they seem to me to spend no longer than three months in any one location. It is an existence I would find intolerable but is, I believe, necessary if one wishes to be an artist and to avoid teaching. We are looking forward to the visit though I am a little nervous of a train that travels under the sea.

-- posted abroad

2010-06-08T19:50:00.001+01:00

Email received late Monday evening:

"Hi Alex
We will need DVD's of your work. At the moment we only have a Showreel which was great for showing to the British Legion but we need:

Caller (sic) on two DVD's, one of the Caller and one of the players, so we show it on two monitors from two DVD players
Ghost, the three pieces shown from 1 DVD consecutively

All three looped and in DVD PAL format"

Happily I was well prepared for this eventuallity and had only to package the DVDs in protective wrapping ready for the following day's post. The communication arrived while we were watching "Charade" a film I had seen previously but, like so many things, could not quite remember how it went. As such the experience was one of repeated mild revelations as twists came to me just before they were revlealed. As the title suggests there was a deal of pretence in the film, storytelling which the slightly blank Miss Hepburn always fell for. I most enjoyed the settings. The opening scene: a ski resort with snowy mountains (sometimes projected), Hepburn dressed head to toe in black masked with huge sunglasses seated in front of reflecting glass only partially concealing swimsuited blondes behind. The empty apartment: stripped by our heroine's now dead husband. The rooftop: site of the struggle with the claw handed man. It's giant lit sign smashed in the fight. Cary Grant's tiny office where all is revealed, a proposal is made and love declared in four parts.

A Shock

2010-06-07T08:21:00.001+01:00

The storm has arrived all is grey blue. A thunderous cannonade sounds above. Some minutes ago I discovered a message from Sue Jones in my work email. I have transcribed a part of it below:

"We have had to change our plans with the Royal British Legion, due to
the extremely complicated licensing laws. We will only be able to show
the work on Saturday 19 and Sunday 20 June. We could move the work -
but my view is that there isn't a suitably place and we'd end up
compromising the work by moving it around. I think the short showing
will work fine in the context of the Biennale, where works are anyway
shown for very different length of time."

"Call" has fast become my favourite piece made for Whitstable and while I agree it would be silly to turn it into an itinerant beggar, I am sad that it shall be so fleeting in it's appearance. Although maybe it is somehow in keeping with the sublunary nature of much of my work.

Forebodings

2010-06-06T19:09:00.000+01:00

The weather is closing in. Dark thunder clouds propelled by a sudden evil wind have darkened the sky over Ipswich. My companion is huddled nervously next to me fearful in the expectation lightning. Earlier she kindly acted as my portrait photographer. A profile shot was needed in order that I might match my sideburns with Mr Cushing's. I selected the Van Helsing incarnation from "Dracula 1972 AD" a crazy film which somehow struck a chord. My image looked so pale and bloated in comparison to the eminent actor I was forced to consider some exercise and to do some editing before it could be published here.

I marked up the position of Van Helsing's sideburns, noting as best I could their length width and angle. Then I superimposed my own image and marked the corresponding measurements on my face. Finally I removed Van Helsing to reveal my pasty visage.

I have just received a message from Miss Phillimore, the designers are happy with my resizing efforts, all is well.

An Apology

2010-06-05T19:24:00.001+01:00

Wracked with guilt I have written an apology to Miss Phillimore.

"Dear Miss Phillimore
I am writing to apologise for my somewhat grumpy reply earlier. My only excuse, and it is a poor one, is that I am suffering from a rare form of dysentery at the moment with concomitant sleeplessness. If the new image is no good I can borrow a friend's camera tonight and fake something suitable.
Yours sincerely
Mr Pearl esq"

As I was transcribing the above email a seagull cruised sharklike past the window. We are at such a height here as to be level with that bird's most common flightpath. It is disconcerting to be eye to yellow eye with such a beast.

Yours Testily

2010-06-05T14:36:00.000+01:00

Hi Alex,

I'm afraid the designers still aren't happy with this size, they really need something to the spec below. Do you think it is possible to get this to us as soon as you can? Our deadline for getting all the images together is this weekend - apologies for the urgency.

Best
Kate

I am exhausted. Lethargy holds me gently on the sofa I only attempt to break her grasp when I can hold on to my bowels no longer. The illness which beset both myself and my dear companion last night lingers, a deadly sweat was upon us all last night. We both feel drained and listless. The above email found me in poor humour this morning. The image I had sent was admittedly only a mere 72dpi but was nearly a metre wide which I thought would do. Stubbornly I resized it to A6 at a higher dpi and testily sent it back with a message suggesting that any graphic designer worth his or her salt could do this for themselves. I fully expect it to be printed upside down with a secret message stating my resemblance to the rear end of a horse. This would not upset me but I do hope I did not upset Miss Phillimore.

This is a drawing of Keats on his death bed by Joseph Severn.

Location:Sickbed

Deleria

2010-06-04T22:42:00.000+01:00

Fire ants swarm over my body. Deep in the left ear something dark and heavy broods. My companion is raving. She thinks we may be haemophiliacs but I think she means hypochondriacs.

She is recalling a haemophiliac boy at her school with blood red hair. He used to stab his hand with a compass to avoid geography tests.

Heavy beat from a passing car

Must sleep

Sickness

2010-06-04T22:07:00.000+01:00

Ebb tide in appetite- cannot eat, cannot sleep, diary is all that is left to me. My companion and I have been struck down with an ague or is it a pox? I know no more than we make frequent, and lately unproductive, visits to the bathroom while feeling vague and listless. A bath is drawn next door but neither feels the inclination to take it. Outside the town's revelry has begun with the usual shouts, catcalls and musical abrasions that punctuate a Friday night in the centre of Ipswich. My companion, more productive than I, is replying to letters from siblings. She as a large number, sisters all, of which I have met three.

Gutteral cackling in the street below, low and menacing.

In my weakened state I am finding concentration difficult. Unable to settle to any task I have left letters unanswered, emails unread. Earlier I set down a list of 'things to do' but with little conviction. Not on the list were the vexed issue of my sideburns. I have decided to apply a little rigour to them for my visit to the opening weekend of the biennale. I have determined that the best course of action is to choose an image from one of Mr Cushing's vampire films and to scientifically and painstakingly reproduce his sideburns in living bristle. Perhaps I have said this before?

Trot of heels, steady and regular.

-- posted abroad

Homewards on the Ipswich Flyer

2010-06-03T19:34:00.000+01:00

We are travelling back to Ipswich 3rd class. A necessity brought on by overcrowding on the 7o'clock train. Both my companion (who is knitting a rather bad scarf) and I are perspiring slightly after being forced to run a brisk 400 yards past all the (empty) first class carriages. Monika passed over a large wheeled case at the café. Business done we had a pleasant chat about cats, holidays and the next series of shows to be held at her gallery on Cambridge Heath Road "Stardust Boogie Woogie". Following this we made a brief visit to an art suppliers and then went on to see Rachel Harrison's exhibition at the Whitechapel. Upon entering we were accosted by a gang of hired barkeeps who insisted we drink bourbon. I do not know if this was meant to improve our experience but to my mind the installation of colourful anthills and tat was joyful enough not to need any artificial enhancement. The highlight of my day however was the discovery of a tastefully reticent Whitstable Biennale flyer here modelled by my companion.

-- posted abroad

2010-06-03T14:47:00.000+01:00

It has come to a point where preparations must be made. Numerous requests are arriving from the Biennale team. Mainly they are to do with publicity and the low resolution of my images. It is a perennial problem as screen shots from my video work never seem to be enough for print. I constantly tell myself I must take documentary photographs but my memory was never good. I have recently sought to correct this laxity by purchasing a new high definition video camera which also takes decent still images. I did think perhaps I should have done this before filming 'Call' but on first trying the camera I find the image cold and unfriendly. Nevertheless I have put aside my Luddite leanings and yesterday I made a short film of a scrolling starscape.

