Redundant Alex

No I don't allow guest posts

2012-03-08T08:34:00.000-08:00

I've a number of little shows coming up so I must get organised. This usually involves the writing of lists. I have taken to copying Annabel's approach. A list is made and little boxes are drawn down the left hand side. When a task is completed a cross (or tick) can be placed within the box. If a task remains unticked it is carried on to the next day's list. Occasionally it is decided that an item is no longer as important as it once seemed and so it is rather decisively erased. I prefer a minimum of four roughly horizontal lines for this. Just enough to make clear that the thing is no longer worth doing but just too little to obliterate it completely. Today's list included the making of a number of moss print cards and the cartoon below.

Oh the pain!

2012-02-27T09:34:00.000-08:00

Back from the chiropractor and icing the areas he has been working on I have discovered I can now no longer sit at a computer without extreme discomfort. I have to go back again next week and am seriously considering changing my name and leaving the country to escape another session in the hands of Juergen. As a get out I am going to paste here an extremely hurried answer to two questions about failure I received from an art student in Savannah. The poor sod is no doubt expecting enlightenment, what he got was as much garbled gibberish as I could manage before my back said ENOUGH!

Sorry about the delay in answering your questions, I have become addicted to some sort of saddo online gaming and have little thought for the real world at the moment. I am considering making some sort of performative withdrawal as my next piece.

I’m sure you’ve read Lisa Le Feuvre’s Failure, published by Whitechapel press, it sits in my toilet, half read. I should have been in it but failed to make the cut.

Question one.
What a crazy situation (Savannah Studio of unending success) Automatic Filmmaking not only fails in its workings but was built on a failed concept. I originally wanted all the work to be done by robots and other people. This is the first and central lie. I was always either too shy or too uptight to get other people involved much and never liked what they did when I did manage it. Also many, most of the robots barely work and much time is spent poking them, mending them and even carrying them around in an attempt to fake robotic movement. More than 90% of what is filmed is uninteresting. So in my editing I cheat, hunting out the happy accidents for the final film.

So we have two levels of failure.
Failure to adhere to the conceptual framework (I often do this) I like the idea of transgression.
Failure of the (largely fictional) robots to act in the way they should.

I haven’t answered your question. I have hardly ever managed to make something that has fulfilled its intention and when I have the work has often been a piss poor illustration of an idea. So, perhaps as a get out I have learnt to see what happens and embrace the result, or elements of it. I don’t think I am particularly unusual in this, many artists now talk about uncertainty and breakdown in the process of making. (perhaps they have read the book above) and there is a renewed interest in this over the finished object.

There is also something liberating about this idea, in a sense the artists can escape responsibility for the outcome, or at least pretend they have.

Chris Clarke said this about Automatic Filmmaking:

Is Pearl the artist here then? What the work recalls for me are the makeshift pinhole cameras of the British artist Stephen Pippin, where the actual images, the actual artworks, are secondary to the way they were made. Pippin transformed everyday objects like washing machines into large-format cameras and, while the effects of the mechanism are revealed in the distortions of the photographs, he has effectively turned the machine into a proxy artist. Pearl’s productions suggest an affinity with this way of making, wherein it is not enough to simply designate the object as an artwork, to follow Duchamp in stating that ‘I CHOSE IT’, but rather one can even contract out the practice itself. As in those dystopian nightmares of the Matrix or the fears of nanotechnology, the artist has simply provided the nudge that could one day render his own role irrelevant.
Chris Clarke Artists’ Clinic, Cornerhouse, 2010

Question 2
Many of my blogs have become about the fear of falling/failing both in the world of art and real life. In the blogs things are: worried about, work is lost, never made through lethargy, broken by acts of nature (usually the cat or Annabel’s hips) or made and discarded. I am still not sure what the blogs are. Even when I publish them in book form or stick excerpts on the wall of an exhibition. On one hand they could be art, a sort of documentation, a way of sidestepping or answering your question of “what do we do if things are destroyed” or they could be something else, just a blog. As I say I am still unsure, but would probably like to say they are the art. When I did the recent Whitstable Biennale I showed three films and wrote a blog of novel length. In the end I wish I’d said the blog is the work and not bothered to show the films, though in the end, two films were almost impossible to find and only on for two days and the other came on late at night and, when the projector failed, was never seen again. Perfect.

Damn I think I might be a charlatan, professing to love failure but always trying to pull something out of my hat. Do you know the magician Tommy Cooper? I tripped him up when I was little.

On the other hand

It would be difficult to be successful as an artist if nothing was delivered (or would it?)

I am now visiting a Chiropractor

2012-02-22T03:15:00.000-08:00

End over End

2012-02-03T03:48:00.000-08:00

It seems that Transition is having a visit from the Saatchi Gallery today. Hayley Lock has been feted since her show there and is only just back from the pub with various Saatchi execs. I am sure the real reason they are going, however, is to look at my door (see two posts below) and I expect a call any day to redecorate Nigella's boudoir and ensuite.

My bathtime reading at the moment includes a rare foray into theory. I am slowly working my way through an interesting book on the idea of the apocalypse in: film, literature and politics. Because it is theory I only manage to read a page or so at each ablution, not due to poor hygiene but poor memory. As at each return I have forgotten what has gone before, reading it is like experiencing a series of mini apocalypses myself. Sometimes I am surrounded by zombies or imagining what it is like being deaf and dumb, or reading Reagan's Bitburg address. But each time I know not where I have been nor where I am going. I think being Saatchiid must be a bit like this.

This said, it is very cold in our house. I am at a stage where I am considering taping up the windows and stuffing Annabel's tights around the door frames. And so I shall now repair to the warm café to watch the lovers canoodle.