On what must be the hottest day my companion and I are dragging our tired limbs around the east end galleries. Truthfully we are sitting in the Café Hurwundeki knitting and watching an artist talk about himself. He has managed a quarter of an hour without breath and is now holding forth on how difficult it is when someone one doesn't like is a fan of one's work. We are waiting for Monika Bobinska who has been desperate for me to take back my work for some time now. I had been putting off it's collection on no particular pretext other than an unwillingness to drag a wheeled case across London. We have seen a couple of shows. Neither of us have been particularly thrilled however and we had to leave Cell Project space in haste when my companion had a fit of the vapours. She is in a strange state of mind at the moment, nervous and distracted. That eminent artist, not put off by her Parisian avoidance tactics, is now frantic to meet her and I assume paint her. He has sent a message via an intermediary stating he is willing to "pay over the odds" for the pleasure.

Jonathon Baldock, "The Fools Flipside", Cell Project Space.

-- posted abroad

A warning

2010-05-30T12:12:00.000+01:00

Upon my return from the north I found myself in a condition of extreme exhaustion. It was close to midnight when I finally crept into bed. I craved no more than easeful rest. Unfortunately in inverse proportion to my ennervation my companion seemed full of life. She talked and fidgetted, bounced and laughed until I was so desperate I held her still, her wrists shackled in one hand, her hair clutched in the other. This did not help. In quieter moments my companion sings to me at night. Although she often forgets the words they are beautiful stories of cowboys and lost love. One of my favourites is "Lydia the tatooed lady" a woman who, when the words come to mind, ends up marrying an Admiral who loves the ships afloat on her hips. This morning I read news of the world's most tatooed lady Julia Gnuse. According to reports she is 95% covered in ink and first decided to go under the needle in order to hide scars from porphyria cutanea tarda. I remembered from my reading that it had been suggested that Porphyria was a disease thought to be linked to vampirism. Vlad III the Impaler himself believed to be an antecedent of the Dracula character was also said to had suffered from Acute Porphyria a condition causing extreme sensitivity to sunlight.

My google erudition has also led me (after many years) to a rereading of Browning's poem "Porphyria's Lover" transcribed below. I feel it needs little comment.

The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me — she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,

Return from the north

2010-05-29T19:52:00.000+01:00

From Stoke by train the speedy pan of slate grey and rich blue green reminds me of an El Greco painting of an approaching storm. I am writing the thoughts of an inebriate fearing what realisation the cold morning light will bring. Mr Bethell and friends rounded my presentation with a visit to another local hostelry (actually the same hostelry as we visited on Thursday). The drinks taken there have only served to revivify those imbibed at yesterday's impromtu beer festival and Thursday's consolatory meal. Still, the train travels swiftly and smoothly south. Earlier at Airspace I showed part of "Call" to the assembly hoping to allay my fears. It seemed to go down reasonably well though it did seem markedly different to the other works. Mr Bown's dauntless struggle to engage the ladies of the bingo club came to the fore. To me he again appeared more like a flawed hero than my original conception as vampiric villain. This pleased me and reminded me of something Christopher Lee said about the character of Dracula something to do with his vulnerability and pathos. The exact words have slipped away.

My loss of memory described above is not wholly due to my intoxicated state. Nor an attempt at a sort of romantic narrative fade. But rather the result of constant interruption. My dear companion is sending such frequent messages that she is causing my phone to crash repeatedly and my temple to throb with an embollistic intensity. Even now I am typing through clenched teeth. I believe she was a Bengal cat in another life, but I do love her dearly.

-- posted abroad

Part 2

2010-05-27T21:26:00.000+01:00

Despite my repeated assertions Mr Bethell was not kidding, nor was he joking. Somehow I had got the wrong day. Suddenly my "best practice" badge seemed somewhat tarnished. Both Mr Brascombe (who had by now joined us) and Mr Bethell were extremely sorry for my mistake plying me first with tea and then alcohol.

I was given this delightful catalogue of work by Shaun Doyle and Mally Mallinson, a product of their show entitled "Ecce Homo Tesco". So kind were they, that, despite my rapidly weakening protestations, they even reimbursed my train fare. While I recovered my wits we discussed the fortunes of the gallery which seem to have ebbed and flowed with the phases of the moon. Generably though they seemed to be doing tolerably well though it was typical they told me they had received a sizeable Arts Council grant to go to this year's Zoo only to have the organisers cancel the fair.

After a largely liquid lunch we parted in good heart promising to meet again in two days. I had decided to make the most of my error by making a visit to my elderly parents who I had not seen in a fair while. My mother's first words as I crossed the threshold were "Oh you've got a bit of a tummy".

I have become obsessed with a hair on my nose. I can't see it but I know it's there.

-- posted abroad

2010-05-27T18:27:00.000+01:00

The man next to me has preternaturally long feet, or at least shoes. I am seated in the genteel and unattended village station of Prestbury waiting for a slow carriage to Stoke on Trent. The Virgin Pendelino has just sped through dragging my stomach with it and I am tired, so tired. The day started well with a brisk ride (on the Phantom) from my lodgings to the station in Ipswich where I was to catch an early train to London and thence onward to Airspace. I had my talk ready and was prepared to give of my wisdom to the no doubt eager audience that awaited me. The journey to London was uneventful and the rush hour crush neither too uncomfortable nor overly erotic. Soon I was seated on the express train to Manchester going over PowerPoint and practising seamless shifting between applications. The high speed journey was over before ennui set in. Upon my arrival, the walk from station was blessed with a pale sunshine which removed the worse of the chill from the air. Admittedly the walk seemed longer than it had last year but I am older (and heavier) than I was then. As I arrived Mr Bethell greeted me on the gallery steps and said. "the talk is on Saturday".

To be continued.

(drawing made on the train)

-- posted abroad

Alarums

2010-05-26T18:02:00.000+01:00

My phone has just jolted me awake. It says "talk". At first I thought it was a message from my companion suggesting I rise from my post-work grave. But no! it was a timely reminder that tomorrow I must once again set forth to talk about my work and career. This time I am returning to Stoke-on-Trent where Messrs
Bethell and Branscombe, proprietors of Airspace, have invited me to talk about my work and how I have built relationships with galleries and comissioners. I am speaking at one but hope to arrive earlier. Unfortunately this will entail catching a seven o'clock train which fortunately will give me plenty of time to decide what to say. The press release for the event described me (optimistically I thought) as an example of best practice in this field. I shall endeavor to be as interesting as possible but, failing that, I have put together a DVD of such length that if I leave it playing there will be no time for talk.

Release

2010-05-25T19:20:00.000+01:00

I received a press release in this morning's email. It detailed the work commissioned for Whitstable. "Damnation" I exclaimed (or something similar) "Adam Chodzko's work has the same title as mine!" (bar the addition of an 's' this is true - and although of little importance I still wish I had called mine something more original). This aside, yet again I must admit to feeling like the poor cousin in the lineup. I think I will always suffer this way, it is inescapable. Not long ago, in a group show in King's Lynn, I was the only 'local' amongst a coven of sharply and darkly dressed, pale and youthful London Arts graduates. I was mesmerised by the influence of their collective self assurance and instantly assumed the role of their brown coated minion. Within minutes I was, at least metaphorically, tugging my forelock and gladly performing any number of obeisant tasks. At one stage I believe I even began to drag a limb. To this day I have failed to discover a suitable phylactery against such power.

My responses in such matter are disorderly to the point of insanity. I must discipline my emotions.

The press release is delightful and I was planning to instantly forward it's flatteries to all and sundry. Unfortunately my email programme scrambled image and text to such an extent that I will have to spend a little time reconstructing it for general release.

For information I have reproduced the text below.

PRESS RELEASE

NEW COMMISSIONS - 5TH WHITSTABLE BIENNALE 2010

The 5th Whitstable Biennale will open on Saturday 19 June - Sunday 4 July 2010.

The Biennale has commissioned major new works for this year's Festival, all of which explore different aspects of performance and film. For two weeks the seaside town of Whitstable will be transformed into a centre for contemporary art.

NEW website

Curated by Sue Jones
Assistant Curator Kate Phillimore

Phil Coy
Façade
Sea Container, Whitstable Harbour South Quay Tue-Sun 10:-00-18:00

A mesmerising and subtle film, looking at the transparency of glass and the opaqueness of regeneration. Narrated by famous TV anchor Julia Somerville, Façade takes audiences on a journey through contemporary glass architecture, conflating architectural 'walkthroughs' of nonexistent buildings with tracking shots over the facades of existing buildings.

This is the world premiere of Façade, which was produced with a major Film London FLAMIN Award. The Awards are for "work that is ambitious and represents a significant leap in artists' careers. For the capital's most innovative moving image artists".

Phil Coy is one of the most respected artists in the UK, well known for his subtle, underplayed works. Recent works have shown at the ICA, South London Gallery and Cornerhouse, Manchester.

Adam Chodzko
Ghost, together with films Echo and The Pickers
Old Nelson Inn, Harbour Street Tue, and Thur-Sun 10:00-18:00

Ghost is a custom-built kayak. It will be exhibited at the Whitstable Biennale - but some days it will be paddled from Whitstable to the Isle of Sheppey, where it will take members of the public to Deadman's Island, a small island off Queenborough, Isle of Sheppey. Deadman's Island is so called because it was used as a burial site for bodies of people who had died on the prison hulks moored in the Swale in the 19th Century. So Ghost is a vessel for visiting the dead.

A rower sits in the back of the two-man kayak, and a member of the public in the front. The passenger can paddle but when approaching Deadman's Island can lie down low and flat, like a body in a coffin with their head slightly raised. A video camera in the bow will record each journey of the kayak from just above the waterline looking in the direction of its destination.

Chodzko is one of the UK's most important artists. He has exhibited extensively in international solo and group exhibitions including: Tate, St Ives; Museo d'Arte Moderna, Istanbul Biennale, Venice Biennale; Royal Academy, London; PS1, NY; Ikon Gallery, Birmingham. Recent projects include commissions by Creative Time, New York, The Contemporary Art Society, Frieze Art Fair, and Hayward Gallery. His work is in many major collections.

Anna Lucas
Things that had stories rubbed out
Garden of 28 Clifton Road Thur-Sun 10:00-18:00

Experimenting with a new studio-based process, artist Anna Lucas's 16mm film - Things that had stories rubbed out, extends her recent investigations into perception and vision. A collection of photos, depicting things that could be screens, were used as a starting point for filming torch-lit visual dialogues with a group of artists and friends. The film uses raw and tentative footage from these shared moments of looking, in which glimpses and fragments of connection may be all that is discernable.

Anna Lucas is an artist/filmmaker who is increasingly being recognised for her film and video installations that transform daily experience into epic drama or sensual intimacy. She has previously had solo shows at Spike Island, Bristol, Chisenhale Gallery London, and FACT Liverpool. In 2008 she was artist in residence at Oxford University.

Karen Mirza & Ruth Beale
The Voyage of Nonsuch
Whitstable Museum & Gallery Mon-Sat 10:00-16:00, Sun 13:00-16:00

Mirza & Beal are making a new film investigating the hidden world of English maritime film archives. The film blends nationally important footage that is mostly hidden in archives in places like the BFI and National Maritime Museum, strange local amateur footage, and sections written and shot by the artists, often from found texts:

The sea level is rising at the rate of a sixteenth of an inch a year. In the year 160000 it will reach halfway up Nelson's Column in Trafalgar Square, and the site of the Battle of Trafalgar will be eight fathoms under the sea. The British spend four million pounds a year on bird-watching, more than anyone else in Europe. It is no doubt a compensation for living on an island and not being able to fly. No British citizen lives more than sixty miles from salt water, and most live considerably closer. Two million in fact can see it from an upstairs window...

Mirza runs the no.w.here lab in London with Brad Butler, which plays an extensive part in curating new film work in the UK, expanding technical support for artists and hosting regular critical debates. Her recent projects include a major Artangel project, The Museum of Non Participation, Sep-Oct 2009. Beale often works participatively, and recent projects include Sisterly Bingo for GSK Contemporary at the Royal Academy of Arts, and Miss B's Salons, regular salons that bring together invited groups of artists and curators together.

Katie Paterson
Every Night About This Time
Various dates and times

For the Whitstable Biennale, Katie Paterson is making a series of thirteen works. She describes the work as a bit like a disparate orchestra; a fragmented composition, a concert of ideas taking place over 16 days that is elusive, fluid and fluttering, creating movement in space. The works include Black Firework for Dark Skies, a single black firework that will be unseen, happening in an unannounced location; All the Dead Stars, a lecture by cosmologist Ofer Lahav on stars that no longer exist; Streetlight Storm, a single streetlight in a back street of Whitstable that flickers in time with lightning storms happening across the world; Dying Star (doorbell), the sound of a dying star (a tiny hum close to a middle C, for a split second) plays every time a visitor opens a newsagents door for a few days.

Katie Paterson graduated from the Slade School of Fine Art in 2007. Over the last two years she has had solo shows at the Matthew Bown Gallery, Albion, and Modern Art Oxford, group shows include Altermodern: Tate Triennial 2009.

Alex Pearl
Ghosts and Call
Horsebridge Arts & Community Centre Mon-Sat (see website for times)
Royal British Legion (see website for times)

Alex Pearl investigates failure and disappointment as important features of the human condition, and has the best self-deprecating humour on the UK art scene. He recently applied to a British Antarctic Survey competition to send an artist to Antarctica with an application outlining the reasons why he didn't actually want to travel to Antarctica. He spent the next year documenting his non-journey, detailing his weekly commuting between Ipswich and Bedford, his short trips to London, and all the ups and downs of his daily life. He also recently made a book, Feedback, of all the insults he's received on You Tube.

His new work for Whitstable arises out of a misunderstanding between Whitby (where Dracula landed) and Whitstable (where Peter Cushing star of Hammer Horror films lived). The artist calls his year of research, all documented on his Pearl Fisher blog, "an aimless ramble through forests of coincidence and disappointment. The narrative of the blog is the only thing loosely connecting the films presented in Whitstable'.

The films are - Ghosts, a set of three ghostly apparitions born of obsessive watching of Hammer horror films and an interest in Victorian theatrical magic, and Call, two films showing a male bingo caller calling plaintively to the ladies of Whitstable's Oxford Bingo Club.

Olivia Plender & Unnar Örn
Table Read
Whitstable Library Mon-Fri 09:00-18:00, Saturday 09:00-17:00,
Sunday 10:00-16:00

The project is a collaboration between artists Olivia Plender (UK) and Unnar Örn (Iceland). Over the summer of 2009 they spent two months exchanging their dreams as a kind of absurd historical record of that period. The stories that resulted from the artists' dream exchange were filmed in workshops in Whitstable in April 2010. The workshops are performances in themselves, fragmentary sketches for a play that may never be written. The film is being edited in May 2010.

Plender is fast becoming one of the UK's most important up and coming artists. Best known for her hand drawn comic book works, and performances which include the artist in period dress leading a group round key sites connected with Britain's Spiritualist movement. Solo shows/projects include Art in General, New York, 2008; Information; Frankfurter Kunstverein 2006 and The Medium and Daybreak Castlefield Gallery, Manchester, 2005. Group exhibitions include the 2009 Tate Triennial. She will exhibit in the 2010 British Art Show.

Kieren Reed
Whitstable Biennale Headquarters
Main Beach, Tuesday-Saturday 10:00-18:00

This year the Biennale HQ (visitor information centre) is both a sculpture and a functioning architectural object, specially built by artist Kieren Reed.