Return of the Supernumerary

2012-02-01T08:57:00.000-08:00

While the weather is seasonably cold I have set up my office in the newly opened coffee bar on what is, quite frankly, the seedy end of Ipswich. Actually to be even more honest Ipswich is unique among many towns in that both ends are seedy (and the midle not much better). Despite this the coffee emporium has imediately chichified itself and become the hangout of a collection of disgustingly privileged chiropractors, thrusting business types, well heeled Woodbridge hippy folk (on a shopping trip) and, I believe, the place for clandestine meetings between otherwise engaged couples. As I write an older man is passionately embracing a young woman while they mumble sweet something's in each others mouths. They had obviously hoped to have had the upstairs backroom to themselves but I have placed myself facing them and am consuminng my chocolate crunch with glee. Anyway, now that I have a warm office, with free wifi, I intend to use it more often in order to compose posts for my blog. It has been a while, causing some followers to wonder upon the state of my health and career. I can assure everyone all is in order and rested I am set to burst wetly onto the world again.

Bachelard's Banquet

2012-01-10T08:22:00.000-08:00

I was rudely awoken this morning by two women who wanted me to accept god into my life. Upon seeing my dishevelled and frankly déshabille condition they thought better of it and scuttled off, I went back to bed. There are twenty litres of distilled vinegar at the bottom of our stairs, the jars clank an alarm each time I walk past. The reason for this surfeit is that we decided to do a Tesco delivery yesterday, booking a midnight delivery spot which saved us £1 and introduced us to the late night delivery man. Now the cupboards look as if they have been stocked by a mad survivalist with a penchant for lentils and cat litter. I cannot get into the downstairs toilet for toilet roll. Incidentally this is by far the warmest room in the house and now, with the additional insulation, it reminds me of that Beuys installation with the piano. If winter comes this year Annabel and I will be able to ride it out in its womb-like protection. My cold has almost disappeared so I shall be resuming my fitness training tomorrow and expecting to spend the rest of the week in bed. I am also starting to think about doing some more work, not the sort that would cheer my mother up, but rather the sort that earns no money. I have been eyeing the front basement up for some time now and have finally worked myself up to making a film in its musty darkness, I start tomorrow.

The vinegar is for Annabel.

Hero

2012-01-09T07:24:00.000-08:00

Despite being ill I was glad to assist Hayley in the hanging of her next show at Transition and, like the titular tragic figure, the following day I found myself quite dead. It was a gruelling day of scene painting, set dressing and prop shifting which only ended at about nine when the last picture was hastily nailed to the wall. Personally I was responsible for: painting a trompish l'oeuil door and fireplace, screwing candelabra to the walls and hanging a sumptuous orange velvet curtain, while Mistress Lock went oval crazy and started to obsess about shades of teal. As one may already know, Mistress Lock is not one for understatement. Her shows and work are an intricate tangle of references imagery and fancy that can quickly vajazzle the unwary. Thus surrounded by gimcracks bibelots and kickshaws we subsisted on rubbery Turkish-Dutch cheese, nuclear coffee, olives and a bewildering array of radio 4 plays on the subject of I know not what.

All the time other demands were being made upon me. Our Machiavellian leader Bridge had brought us to war with another alliance. Just like real war there was much shouting and running around. Before long I had lost more troops to friendly fire than anything else. Today it is quieter (and my cold has eased) apart from the incessantly rabid Ste (a good man in a tight spot). I have discovered he is a paramedic, a fact that explains his bloodthirsty nature. Little Dud still hasn't said anything. The virtual world is strange, I had hoped that, in its unreality, I could act out of character, perform a few heinous crimes, but instead I have been appointed to the role of diplomat. I help people out, send them goods and troops, and smooth over troubles with other players. I am currently negotiating a merger with one group, placating a rather aggressive alliance to the south and recruiting new members from the hinterlands. It seems to work like that for everyone. Only yesterday we were formulating some rules of engagement for our members (vital for avoiding diplomatic faux pas) when up popped Macadamia a solicitor from West Bromwich, strangely he is not charging us anything.

Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;

My name is Alex Pearl, I am a recovering Artist, I have not made any work for 5 days.

Art Schmart

2012-01-05T03:42:00.000-08:00

I am ill and it is in the midst of my decrepitude that I have been forced back to blogging. I had deliberately not made a new years resolution but had decided that perhaps it was time to get fit again. So yesterday I found myself twenty miles from home battling into a growing headwind trying desperately to swallow my heart back down into its correct location. Today I have a cold. But it is not this that has kept me away from blogging. I have new friends. They have names like Little Dud, The Bridge, Paccmann Lord of Yellow and Ste. Lil' Dud says very little and I suspect is about 14, Ste is a homicidal maniac and The Bridge a Machiavellian genius set on ruling the world. In an attempt to appear benevolent and to dispel fears of grooming I decided to go for the nom de plume Father Christmas, some of 'the guys' call me Santa. We are playing an ipod game Lords & Knights in which we have to build up our castles, make friends and ruthlessly attack the young idiots who haven't recruited sufficient spearmen. The game has taken the place of art, blogging, housework and talking to real people, the game is my life.

Worlds End

2011-12-21T11:00:00.000-08:00

I am just returned from the final hour of my residency at The Art School Gallery Ipswich. It was a hectic affair with many people crammed into what turned out to be a dangerously small space. I spent most of my time nervously watching my glass constructions and trying to keep my elbow out of the bosom of one of Ipswich's Art glitterati. Truthfully there were five of us, including one volunteer, who looked a little bemused. The bottle of wine and box of Celebrations I had bought minutes earlier were more than enough to keep the event on track. Actually the turnout was about double what I was expecting despite a twitter callout and personal emailed invitations to many of the so called 'arty folk' of Ipswich. Truth is, there aren't many out there and those that like to call themselves artists tend to prefer to stay home watching the telly, who can blame them?