Aesthetically influenced by 1950's post war British architecture and its low cost design, functionality and durability of construction, a small kiosk will become the Whitstable Biennale Headquarters for the duration of the 2010 festival. Placed on the shingle beach, next to the Royal Native Oyster Stores, and referencing seaside architecture and tourist functionality, the HW will house artists' books and information.

Mikhail Karikis
XENON
Umbrella Hall Sun 27 June Times 16:30 and repeated at 19:00
Main Beach Sun 4 July Times 16:00 - 17:00

As a consequence of international economic calamities, a geographically expanding European Union, and continuing oppressive political regimes across the globe, there is an increasing mobility of populations. Moving away from home, people become strangers in their own country or abroad searching for financial stability or safety.

XENON, a collaborative project by artist Mikhail Karikis, orchestrates a series of unexpected encounters on stage and in the streets of Whitstable, between strangers engaged in unlikely acts. Soldiers, an acrobat, a woman reciting the entire Declaration of Human Rights from memory (Monica Ross), three sopranos (Juice Ensemble) and 'Death's Ferryman' stumble into each other evoking questions on belonging, memory, independence, territory and impossibility.

Performing artists include Monica Ross, Juice Ensemble, Conall Gleeson, E.laine, Amy Cunningham and Ben Crawley. XENON is part of a major six-part commission by the East Kent Festival Cluster.

Greek-born, London-based Mikhail Karikis studied music in his native country before moving to London to train in architecture with Archigram and art at The Slade. Coined by critics a 'sound alchemist' (Le Monde), Mikhail's practice is embraced by the concert hall, the art gallery and the world of design. The first international release of his music was by Björk (One Little Indian), followed by his album Orphica (Sub Rosa, 2007) to critical recognition. Orphica fuses glitch electronica with environmental recordings, Greek folk and a neo-baroque aesthetic marked by a distinctive part-avant-garde and part-Middle-Eastern vocal style. Mikhail investigates the voice as a sculptural material and a tool to explore politics of difference, harmony and conflict. Collaborators include members of the Hilliard Ensemble, Cantamus Choir, Juice Ensemble, visual artists Sonia Boyce, Zineb Sedira, fashion house Rozalb de Mura and Prada. His work has been released on compilations including DJ Spooky's Sound Unbound (MIT Press/Sub Rosa, 2008), and shown at Tate Modern, Queen Elizabeth Hall, BFI, Musée des Beaux Arts de Nîmes, the Nederlands Dans Theater and elsewhere.

Uddin & Elsey
Sunday 4 July Time and Venue TBC

Sonia Uddin & Leah Elsey are two of the brightest young artists on the London scene. Fresh back from an international residency in Sydney, they're launching a two year project with the Whitstable Biennale at this year's festival.

The Festival also features an extensive performance and events programme curated by Emma Leach & Gemma Sharpe, and a screening programme curated by Brian Dillon.

There is also a satellite programme of works by over 100 artists in addition to the main programmes.

More information to follow.

ENDS

-- posted abroad

The Fall Before the Miracle

2010-05-24T20:51:00.000+01:00

I know what it is to feel the blood drain from one's face. Today I felt real fear. A quiet moment at work had resulted in a few moments of online dalliance. I had decided to investigate my bolus of Internet links, checking they still functioned appropriately and led to no dead ends. Whilst performing this idle act of distraction I came across, unsurprisingly, the website of the Whitstable Biennale. At first I was very excited as the site had been renewed, reborn in it's 2010 plummage. But then fear overcame me, an irrational primal fear. I feared firstly that I had been excised from the whole event, lanced, expunged. Then upon discovering that was not the case another fear quickly overtook me, fear of inadequacy, fear that my offerings would not stand up to scrutiny. Perhaps I should gave sone more, perhaps I could have done it better. I felt cold, dizzy, sick to my stomach as I abruptly turned off the computer and went in search of consolation. The reader might assume at this point that I am looking for reassurance, fishing for compliments but in point of fact all I am hoping to express is that utter terror of being found wanting. In my current reading "False Testimonies" Paul Becker presents a series of "Miracles" micro-stories in which things are brought back to life. In one tale (of the redemption of a tortured man) he uses a device of narrative reversal which brings the protagonist (and reader) from terror to a state of happiness. We first encounter the man shackled in a cell in agonising pain but soon his saviours enter, take him down and place him on a machine which relocates his shoulders and ankles. Then they remove his bruises and unbreak his limbs with magical batons. Finally he is driven back to his home where his family welcome his return. For a while this morning I too craved this miracle, to be returned to that toiletless café in London's East End. But now I am in my cups and little matters so much as stroking Mr Pig and drinking a companionly cup of tea.

Luncheon

2010-05-22T18:37:00.000+01:00

My companion and I dined at The Museum Street Café a delightful little eaterie serving fine vegetarian fayre to the Guardian reading Buddhists of Ipswich. We have never been disappointed by the welcome or the lavish dishes served up by it proprietors Mark and Nell. We were especially looking forward to a bloodless meal as my companion has, of late, experienced a number of rather hematic dreams. The latest involved a colony of large blood sucking toads which sank their fangs into her décolletage. Perversely we opted for the richly Catholic mushroom and red wine cobbler and chatted to Mark about the reopening of the local cinema. He seemed in very good humour although he had apparently cut himself shaving and was sporting a small plaster on his neck.

My companion recently sent me this painting by Boucher, it has always been a favourite.

Buzzes

2010-05-22T09:21:00.000+01:00

My new lodgings are much the nicest place I have lived for many years. However we do suffer somewhat from the noise of passing buses. There is some sort of acoustical concatenation at work here that serves to magnify the sound to a roar equivalent to a taxiing jumbo. Last night my companion and I watched A young John Lennon's bus riding antics with amazement whilst enjoying a fully immersive surround sound experience provided by the number 47. Many of the films we have watched recently have been punctuated by compananion's question "what did he say" leasing me to think that I must acquire a timetable as soon as possible. Thus armed I will be able to perfectly time the beginning of our viewing and factor in tea breaks at appropriate intervals. I am fiercely determined that this aphotic force will not impinge on our new lives.

Yesterday the flies returned. They seem to love the bedroom and whenever the window has been left open I invariably return to find as many as ten gambolling around the stars. It has been seasonably warm at last, my need for fresh air has outweighed my dislike for these meanest of creatures. This said they are small, reasonably inoffensive and soon slain.

2010-05-20T20:59:00.000+01:00

I Alex Pearl hereby avow and attest that I shall never drive through the towns of Southend or Chelmsford again.

2010-05-20T08:51:00.000+01:00

Today's itinerary involves a trip to Southend via Chelmsford. My companion and I are picking up a table purchased on eBay and then going on to finally view the Tap gallery where we are both to have solo shows in the near future. Before we can do this we must divest my companion's car of it's current load; a Heal's chest of drawers with considerably more wood in it than is healthy for sinew or back.

2010-05-19T18:53:00.000+01:00

I am constantly amazed at both the lack of urgency and lack of remorse displayed by young people today. Yet again we were forced to make the coaches wait for late students who, when they finally shambled up, did not even offer an apology. I firmly believe there is no excuse for such carelessness.
Apart from this, the day went tolerably well and whilst I did not manage to see a single exhibition on my itinerary, I did take in some interesting work at the Jerwood Space and Whitechapel Galleries. However, I can write no more. The driver in an effort to make up time has given his coach wings. Unfortunately we are flying much as one would expect a coach to fly.