Here is one of the films I made on the residency, it is called Dreadnought.

I did discover an interesting snippet over the Celebrations. Namely, and directly following from my time at the gallery, that all floor based work is now forbidden in the Cloakroom Space. The next artist is only to work on the walls in approved media. Actually this may have been a hard won concession as rumour suggested the whole programme was to be shelved pending a top level health and safety audit. I am truly proud.

The Little People

2011-12-15T03:01:00.000-08:00

I daren't go back to the cloakroom today. Yesterday, ignoring all experience, I decided to balance my planted fishbowls atop the crystal towers. It wasn't part of any premeditated plan, it just seemed a good idea at the time.

My residency ends next Wednesday and the baton will be passed to Amy Sage, a third year student at UCS. There will be a little gathering in the cloakroom to celebrate the handover so I am hoping that the globes will remain balanced until then (and during then). However, as I was packing up some of my extraneous matter, I noticed ripples on the surface of one of the more watery pieces. Regular and increasing until, quite suddenly, 40 tiny creatures burst into the gallery screaming, chattering and moving with alarming speed and clumsiness. A school party had arrived. Apparently there will be four more over the next few days, this is why I daren't go back.

Invitation

2011-12-14T06:34:00.000-08:00

Hopes and Achievements

2011-12-13T08:45:00.000-08:00

After seeing the John Martin show I have a yearning to build my own cabinet of achievements. It will house records and mementos of my greatest moments. I haven't yet decided what it should look like though my peripatetic lifestyle demands that it should be portable or perhaps on casters.

I am in Chichester having spent the night at the Suffolk House Hotel. Annabel and I were the only guests attended to by the hotel's other resident, an anorak wearing young man. It is a large hotel in a grand Georgian house, but the anoraked young man appears in all rolls, receptionist, waiter, barman, cook, room cleaner, night porter, head gardener, taxi driver, it is quite unnerving. This is also true of the decor, it as if aliens landed and created a hotel without being sure what exactly anything was for.

Annabel is having an interview at West Dean College, where the posh people go. After a few years in an FE college it seems like a little bit of heaven, though she may feel like a broken NHS doctor heading to the private sector. I sent her this picture (found in Facebook) but it did not put her in the right pre-interview frame of mind.

So I am in Chichester looking for things to do. The gallery is closed and the streets are full of shoppers.

The above didn't get posted yesterday because I have signed up to a new double protected super encrypted google password crime prevention scheme. This means I cannot access any of my google accounts ever again or use blogger unless I am in a locked room having undergone retina scanning and DNA sampling. At least I have peace of mind. Here I am, still smarting from the google probe. It is late afternoon and the house smells of breakfast's burnt toast. I always buy the cheapest toaster, part of a shopping principle I developed years ago. The latest has an interesting quirk that I believe I could patent, if I understood how it worked. It, of course, burns toast (or fails to do anything but warm bread) this goes without saying. But in addition, through some unfathomable arcane process, it can take a crumpet turn it inside out, pull its guts onto the element and then fail to do more than barely warm the rubbery remains. Meanwhile the innards are set to producing such an acrid black smoke that it taints not only the crumpet remains but also my tea, Annabel's porridge and Mr Pig's deluxe salmon paté. Behind the toaster, on the windowsill, things are growing. Here a caravan has beached on a celeriac island.

of Queens Gardens

2011-12-10T11:01:00.000-08:00

Chez Pearl & Dover we have been indulging a range of craft based activities. Annabel has a new book of Victorian Crafts which she has enthusiastically marked with pink post it notes. Each note designates a craft activity she would like to have a go at. In fact the book now looks like the dress of a southern belle. Today, while I planted a terrarium she had a go at "The Water Bouquet" a form of flower arranging that involves placing the flowers in a water filled dome. This is a process fraught with danger as the whole terrifying event has to take place in the bath and involves the sudden upending of a large, and rather fragile glass dome. I had to stay downstairs and prod some moss. As time goes by bubbles will bejewel all the leaves and petals.

My more prosaic efforts have involved planting a single nasturtium seed in a doll's house fish bowl and this.

Hello Mr John Smith - I was the one next to the Schizoid Redhead

2011-12-06T11:05:00.000-08:00

At 5.45pm at HMV Curzon in Wimbledon not even a small crowd had gathered to see a selection of works by CCW students and John Smith, so we got a drink. Not very good with acronyms Annabel and I had only recently worked out that she was a CCW student. Jordan Basemen had announced he was selecting work for showing so in a rush of excitement we had sent him Annabel's Wonders of the World (version 3 or 4) and he clearly thought it was magnificent. As we usually do we arrived half an hour early for the screening and after browsing suspiciously around HMV soon found ourselves alone in the bar waiting for the Londonites to turn up. I personally was amazed at how laissé faire everyone was about the time. I had had time to buy a ticket, spill my drink on it (and my trousers), mostly dry it out and still no one had arrived. Finally just after six (the appointed starting time) people started to turn up but even then showed no sign of wanting to get on with it. I cracked, clutching my damp ticket in one hand, and Annabel in the other, we headed for the cinema. Eventually juggling glasses of wine, half full bottles and information sheets (we had no information sheet!) the black clad metropolitans joined us.