-- posted abroad

2010-05-19T09:30:00.000+01:00

Apparently in his introduction to "Einstein's Mistakes, The Human Failings of Genius" the author blames Einstein for Donald Crowhurst's descent into madness. The blackness awaits us all, it needs only the slightest excuse. Our conveyance is swooping drunkenly around the roundabouts and sliproads that mark the beginning of the journey to London. It's driver, a tall man with a long brown beard, bald head and beetling brows, says little but handles the coach with preternatural skill. For the first tome in weeks it is a most perfect warm spring morning the green is shining and I am texting sweet blandishments to my beloved. I am travelling on what is to be the last student trip of the year. It is likely that, upon our arrival the young scholars will soon melt into backstreets and we, the staff, will be left to our own devices.

-- posted abroad

2010-05-18T17:18:00.000+01:00

Where to begin? Last night my companion and I watched a strange film. "The Informant" had somehow passed me by when on general release but we liked the cover on the DVD and had seen good Steven Soderbergh films in the past. The film seemed listless and unbelievable at first, lacking in dramatic tension. We enjoyed Matt Damon's endless internal ramblings (my companion especially failing to spot that they were a little unusual). As the awkward unhomely atmosphere continued however, the plot, the truth and Mr Damon's character began to unravel. Nothing seemed to be true. Lie was piled upon lie. As I have mentioned before I am also reading the purported diaries of Abraham Lincoln (vampire slayer) a happy nonsense of a book although a little research has revealed a mote of truth in the characterisation of confederate troops as unearthly creatures. A contemporary account describes them as follows:

“Then arose that do-or-die expression, that maniacal maelstrom of sound; that penetrating, rasping, shrieking, blood-curdling noise that could be heard for miles and whose volume reached the heavens–such an expression as never yet came from the throats of sane men, but from men whom the seething blast of an imaginary hell would not check while the sound lasted.” -Colonel Keller Anderson of Kentucky's Orphan Brigade.

Paul Becker's thinly veiled "False Testimonies", the persona of the Gimp, my own 'live' rocket launches, the cat called pig, this internal monologue, my 'real' life, where lies the truth? I know not.

The Gimp & Olga

2010-05-17T09:14:00.002+01:00

Herewith an image of Mistress Lock's creations 'The Gimp & Olga'

The Gimp

2010-05-16T16:31:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, made up in my sailor suit and wig, a sort of grey mist overcame me as I assumed the persona of The Gimp. Admittedly this was partly because I had decided not to wear my glasses. This removal of the visual dislocated me, I could not fully connect with the 'real'. People's reactions either did not register or were blurred to a point that they did not affect me. I became undead, a sort of phantom. It was all a little disturbing. As the Gimp I'm not sure all of what I did and I fervently hope I will not be brought to book for my actions. Weirdly I am also simultaneously nagged with fear that I failed to do my job well, that I was unbearably hammy.

Later, after these surreal shennanigans, several of us retired to a nearby field to play with fireworks My final Launch, a day after the Americans sent their final shuttle into space, went off with only partial success. So far either the broadcast has gone out and the rocket has failed or the rocket has launched and the broadcast failed. However this and the ridiculous scale of my rockets both seem to have become the leitmotif of the project. Both of my attempts on this last day flew but failed to broadcast.

My companion has just sent me this photograph of Donald Crowhurst. It arrived without comment. There are no flies left now. Mr Pig sleeps soundly between us.

Fly

2010-05-16T13:55:00.000+01:00

On returning from breakfast, a birthday celebration at The Greyhound, I returned to my rooms to discover only one fly extant. Mistress Lock was also at breakfast. She informed us that she had many interesting photographs of "Gimp" and some video which I look forward to seeing soon. Post prandial exhaustion has put me in my bed again.

Three mice and a periwig

2010-05-16T09:52:00.000+01:00

My dear companion has just recalled a time when The Pig caught a mouse and laid it neatly under her bedside table next to two toy mice. Each (apparently) faced the same direction and was evenly spaced.

I am just about ready to face the events of yesterday, my acting debut as "the Gimp". But there are so many memories I feel the need to allow them to settle before committing them to writing. The photgraph below shows my hairpiece but not the full effect of my transformation.

-- posted abroad

Flies and Spiders

2010-05-16T09:33:00.000+01:00

Mr Pig (my companion's cat) has begun a slow genocide. There are two less flies than a few minutes ago. The survivors seem unperturbed at the lessening in their numbers continuing to gambol while the stealthy executioner looks on.

Pig is a skillful killer of the tiny. At the studio she slays spiders laying their curled corpses out in a neat rows.

Flies

2010-05-16T09:13:00.000+01:00

Eight small flies have taken up residence in my bedroom. They doodle lazy triangles above my bed and then quite suddenly explode into frenzied dogfights which end as quickly as they start. They rest in pairs, two to a star on old Christmas decorations that still hang from the ceiling.

Launch 6

2010-05-14T21:53:00.000+01:00

My companion is returned from Paris much scarred by her experience. She spent most of the day in bed refusing to be stirred. For my part I am even now still suffering with an intense headache which has not abated all day. Tomorrow we will travel to Wysing where I have been asked to play the role of "Gimp" a creation of artist Hayley Lock. Not acustomed to acting I am unsure how it will be received. If I am booed the trip will not be for ought as I also intend to fire a final rocket into the heavens it will carry a small camera broadcasting it's rise and inevitable fall. Today's test went well I was delighted not to have destroyed a £40 camera. Though I was a somewhat concerned when my companion mentioned she thought I had just fired a rocket into a nesting area of the rare little ringed plover. This aside, anyone watching would or should have seen the spiralling descent of Launch 6

Launch 5: a thin trail of smoke

2010-05-13T18:19:00.000+01:00

This afternoon's rather unspectacular broadcast from a field somewhere along the coast may have not seemed very interesting but it marks an important step forward. Today I have proved I can build a rocket powerful enough to carry a small camera some way into the sky. By "build" I mean modify as my new collection of rockets are in fact merely customised fireworks. Once removed of it's explosive payload and despite carrying a camera module and a new jacket the rocket flew tolerably well. The broadcast also went well I think though I yet again forgot my phone and was unable to warn Rob or Rebecca of my impending launch. I can only blame my Forgetfulness on the terrible headache (brought on, I think, by my stiff neck) that has beset me all day.

Tonight at long last my dearly missed companion returns from her trip to Paris I fervently hope she has about her person (as she so often does) some form of remedy, a compress or other medicaments that may ease my suffering.

Black thoughts

2010-05-13T09:46:00.000+01:00

I am still abed. My neck aches and I cannot be fussed with getting dressed. But I must. There are rockets awaiting assembly at my studio for a launch this afternoon and the following two days. I need the mental emetic coffee to exorcise this lethargic mood but I cannot bear it without milk and I am without milk.

Location:Ipswich

Vampires!

2010-05-12T20:42:00.000+01:00

Received Today at 1305

"Hellish morning trying to find dog cemetery horrible man grabbing me by the waist and holding onto me got my knitting needle out and said allez vous en loudly then another man came to the rescue and then persistantly asked me to go with him for a drink i am on the shitty outskirts going to get back to the centre now and never return
lots and lots of love A xxxxx"

My companion sends me messages typed on French keyboards which have no punctuation marks. This lack of grammar makes them more worrying as if blurted out in a hurry while some dark force scratches at the window. As darkness falls I am yet again reading A dear friend has given me a book which claims to be based upon Abraham Lincoln's lost diaries. It wildly suggests that whilst he was a politician he was also hiding a secret life as a vampire hunter. Really this is too much to believe.

However, am I alone when looking at our current politcal leaders in feeling a compulsion to reach for the garlic?