There were speeches. Then we were told off by Jordan. At least it felt as if he were berating us personally when he said that next time we should bring our friends along. I nearly answered that we have no friends but held myself in check. Maybe Jordan was not targeting Annabel & I in person, maybe, like Clinton, he has a way of making everyone think he is talking directly to them. The room darkened, the students' films came first; six in all (I think) from BA to Phd, some less interesting than others. Some we very funny, strangely though, even when presented with a frankfurter being pushed squeakily in and out of a hole, nobody laughed. Nobody except Annabel and myself of course. In fact we were laughing so much that when the next film (of an unmoving tented figure sitting in a landscape) came up we continued laughing. Next came John Smith's films, I am going to name them because he has a google alert set up so that if any are mentioned on line he is instantly informed. This is a great idea, I fancy doing the same.
Girl Chewing Gum
The Black Tower
Worst Case Scenario
An Unusual Red Cardigan
I like his work and have seen some before. There were a couple of new things I noticed.
1. Worst Case Scenario seems to be named after a shop that is often in shot called Würst Kaas (sausage, cheese?).
2. He, in terms of direction, seems to have a sort of god complex.
3. Unusual for a film maker?, he loves the still image.
After the films came the questions Jordan asked some good ones and then opened it to the audience.

panicked silence...

then, next to me, a voice. "My family has a history of insanity..."

Annabel had saved the day.

We didn't get home until midnight, it was cold in the house and Mr Pig, who has again cheated death, was hungry. We were so tired we slept til' 12

One of my cress circles died in the night (lack of water), I blame synthetic fabrics, the cashmere one is doing brilliantly and Mr Pig, despite serious provocation has not peed on it yet either.

I'm only joking

2011-12-04T04:17:00.000-08:00

There are two people doing the twitter rounds at the moment that I don't think we should take too seriously. Jeremy Clarkson and Charles Saatchi. Clarkson hiding behind a single bluff approach of "I'm only joking" has in one week suggested the shooting of public sector workers and that train suicides are selfish. Brian Dillon sagely noted on Facebook that the dangerous thing about Clarkson is that he is saying what the majority think. Clarkson maintains he didn't mean it, that it is part of a role he plays in the media. Perhaps it is, but it was scary looking through the #JeremyClarkson comments on twitter and seeing the number of people saying "yes but he is right". Then Saatchi declares that the artworld is crass and "masturbatory", A bizarre statement from a man who is, at least partly, responsible for making it so, and more than a little obvious??. On Twitter everyone is saying "yes he is right, but why is he saying it?" Is Saatchi playing the Clarkson game for the furtherance of his own position and career? Both, things said by Saatchi and things said by Clarkson are things not to be taken seriously, which is of course a very serious way to take things.

enough claptrap

I have entered myself for a residency, my submission has been accepted in an email which also listed the others who had applied. I have looked them up, I KNOW WHO YOU ARE, I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. I don't really want to have these people assassinated, or frightened into withdrawing their application. Actually what I thought as I went through their websites is, "oh she would do a better job than me", "oh he's bound to get it". I think my next piece of work may involve me writing to them all and telling them this.

I do know of one far more successful artist than I, who on failing to get a commission emailed everyone, including the winners, telling them that the wrong choice had been made and that he would have done a far better job. He wasn't joking.

Here is my cress piece for my upcoming show in Lincoln, It opens on the 8th December by which time it should be in prime condition. It smells a bit damp. Below is another growing work in progress, I am very uncertain as to its artistic value, I think Mr Saatchi might categorise me as one of those artists he defines as "weak". I like this, I also like "slight", "directionless" and "inconsistent".

Dreaming Spires

2011-12-01T07:03:00.000-08:00

Another visit to the Cloakroom today. The cress had rotted, to a sort of brown primeval soup and was beginning to smell. Annabel (on constant watch on my mental state) and I spent a little time scraping out the gunge and washing the glassware. Then, in another attempt to wrest some success from the sucker covered tentacles of hopelessness, I built a small crystal tower. It reminded Annabel of Cornell's girl Berenice who made experiments in a crystal tower. It reminded me of Calvino's city of glass, a poor imitation of grand proto-crystals that should have ruled the earth.
I am trying to come up with ideas for a phd application it must deal with some sort of investigation of art and technology, an area which seems to have a sickening optimism about it. Like some comic book villain, however, I find my pleasures in moments of degradation and collapse and I am not sure how this might be received, or even phrased as a research question. But the 3 year phd does come fully funded with a yearly wage which, as the world crumbles into economic dust, seems a good bet for survival. In 'Greybeard' Aldiss uses a bit of prescient satire in his description of the colleges of post apocalyptic Oxford. They have only survived through their embracing of a sort of economic ruthlessness where everything is seen in terms of cost and investment. I must harness their ideals and continue.

After writing the above in an international coffee chain, the only things that seem to be expanding in this recession, I returned to the Cloakroom with some more glass garnered from the nearest charity shop. While I was sitting cross legged, stacking these blunt cast offs, a security came piling into the room. She looked ready to wrestle me to the ground until I shouted: "its ok I have a crime number".

Alex Pearl - student?

Don't go in, Jim! This won't do any good! It's the most horrible thing I've ever seen in my life. Come on, we've got to clear this area!

2011-11-29T04:38:00.000-08:00

Working up the courage to go to my residency this morning I discovered a long wiry hair growing out of the top of my ear. This has happened before and I have been wise to the little blighters. However it had been a long time since my last haircut and it had been in hiding. Not fond of such frightful signs of my body's unruly nature I tweezered it out, instantly feeling guilty for my vanity. I have begun a staged planting of cress in variuous items of clothing in the hope that some will reach perfection in time for the show in Lincoln. Next I will have to design some sort of safe transport packaging so that it might remain uncrushed. On the windowsill something else is beyond my control. I had hoped to grow beautiful crystals on a toy car really as a sort of experimental plagiarism of Hiorns copper sulphate works. Unfortunately I lost the instructions and think I may have made a mistake as the car hangs suspended in what can only be described as toxic sludge.

But this will have to be dealt with at a later date, I must go.

Slap Stick

2011-11-28T03:58:00.001-08:00

I had been feeling a little down about my residency in the Cloakroom. I wasn't sure why but I was feeling less and less like going there. My avoidance tactics where beginning to seem thinner and thinner. Waiting in for the post, cleaning the bathroom, getting to the next level on Angry Birds. I couldn't quite put my finger on my unwillingness until Annabel suggested making a list of all the things I had done.

Planted cress in the carpet - Health and Safety was alerted and a man was sent from the council offices in Endeavour House. He declared the cress unsafe and/or unhealthy and scheduled it for removal.

Sat alone in the cloakroom watching Chinwe being fawned over by her acolytes.

Set up some cress growing in cars and caravans in the space. - Found I couldn't get into the gallery because Chinwe was setting up her show, The door was locked, I could see activity through a crack but no one answered my knocking.

Returned to find all the cress had dried and gone brittle, so I tidied up and decided to make a film of cress growing.

It was the day of Chinwe's opening, I wanted to get in to tidy up my space and project a video. - Again
the door was shut while they photographed Chinwe's show. - My room was dead and abandoned. I didn't go to the private view.

Upstairs there was an exchange room. People could leave things on shelves where they were photographed, recorded and then exchanged for other objects by later visitors. Hayley Lock dropped off a beautiful collage and Annabel had left some porcelain sculptures. Annabel wanted to swap something with it Hayley's collage, but I kept forgetting. When we eventually made it into the room, a school party had already been in. My girlfriend's porcelain doll limbs had gone as had Hayley's beautiful collage. In their place were: a rotten banana, a tissue, a bus ticket, a museum guide leaflet, a bruised apple, a paper clip and an Iraqi banknote. I took the note and my girlfriend left two cyanotypes she had made of plants from Darwin's garden. I was left with a deeper understanding of entropy.

I had made a plastic sculpture using a magnetic building toy, it was growing out of the radiator, I had also made some fake lift controls out of cardboard and part of the Harrods magic box Annabel gave me for Christmas. They looked like a bad sci-fi control panel. I put them on the wall. - The plastic sculpture has been dismantled and piled in the centre of the room. The controls had been taken off the wall and left in a pile of cardboard rubble.

I put them all in a bin bag and took them away.

I tried growing cress in cut glass containers using a water retaining gel compound. - The heating was turned up and all the cress seed failed to germinate.

Tried again. - Got depressed and didn't return to water it.

Decided to put this list up in the space.

What's the Point they'll all be dead.

2011-11-22T09:09:00.000-08:00

I have failed to get to the gallery today. I had intended to be really organised having written a long list of to dos. Of that list I have achieved: paying a cheque in to the bank, writing two invoices, writing an email to my solicitor, burning 3 DVDs for a film festival in Holland but no more. At home, the cress circle planted in Annabel's jumper is doing very well, at the gallery I am sure it will all be dead.

I wish I hadn't planted the cress in the heart, it looks like I might be trying to create some horrific symbolism, but maybe that doesn't matter.

The DVDs I have burnt, or more accurately, am burning, are for a festival in Holland. I entered it months ago and then completely forgot to send them the film. So yesterday I received a kind email from the organisers reminding me to get on with it. I like entering these sorts of events, they are run as open art events should be. They are generally free and generally good natured affairs. I suppose video still has an advantage over the plastic arts (its lighter for a start) but I wish more open calls were run on this basis. Jasper Joffe recently questioned the John Moores painting prize on Twitter. He was wondering what the £25 entrance fee was for. John Moores replied that it covered the prize and the delivery of the work. So in effect it is really a sort of art lottery (Annabel tells me they run the pools, so this is not surprising). Also as Joffe (and Annabel) have pointed out, the lottery is rigged, high profile artists nearly always win so in effect the aspiring pay for established to be blessed with more recognition and a bit of cash. I'm also starting to wonder (I know I'm a bit late, but things come slowly to me) about the Turner Prize. Who goes to see it? I wonder if it is mostly artists, arts professionals, aspiring artists and art students. Where does the entrance money go? please don't tell me it goes towards funding the next Turner prize. And so on to fair Ipswich, where the new University has announced an open call for artists wanting a solo show at their waterfront gallery and £300. There is an entrance fee of £15, no doubt it will cover administration fees and the prize (which, lets face it, the artist will spend setting up the exhibition). It will be interesting to see who gets the show (and who applies). I've just remembered something else Sue Jones said at the "Too Many Artists" discussion. She noted that because of a strong Victorian influence upon the way british society views art that contemporary artists and galleries are unwilling to charge entry to exhibitions (and the public are unwilling to pay). They will pay to see Leonardo of course and the Turner prize, but this is a different thing altogether. I think for contemporary artists there is a real fear that if they were to charge, no one would go. And another thing, what the hell is going on for the Olympics? We have some seriously shit posters by the greats of british art, we have a red helter-skelter bunged up by Kapoor (I should be glad it is not another Gormley) and now Hirst is having a bloody retrospective at the Tate and selling accessible artwork to the hoipoloi. £500 for a mobile phone video of that skull thing, not that accessible is it? At least the Hirst show will be free, It will be free won't it?

Alex Pearl - redundant and whining (and never knowingly offering a solution)

Retreat From Peckham

2011-11-20T11:39:00.000-08:00

"hello, police? I don't know if you can help me, someone hasn't stolen my bike"

"Can you tell me exactly what has occurred sir?"

"They've put another lock on my bike"

"They've put another lock on your bike?"

"They've put another lock on my bike."
...
...
"Hello?"
"Sorry to keep you waiting sir I have been consulting with my colleague"

"I suggest you take the bike home sir."

"I can't it is chained to a bike-stand"

"just a moment sir"

( return to top and repeat)

Some person or persons (I always imagine thieves in packs having seen a government information film in the nineties) had added a large padlock to my shackle which in turn secured my 1960s RSW 16. No doubt they intended to return in the wee hours with bolt croppers. Either that or it was an hilarious practical joke. This seems to be a difficult thing to explain on the phone and the officer I spoke to couldn't get it into her head that I was unable to take my bike home and deal with it in the morning. In the end neither police nor station security could help me beyond proffering a talismanic crime number to prove I was the one offended against.