Peril in Paris

2010-05-11T21:38:00.000+01:00

Another message from my companion I now truly fear for her safety! Her hotel is perilously close to the Quartier Pigalle a district of Paris with little to recommend it except that Picasso and Lautrec had studios there. This is in itself perhaps not a recommendation. Since her arrival she has been beset by men and their lascivious intentions. At the hotel she was told by a helpful concierge that no woman in Paris has breasts because all they eat is black coffee and cigarette smoke and she should take such attention as a compliment. Running from rather than following this excellent advice she went to a pawnbrokers near the hotel and bought a wedding band which she wears like a talisman.
Earlier I stumbled upon this engraving from "Varney the Vampire"

Launch. Day 2

2010-05-10T19:47:00.000+01:00

Oh misery piled upon misery. My companion has sent a long distressed message from Paris. She has run away even before she could meet the notable artist for reasons I cannot repeat here. Apparently she may see him tomorrow for a short time. I am sick with worry and short of getting on a horse tonight I have little recourse but to wait and hope for happier tidings. Her cat seems settled in my company which is somewhat of a blessing although I have to admit to leaving a window open and having to make a desperate dive to pull her back in (my lodgings are on the second storey and I fear even for a cat the fall would have been fatal). Even as I write, however, she mewls relentessly into my face and the 'naughty cupboard' awaits her.
Earlier today, at five to be precise, I made my second rocket launch. This time the gantry was placed on the fire escape to the rear of my flat. The broadcast went well although I felt that Mr Smith seemed a bit disappointed at the location's lack of "fieldness". I will make a third launch tomorrow, hopefully the rocket will go upwards instead of down.

Should anyone wish to see tomorrows broadcast they will find the means here

http://www.projeckt.org.uk/fieldbroadcast/download.html

-- posted abroad

Launch. day one

2010-05-09T20:44:00.000+01:00

Last night I dreamt of my companion but as she might have been years ago. It was a time before I knew her, she was living in the sort of bedsit squalor that many of us experienced as students. Several of us were squeezed into her basement room sitting upon a deep litter of paper, books and small dead animals. A large grey (alive) badger was reclining on her bed snuffling at some dark matter. At some stage my glasses became separated from me and were broken, trampled into the ground. Once recovered I discovered that the right hand lens had been cracked. I was aware that they were new and expensive but was not overly perturbed.

I have been looking at the Whitstable Biennale website (delighted with my own page) and was daydreaming that with all the tap dancing and invisible fireworks that perhaps artists must all be mad and that we shall wake to sanity in strait waistcoats.

Dreams and reverie aside, today with my companion's assistance I made my first rocket launch for 'Field Broadcast' http://www.projeckt.org.uk/fieldbroadcast.html
Here follow some rather farcical images of my makeshift field broadcast tent and rocket gantry.

The rockets sputtered and flamed reaching a maximum height of a third of an inch. Unfortunately the broadcast itself did not work quite as well as expected producing only a short image of a stationary rocket.

-- posted abroad

2010-05-07T19:02:00.001+01:00

A delightful young lady, Miss Emma Leach telephoned today. I was hanging upside down modelling for some drawing students at the time so I may have sounded strained. It soon transpired that Miss Leach is working for the Whitstable Biennale and was trying to arrange a tap dancing show at the bingo hall where I made my film. My contact there, Mr Bown has moved on so I fear I was of little use. This evening seated on my new sofa I have been perusing the biennale website which has suddenly sprung to life. Events are listed, much excitement promised. The sofa was constructed in a largely good humoured team effort by my companion and I. Putting together an Ikea sofa is much like discovering the workings of a magic trick, all cardboard, staples and string.
http://www.whitstablebiennale.com

"She has a lovely neck"

2010-05-06T18:51:00.000+01:00

I have just had a discussion with my companion. It seems her invitation to Paris came about because the esteemed artist mentioned in my previous post had seen a photograph exclaiming "you must bring her, she will be perfect". While she is dreaming of Paris I have been booking tickets and rooms for my own journeying. Firstly rooms at the Continental in Whitstable and secondly train tickets for a lecture I have been asked to deliver in Newcastle (under lyme). Thankfully my expenses are to be covered for this journey.

Home and Away

2010-05-06T14:10:00.000+01:00

I am waiting for a sofa. It is to be delivered by pantechnicon between two and six this afternoon. I have started early. My companion is in a state of excitement, a condition which has manifest in lighthearted cleaning of kitchen and bathroom. It may be that the prospect of something to sit on has driven her to these extremes or it may be her recent invitation to Paris. An eminent painter has offered an all expenses paid trip with accomodation at a hotel in Montmartre. He seems gentlemanly in demeanor but I have natural fears that her virtue may be under threat. The trip has been organised to celebrate a retrospective of this gentleman's work at The Pompidou Centre. This morning, as is our habit now, we completed the Guardian quick crossword over coffee at a local café. We were surprised to find that this gentleman and his family provided answers to several of the clues.

2010-05-05T09:22:00.006+01:00

At work, avoiding work, I am staring out of an upper storey window at the small decorative spire of St Henrietta's which lies opposite the college. The sky is cinereal, there is a light drizzle and the coffee is sour. I am glancing boredly at stories of new ash clouds which could threaten the return of my colleagues from New York. But it is unlikely. To my left is a copy of Paul Becker's False Testimony. I have read, or at least scanned (my concentration level allows no more at present), the first two pieces. The second purports to be a witness statement against an immolated witch who shares a name with my companion. Still disquieted by the power of 'Verbal', I find it uncannily affecting and worry about the pain of a death by burning.

Are witches, I wonder, usually dispatched similarly to vampires?

Keyser Söze

2010-05-04T21:39:00.000+01:00

My companion and I are on a train bound for London. We are heading to the book launch of our dear friend Paul Becker. My companion describes him as a "black bear" and has warned me that much of his output is rather pornographic. The launch tonight is for a collection called "False Testimony". In reference to last night's viewing I came across this note in an august online journal:

'In his 1999 review of Fight Club, film critic Roger Ebert commented, "A lot of recent films seem unsatisfied unless they can add final scenes that redefine the reality of everything that has gone before; call it the Keyser Söze syndrome." '

My companion has a similar syndrome in her name. She always spots the final twist within the first few minutes' viewing, tells me and then loses confidence. It is a little like watching a film in reverse.

-- posted abroad

2010-05-04T16:04:00.000+01:00

Darkness surrounds me. I am beset on all sides by demons. Apart from this, work is going well. "Meleager's Garland" opens soon in Lincoln, though I feel due largely to a feeling of lethargic ennui I may not make the opening. Today's business has been the testing of the live broadcast software for http://www.fieldbroadcast.org/
Hopefully next week will see my attempts to launch rockets broadcast live onto desktops around the world. I am sincerely hoping I won't blow my fingers off whilst craving a bit of innocent drama. My test broadcast was much more pedestrian as I chose to film a surveillance camera that swivels menacingly in the street outside my new lodgings. So far settling into the flat is progressing at a languid pace. The purchase of a lurid rug has allowed my companion and I to 'picnic' in the living room. We still do most of our 'living' in the bedroom which is in itself larger than my old appartments at St George's street. Last night, huddled in bed, we watched a film in which a character called Verbal constructed it's entire narrative from the words on papers pinned to the wall behind his interrogator.

-- posted abroad

Lost Souls

2010-04-28T09:11:00.000+01:00

Here follows yet another list of people who were clearly looking for something else when they washed up on my blog. It is perhaps not suprising that my use of the title "Blue Film" should draw attention though I had thought by not using "Movie" I would avoid causing too much disappointment. In fact the phrase, to me, seems rather quaint. A "blue movie" (this will raise heads at computer terminals on the Indian subcontinent) is a rather nostalgic phrase conjuring a more gentle, softly lit age that I'm not sure ever existed. I hope the person looking up Charlton Heston wasn't too shocked.