So I marched determinedly home to fetch a hacksaw and marched determinedly back to the station equipped to free my bike. I only paid £10 for this bike and having sold bits off it for more than £30 felt I must not let Ipswich's criminal element profit from my enterprising nature (although, I have to admit the young man I bought it off looked more than a little dodgy himself).

Hacksaws are incredibly noisy, and even noisier after midnight. However, if the police arrived, I had been instructed to shout "I have a crime number" before they pepper sprayed me. I was told this powerful juju would protect me. If only Steve Wright (Ipswich's own serial killer) had known this, he could have shouted "It's ok, I have a crime number" as he stuffed another body into the boot of his car. Actually people didn't seem to mind seeing a man hack-sawing at a lock on a bike. I must have appeared such an ineffectual thief that they somehow trusted me. I was forced to tell my tale of woe more than once, but it was more out of friendly interest on the part of my interrogators than legal concern.

It was nearly 2am when I finally cut through the padlock and was able to cycle home. This was no ride of triumph, I was too tired to celebrate. Earlier, on the long march, I had had a message from John Hutnyk, he had commented on my worried post about antisemitism. Writing this has reminded me I must write back.

I think the talk at The Peckham Space went well enough although several times I forgot whether it was I or Annabel speaking. Everyone was very welcoming quickly organising my images' appearance on large screens in the gallery via a process akin to the Golden Shot. In the office one person had to move the mouse under instruction from another in an adjacent room "Up a bit, left, left, up, right, left, click". This seemed to be perfectly normal procedure so, being in a foreign land, I ignored it. This done I was given a small remote control unit and threatened (quite severely) lest I accidentally take it home. All this so that I could display photos of cats, bats, dirty feet (a Tarantino favourite) and sideburns.

In no time at all, The final picture of Mr Pig was up and the questions began. The audience was made up of an interesting mixture of artists and bored looking students who perhaps already knew that blogging was not for the successful. With the help of a little bunch of allies (thanks Annabel, Rosalind & Kate) Aliceson Andrew and I survived although I became more and more aware, as time went on, that (as with most images of the pig) she was posing on my groin. As we went on, in my mind, my groin grew larger and larger until it filled the screen, but I don't think anyone else saw it.

Later in the pub, although before my late night sawing, we had drinks. I made things up about genetics and made Rosalind cross for fun. Then as I slipped into my usual two pint stupor I thought I heard talk of Core gallery politics, factions and schisms, and the need for chaperones. Next Andrew spoke of darts, Lacan, Freud, Jung, Keira Knightley and being unlucky in love. I can't help thinking that not talking about Lacan, Freud and Jung (or darts) might make one luckier, though to be fair I am not living in London and until now would not consider myself particularly lucky in that realm either. The men outside the pub had obviously been discussing similar things. As we left one called out:

"Are you French?"

It wasn't a threat, at least not to me. Rather a sort of mating call designed to make women giggle and go weak. It didn't work.

This post has been delayed due to my forgetting to collect my pills. Withdrawal symptoms include violent kicking and running in the night, light headedness, laxity of bowel and nausea. It won't happen again.

Alex Pearl - signed off sick

Spring Time for Hitler and Germany

2011-11-17T02:53:00.000-08:00

It is grey, so grey. It is the morning of the Artists Talking talk, I have a sore throat. It may be an artist croaking. Also as part a long tradition of public appearance mishaps I have developed a huge cankerous scab above my eyebrow. It is a cage fighting wound and while the Over Forties Academics Cage Fighting Association of Ipswich (OFACFAI) is not exactly in the premiere league, injuries do happen. My OFACFAI name is The Shrew, I am bitter to the core, and when I remove my glasses and squint across the ring I am sure if I could see that I would see fear in my opponent's eyes (though due to thumb weakness my gouge is not what it used to be). But this morning I am bruised more emotionally than physically.

Yesterday I performed a little art sociallising in Ipswich. Not always the easiest thing to do but yesterday Eastern Pavilions had come to town. First there was a talk by painters in a show O Painters! My Painters! curated by Kaavous Clayton.

It was evident that Romanticism was alive and well in the world of painting with much talk of struggle and machismo a gogo. I am biased but I was pleased when Annabel challenged a few of these ideas. Later we went to an opening of another Pavilions event in the new studios being set up in the old 'O' block of Suffolk New College (now UCS). I used to teach there and remember fondly being spat upon by the catering students on the balcony above. There was some interesting work tucked discretely around the edges and a table tennis table in the centre where I worked on rehabilitation my own machismo with a fellow redundant Andrew Vass (he won with superior spin). There later still I heard second hand that a member of staff at Firstsite had be offended by my presentation of Operation Pusscat. It was, he felt, anti-semitic. I am assuming that the areas he felt most uneasy with were, the gassing of a section of the population and my Pearl Art Prize logo (pictured below).

I am not going to say much about this as I have no claims that my choice of imagery was particularly deep or clever, I also felt that the whole project was sufficiently self-undermining to make the point that it was not made to slaughter a down trodden group but instead to highlight a number of issues relating to funding and success in the UK art scene. I am also not going to claim some sort of immunity due to Jewish ancestry. I remember a revelation when I was about 12. I was listening to an interview with David Byrne and he was explaining how he had assumed "a voice" (my quotes) to write Psycho Killer. These weren't his own feelings, it wasn't him speaking. "Wow", I thought, "that's clever", the idea that he was able to voice a point of view other than his own was amazing to me (I was about 12).

The other issue is whether it can ever be right to evoke horrible events in our history in art or humour (sly Adorno quote noted). Should such events only be treated in one way (seriousness and dread) should there be an omerta?

I saw, last night while in a depression that Himmler's postcards to his mother had gone on sale. I wonder what he wrote while killing 6 million people.

To Blog or Not to Blog

2011-11-16T02:59:00.000-08:00

This is a cress crop circle growing in one of Annabel's jumpers, it is doing very well.

Until yesterday evening I was completely stumped as to what I should say at the forthcoming Artists Talking event at Peckham Space tomorrow. I have to make a 15 minute intro before fielding questions (I assume) about blogging. In my indecision I decided to go with the Bard and get Annabel to do it. So last night she wrote about my blogs for me and this morning she skipped off to work singing with flowers in her hair. I may have unleashed a beast, she has said things I may have glossed over, but we shall see. I am a little suspicious that, if I am being called upon to talk about something, it is probably already over. Doesn't everyone blog now? or tweet, or put embarrassing photographs up on Facebook? Clicking five times on the "next blog" at the top of the screen got me a Phd writing health food nut, a cat loving New Yorker, a chatty christian house wife, Cookie recipes and a home for children with Aids in Mexico. With such a lack of irony in the blogging world (sample of 5) no wonder some artists are wary. My blogger sample (I clicked on another 10 times) was also relentlessly Christian (and American), I had to stop when I came to the title "God is Doing a New Thing" it sounded like a report on a traumatised chimpanzee. On the other hand I like being reminded that writing a blog is really not cool. Is "cool" cool? Annabel has laughed many times at my continued utilisation of the cutting edge word "trendy" and I refuse to type "whoop" as I suspect that it is already out of date.

Is Wordpress is cooler?

This is all prevarication, I must get on, the kitchen bin needs emptying, I have a job application to write, parcels to collect and a form to deliver to the bank.

ps
As I type I am monitoring Twitter, the Art world's two Susan Jones are about to meet. Could this be our first real chance to see the god particle? or will the world just end?

I have been Googled by Greater Manchester Police

2011-11-14T11:24:00.000-08:00

Last night Mr Pig performed the five point palm exploding heart technique on my blog writing app. At least she stood on my phone and it has not functioned since. So I am back to he laptop typing with fingers instead of thumbs. This is probably a blessing in disguise as my thumbs, frankly, are wrecked. At this time of year an old war wound flares up and I begin to lose their use. Such an evolutionary regression is not too debilitating though some do like to make jokes. I have finished reading Greybeard which ended satisfactorily without fanfare or conclusion. Things go on much as they were before, Aldiss seems to view the future with the sort of phlegmatic resignation to which I aspire. Today has been a housework day. I tackled the kitchen first and then moved around the house armed with a duster until my enthusiasm and the polish sputtered to a finish (fairly quickly). There are new projects coming into view in the near and nearish future. First I have to deliver that talk in Peckham with Aliceson. I think I am supposed to be making some sort of presentation upon the merits of blogging (and twitter). Tomorrow will be soon enough for that. Next, in December, I have been invited to show at The Monks Gallery in Lincoln and am negotiating growing cress in their carpet. They seem keen but then I mentioned staining and watering. Beyond that lies Northampton a town existing in the grey reaches of time and space.

That was yesterday, or even the day before, I am not sure. I have got no further on my talk, it may have to be a last minute thing. I have slept much of today only waking to frighten the USPS man and to give Kaavous some work for Eastern Pavilions which opens this Friday in Norwich. I had completely forgotten about it but manage to scrape together a more or less coherent body of work and magic some prices up.

Tomorrow I must enter my residency space again, everythig will be dead, I am beginning to enjoy this eternal round of death and rebirth (and death) and wonder on which note it will end. Last night we watched "Never Let Me Go" based on the Kazuo Ishiguro novel, we both had to lie quietly for a while afterwards clinging to each other. Kaavous said it was the right time for apocalyptic thoughts but tonnight I am determined to watch something jolly. Having said that I have also decided that to up the intellectual content of future posts that my reading will concentrate on a blend of Calvino and Debord so the future may not be all roses and wine.

I need more cress and have found a bulk supplier on eBay, how many seeds are in a kilo?

Draft deleted by Mr Pig and rewritten then lost by blogger and found again

2011-11-10T13:36:00.000-08:00

I am in the "quiet zone" or the "angry coach" as I like to call it. The man next to me is typing noisily on his laptop and I, usually a very forgiving person, am ready to rend him limb from limb.

Tappity tap tap tap

We are returning, separate seated, on the last off-peak train from London. Hayley, Annabel Cathy and myself have been in a meeting with academics (the second such event in two days). We had gone to Chelsea with high hopes of gaining massive funding to make work in response to the Baring Archive. We encountered another world with another way of thinking.

Tap tap tappity tap tap

This was not the world of banking, rather it was a world where apparently committees and research forae and laboratories are set up because they should be. Those that set them up have salaried employment or large research grants which only demand that they set up committees and research forae and laboratories. This seems vague and I would like to state I am not against the joy of knowledge by any means (The illustrations are great). But for we, unsalaried artists or even FE lecturers (a world where knowledge and research is not only frowned upon but legislated against) this is no practical help. How our dreams were shattered, what a sight of dejection was to be seen in the pub afterwards. So on the plus side the researchers and academics we met all seemed lovely interesting people, they want us to be involved in termly seminars and we shall get access to the Baring Archive. We will meet new people and make interesting contacts. But there will be no piles of gold or bearer's bonds, no expenses, no gratuitous feasts. Damn damn damn. (tap tap tap)

Last night I was the warm up act at a Market Project event. I was paid, the cheque still rests in the top pocket of my very slimming and now slightly sweaty suit. I don't usually spend so much time thinking about money but as their title suggests Market Project is concerned with the idea that artists should be financially respected for what they do. Generally I agree but it does lead towards a rather fruitless feeling of entitlement and pointless inflation of self worth in those such as myself.