Douglasville, Georgia, United States
"there's a message in the storm"

Irthlingborough, Northamptonshire, "my new glasses"

Chopra, Uttarakhand, India, "blue film"

Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala, India, "blue film"

Indonesia, "blue film"

Jakarta, Jakarta Raya, Indonesia, "blue film"

Tirupati, Andhra Pradesh, India, "blue film"

Ipswich, "ben gummer"

Jakarta, Jakarta Raya, Indonesia, "blue film"

Paramount, California, United States, "Anna the vampire diaries"

Nasik, Maharashtra, India, "blue film"

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, "blue film"

Johor Bahru, Johor, Malaysia, "blue film"

United States, "caul bearing children"

United Kingdom, "faphorism"

New York, United States, "charlton Heston"

Riga, Latvia, "pearl aphorism"

An empty room

2010-04-27T21:02:00.000+01:00

Talking to Sue Jones on the telephone made me realise just how empty my new living room is. The echo is hard and dead. My companion and I have taken measures to rectify this but the longed for soft furnishings are yet to arrive. A rug awaits collection from a depot somewhere in Claydon and Ikea have not replied since I sent certain information regarding delivery. Surely they are not preturbed by the lack of nearby parking, narrow entrance and two flights of stairs? Sue had exciting news, the Royal British Legion have confirmed their willingness to host 'Call' and it looks like 'Ghosts' which I wish I had called 'Phantoms' is to appropriately appear only at night back projected. She also informed me that Jack Hutchinson from AN had been in touch and wishes to feature my work in the June issue. Only a sofa and a rug could make my life more complete.

How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads, to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams.

2010-04-25T20:23:00.000+01:00

Our first night in The Old Unicorn was mercifully ghost free. As my companion is more than a little nervous of spectral apparitions this was somewhat of a relief. In the end all that disturbed our rest was a rather flat band playing at the pub down the road. Every time someone exited the hostelry there escaped a noise so loud that I was forced by reflex to sit upright in bed. Waiting for the revelry to cease I decided to read my copy of "Arty Magick". I counted Alli Sharma's rabbits until sleep overcame me. Today I scrubbed and hoovered and wiped and buffed. My old lodgings are cleaner now than they were when I moved in. I gave my companion the dirtier jobs: the toilet and oven while I tackled the stubborn black mould on windows that frankly needed stripping and repainting. By the time I had finished scrubbing they were indeed stripped. It is eight now, we have decided to retire.

2010-04-24T21:20:00.001+01:00

Today I have learned that carrying boxes up several flights of stairs is perhaps the most exhausting activity known to man or beast. Unfortunately I had no beast to assist me. My travails were further compounded when my companion experienced an attack of the vapours and fainted. Now I lie abed watching a Spanish Dracula film. Christopher Lee is giving some serious vespertilious action but many of the other actors (with the exception of Klaus Kinski) are frankly not up to the job. Tonight I am reminded that Dracula is chiefly a novel about moving house.

2010-04-23T19:58:00.001+01:00

Communications from Whitstable have revealed exciting new developments. Tonight's film "Dr No" dynamic with it's beautiful (iPod stolen) opening credits reflects my mood perfectly. Admittedly I have had a drink. Sue has sent me a detailed email about the places my films may be shown. It looks as if "Call" is to be screened in the Royal British Legion. I am exceedingly excited. I am still packing for my move to new lodgings, and seem to have more possessions than could possibly fit into my current flat or the small van I have retained for tomorrow. This, my addiction for plastic storage boxes and the seeming impossibility in finding out the actual address of my new apartments are my chief worries at the moment.

Art imitates Life

2010-04-22T20:56:00.000+01:00

Tonight my companion and I have chosen "Carry on up the Khyber" for our evening viewing. It will be a little different in mood from recent presentations. The video trailers have so far included "Dads Army the Movie" and a whole raft of Al Jolson films. This Carry On film is perhaps my favourite from the cartoon titles to dinner party denoument.

-- posted abroad

The Unicorn

2010-04-22T09:58:00.000+01:00

It is nearly time to quit my lodgings, to leave behind Miss Brown and her nocturnal manouvers, the portuguese men (and women) o' war, and the man who sings opera in the street. The sun is gently warming me, the bins are, finally, being collected and good honest workmen are heaving timber into the little theatre opposite. I shall soon be moving into the top floor of an old Georgian pub. "The Unicorn" which now houses a charity shop, hairdressers and offices is a rather grand building quite close to my place of work. It is built on the site of an old monastery, specifically over it's cemetary.

-- posted abroad

Blue Film III

2010-04-18T21:00:00.000+01:00

I have completed my final "Blue Film" with a kite flying trip to Walberswick. As with the second film's abortive flying experiment I instructed my companion to make a second attempt. She informed me she had never successfully flown a kite before and was delighted when it pulled enthusiastically into the sky. The film required no editing and only one take. If all goes well this and the other Whitstable films will all be screened at the Biennale between 19th June - 4th July

Bathroom Reading

2010-04-15T20:14:00.001+01:00

My ongoing researches into blood drinking practices has lead me to the door of a strange group of people called the sanguinarians. These for the most part peaceful folk are (according to message boards on various websites) made up of true vampires and non-vampires who merely enjoy the taste of human blood. I observed one fascinating conversation in which the subject of the value of drinking one's own blood was hotly contested.

In my bathroom Christopher Lee's autobiography is nearing it's end. While I lie in my bath he talks to me of his greatest friends and the stories surrounding them. He speaks lovingly of Peter Cushing of course but also of John Gielgud's barely disguised lust for Charlton Heston; of Boris Karlof who lived next door; of Bela Lugosi who asked to be buried in his cloak and of H.P Lovecraft who never went out during daylight. My companion tells me there was a man in Aldeburgh who also remained permanently indoors during the day and when he died was buried at night.

In my toilet both Mr Frayling and Mr Copper's lay splayed like dead bats. I have finished with them. Only the illustrations interest me now. This one hurriedly recorded reminds me of my companion both in looks and attitude. Though the identity of the vampiric woman and mustachioed man elude me.

-- posted abroad

Lost Souls

2010-04-14T10:07:00.000+01:00

My favourites of the following lost souls is the person in a library in the Bronx looking for a connection between Zizek and vampires and the obscure searcher from Ohio who was looking for "tight crouches"

Portland, Oregon, United States, "my vision of the future"

Bronx, New York, United States, "zizek election slovenia vampire"

Dayton, Washington, United States, "images of marijuana"

Banbury, Oxfordshire, United Kingdom, "my new glasses"

New York, United States, "pearl fishers April 2010"

Paintsville, Kentucky, United States, "marijuana plants"

Peterborough, United Kingdom, "glasses or contacts"

Piqua, Ohio, United States, "tight crouches"

Chambly, Quebec, Canada, "prepare you to die mr bond"

-- posted abroad

Blood and Kites

2010-04-13T20:13:00.000+01:00

I have received interesting information from sources in New York of a blood cocktail. Thankfully it was for animal blood though I am not sure that this detail makes it any more palatable. The recipe from http://jesseacohen.blogspot.com is quoted below:

"It’s called a Squeezer. Essentially it’s animal blood drained into a glass. The safest place to obtain this red stuff is through the butcher. Remember to ask for pig’s blood instead of from a cow. With the oinkers you have less chance contracting mad cow, salmonella, and E. Coli. As a further precaution, eliminate any excess bacteria by cooking the blood on a low heat for 5 minutes. Let cool. Serve with a lemon wedge. Enjoy."

Although I am perfectly capable of eating black pudding, rare steaks and barely warmed poultry livers I find this beverage more than a little nauseating.

The reference to mad cow disease, however, is particularly apposite as, in Ipswich, our Conservative party candidate is none other than Ben Gummer. As a boy he was (I am lead to believe) fed a good deal of high risk meat products by his father John. Still I saw him in the street yesterday ruddy faced and steady on his feet.

Today my companion and I drove to Walberswick to test it's 3G connectivity and to fly a kite. The former was none existent. The latter activity was prematurely concluded when, distracted by a frisby, my companion loosed the kite which promptly headed out to sea. Before it fell tragically into the waves there was a magical moment when the sea grasped the string and through the motion of it's ebb and flow briefly flew the kite with such skill that we were mesmerised. I, of course, failed to capture any of this on camera.

Mortality

2010-04-09T21:01:00.000+01:00

My reaquaintance with television has revealed a sort of vampire saturation point. So far this week I have seen Reruns of "Buffy", "Vampire Diaries", "True Blood", "Blade the series", a Sherlock Holmes called "The Last Vampyre" films including: "Cirque de Freak", "The Lost Boys", "Slayer", "Vampire Journals" it is all too too much. Many of the current vampire tales seem hell bent on integration an interesting development but one which might neuter the myth forever.

Yesterday I received my contract for the biennale containing promises of a healthy remuneration. It may seem remarkably unprofessional but I had been working blind. Too embarrassed to ask if, or how much, I might be paid I had resolved just to blunder forward making things and writing this blog until my time ran out. Now I know the exact figure it has engendered in me the usual feelings of fear and inadequacy.

2010-04-08T20:06:00.000+01:00

Still no news from Bath, all is silent and foreboding. I may be forced to use the phone but I am nervous of what I might discover. Soon I must travel to Wysing with my companion. She is involved in some sort of art market there (as apparently am I). I have promised to make some live broadcasts of a series of rocket launches. I look forward to seeing how they might turn out. There is also much uncertainty in the ether. On Twitter there is a great furore over the Debill a matter which has caused me much confusion. I am given to understand that as a creative person I will be more protected and less protected and more restricted and certainly more confused. In truth I believe I will continue to ignore that which makes me uneasy and pray it might not affect me. A foolish approach perhaps but one that has served me well in the past. Similarly there is a great deal of information about what each of the political parties intend for the arts. Like creepy uncles they feign too much interest. In all my reading I have found that I have no convictions as men of my century understand the word, because I have no ambition. There is no basis in me for a conviction.

More lost souls

2010-04-07T20:50:00.000+01:00

Valencia, Comunidad Valenciana, Spain, "cosmic mysteries monika bobinska"

Oceanside, California, United States, "marijuana"

Gloucester, Gloucestershire, United Kingdom, "pearl fisher intern"

Elk Grove, California, United States, "images of an atom"

Nashville, Tennessee, United States, "armed forces europ"

Parkville, Maryland, United States, "the pearl fishers"

Portland, Oregon, United States, "my vision of the future"

Tesco Carpark

2010-04-07T14:36:00.003+01:00

I have spent several days in limbo. Separated from my companion and my usual routine I have achieved very little. In my new largely sedentary lifestyle, I have however reacquainted myself with satellite TV and its frightening array of televisual fodder. As I write “Murder She Wrote” has just started. Its opening scene shows a blind female sculptor forming something from clay. She looks off screen in that way actors have of signifying sightlessness and says “I see with my hands now”. I have a sense of foreboding. There is still no news from Bath in regard to the return of my work. I have determined to email a few more contacts in the hope that University cutbacks have not struck the arts programming. As far as Whitstable goes, the films are now more or less finished. I have sent copies to Sue and she has set her minions to finding appropriate locations. Yesterday I was finally able to meet with my companion again. We have been pining a little and had hoped to spend some time relaxing together unfortunately before long she mislaid her phone and much of the rest of the day was spent in its search. I finally located it in a half open drawer of an ornate dresser in the studio, but this was after dark and she had already returned to our lodgings in Ipswich. Later I received the following letter.

“Dear Darling

You are clever! Christ, how weird, I am obviously a serious candidate for senility as I have absolutely no recollection whatsoever of even going near the dresser. Thank you very much darling. I am in Rasputin’s now. I came last night but a Bond villain was here in place of the usual friendly woman with the long eyelashes.

He said “NO INTERNET. But you need a drink?” to which I misunderstood and said: “erm no I’m going to Tesco thank you”, “no a PROPER drink” etc ensued for a bit until I ran out and he said: “Don't be scared littel girl” Chilling.

Anyway I went back today and a nice lady with the hair the colour of those Alpine aggressive squirrels is here and she is telling me about her slack beauty regime.

I looked out of the window this morning and saw the pate of the man below and the pink and white hair of his lady. They are the same people. She had one of those extra large fags on the go, the kind that look like albino magic wands.

The Portuguese (the neighbours to our left) were at it last night and he must have learnt a new sound that sounds like a lion cub trying to roar. She laughed at him.

I woke up at about two and stared at the stars which soothed me and tried to hold Dougal but he is so flat now and I didn't want to risk squeezing his kapok out of his duodendal (sic?) sinus.

I re-made the Alcatraz Alex but he was a bit flat too and I knew I only had a few hours to wait for the seagulls to wake up.

Going to get breakfast in a minute maybe at ‘Sunrise’ and then get the train.

I miss you and love you. Thank you very much for finding my phone darling. You are the greatest man I know.

PS saw Jeremy Deller in a film in the Sainsbury Centre and he was vile-sinewy and creepy-I take it all back.

Lots of love Your Companion”

CAGED!

2010-03-31T09:45:00.002+01:00

Disappointingly there have been no news reports of strange weather nor shipwrecks at Whitstable. All seems strangely calm in Ipswich too. In truth strangely is perhaps the wrong word to use in a Town whose newspaper headline this morning reads "IPSWICH BIGAMIST FINALLY CAGED" If only we had a zoo my narrative would be complete. I am squinting at the screen to write this. Not a week ago I was told that I would require new glasses as my right eye is failing. This news was not unexpected as my companion has been deriding my poor eysight for a while. The cost of my new glasses will be enormous although I did manage to beat the over enthusiastic saleswoman down from £400 to nearly half that figure. The only fillip has been that I am now so myopic that I qualify for free eyetests and a 15% NHS discount. I suppose that as I can see nothing it seems only fair that the test should be waived but it does make me feel like a blind television owner.

A message in the storm

2010-03-30T21:22:00.004+01:00

I have received a message, there is a full moon over Whitstable tonight and an unusually high tide. Here the wind blows stronger by the hour forcing the trees to an uncomfortable crouch. Forecasts are such that we may soon expect gusts of such power that a strong man may not keep his feet in the beating rain, and snow! I shall check the newspaper reports in the morning for further information.

As I write my companion has written to me. While I am watching Johnny Cash audition dressed in black she also is watching a film. The excited message reads:

"Just seen Christopher Lee in a thriller!"

As he appeared the signal was lost, I know not the name of the film, his character nor the outcome.

Call

2010-03-30T20:56:00.003+01:00

Call is complete or more accurately I believe it to be so. My companion is about to review the left hand side, I nervously await her verdict. We are separated at the moment by a distance of some miles. She waits for me at my lodgings sending regular messages about madmen in the street and the unusual movements of Miss Brown in the flat above. Happily, below, the smokers seem to have been thrown on to the street and have been replaced by a much more continent individual who treads quietly. In my lodgings we experience everything through sound first, we could look but often choose not to. Call, I have decided, is as much about sound as vision so I have left the sound on the right hand film also. Here in the countryside I am watching television and burning a dvd of all my Whitstable films for Sue Jones, I pray she will like them too.

Lost Souls

2010-03-29T09:31:00.001+01:00

Here follows another list of search engine misses that have washed up at the Pearlfisher

Schillsdorf, Schleswig-holstein, Germany, "Whitstable"

Sanfrancisco, California, "hetairoi definition"

New Orleans, Louisianna, unspecified image search

Rotherham, United Kingdom, "anneka french"

Good Hope, Illinois, United States "bond villain"

Bridgwater, Somerset, United Kingdom "bond villain"

Puteaux, Ile-de-france, "shrinking man"

Cincinnati, Ohio, United States, "Rachel Goodyear interview"

Coventry, United Kingdom, "Whitstable"

Richmond, Virginia, "recurring 3 times in the pearl"

Uk, "count of monty cristo blog"

Uk, "bingo Whitstable Kent"

-- posted abroad