Why should anyone pay me for what I do? What service or goods do I provide? How many people want them?

After I had scared (and even offended?) a few with my talk of gassing artists. The speakers began to discuss the idea that their are too many artists. Twice I heard the idea that everyone should be an artist, a cosy academic idea sheltered from the realities of trying to make and get art seen. We had art compared to baking bread an activity that is only a joy to those who don't have to do it and can afford the time to dabble in the petit hameau. But mostly, although many interesting things were said, we had a fine display of macho intellectual jousting which only needed a David Attenborough voiceover to complete its ridiculousness. I fear that in the midst of the rut the other two panelists were a bit subdued which was a shame because they had equally interesting things to say.

Afterwards we realised that online it looked as if something terrible had happened. Because of the design of the lecture theatre no signal could penetrate once the doors had closed. The last thing the outside world read was:

"@rotagavin telling us how he's about to cull the entire room"

Then silence for two hours.

Tappit tappity tap tap

We saw Grayson Perry's show, the shop was crazy, full of not very good tourist-style Perry knockoffs.

TAP

Normal service will be resumed soon, tonight is bin night.

Alex Pearl- ranteur (tap tap)

Theatre of the Absurd

2011-11-09T05:10:00.000-08:00

I am ready to go- six hours early. Actually I was ready by ten thirty - eight hours early. I am now waiting for Annabel to escape from work so we can head to Colchester. I have done a little run through, Mr Pig seemed to enjoy it. All in all I think I will be only talking for 6 minutes and then showing my film. I should feel relief, instead it has made me start to worry more about next weeks debacle in Peckham . I have looked at the adverts "Both Alex Pearl and Aliceson Carter will be presenting at the third Artists talking event." *swallows bile*. These *s are from twitter, I haven't quite got the hang of them yet, they seem to indicate what you want your reader to think you are doing while you write. They are often used either to reinforce or undermine something you have just said or just to add shorthand descriptive colour. Often (and quite obviously) they are not true, merely a bit of useful/less hyperbole which turns twitter into a sort of theatrical act. *cleans glasses and redirects telescope into next door's bathroom window*

I think I may have overdone it for the talk this evening. I am not a performance artist, yet I have bought a suit, a sure sign of the "artist as performer" if ever I have seen one. It is a nice suit from the sixties and delivered via eBay from Wales by a lovely Croation woman. It is Chinese. I hoped it might give me an air of confidence but I just look like a nervous person wearing a suit for the first time in twenty+ years. Actually this was probably my original intention. To undermine myself to such a degree that whatever happens it looks preplanned. *smiles confidently*

The lovely Julie Freeman has promised to "do something spectacular" if I freeze, so I may throw in some long pauses to test her nerve.

Mr Pig is growling at a jay and a robin then running to her litter tray.

She eats only from the right hand bowl.

...

Artists are a rum lot

2011-11-08T10:14:00.001-08:00

People seem to be under the illusion that I am funny. I am, in person, not very funny at all. Those of you who have met me will no doubt vouch for this (please only in your heads). With this, as it surely is, firmly embedded in my mind, the idea of standing up in front of an auditorium full of artists tomorrow worries me. I have written a little list of things to say, I have a sharp suit (too tight at the waist so I am not praying for wind) and a video to play while I exit the building. I fear these may not be enough.

Alex Pearl - in a funk of pure dread.

Nerves

2011-11-08T06:46:00.000-08:00

I must dash, all the cress has died again.
I have just this minute posted this (below) on the Artists Talking website - It is the desperate act of a filthy coward. Next week I am doing a talk in Peckham about blogging. It is arranged by AN and I have utterly failed to blog regularly on their site for many months. But I have noticed they are now runing a league table of most popular blogs so if, dear reader, you have a moment click on this link and make me look good.

Night Soil

A basic summing up of the last month would go as follows. I am redundant (from my place of employment, an FE college in Suffolk, actually Ipswich, ok its Suffolk New College). I have been working for free as an artist in residence at the Art School Gallery in Ipswich. I know this is a crazy state of affairs. I am not proud. My first act, to plant a small circle of cress in their carpet, brought over a special task force from the borough council's health and safety unit. The cress was banned. I have mould in my downstairs toilet, the cat is at death's door, and I have been rejected from two commissions a film festival and a residency. I wouldnt mind but I was personally invited to apply for one of the commissions and had my arm severely twisted (by phone) to apply for the other. Tomorrow I am presenting my recent, and failed, Arts Council bid to gain funding for the slaughter of a large number of Artists and next week, if I am not slain in Peckham, I shall be talking about blogging.

The Hero, 2011

All my Friends are Dead

2011-11-06T11:53:00.001-08:00

After getting up very late in the morning (or perhaps early in the afternoon) Belle and I dined at The Sunrise Café where I had my usual double egg and chips and Belle went for the highly challenging roast chicken. This week I have to subject myself to a fasting blood test but I see no reason to start early. The blood test is on Tuesday morning, from there nurse permitting, I shall head to London to meet up with a trip from my erstwhile college and thence to Grayson Perry's private view at the British Museum. On Wednesday I shall be introducing "Operation Pusscat" at a Market Project event hosted by Firstsite in Colchester. I have a suit (a little tight at the waist) a short speech, a video and a box of suicide pills which I am hoping to hawk for £2 a piece. I spent much of the rest of today sticking labels on them and packing them into a Fig Leaves box.

On Thursday The Wilmore Fellowship will be gathering in London to meet up with the curator of the Baring Archive to discuss working with its collection. We shall return in time to put the bins out.

I recently came across this record cover, I hope to use it as the title for my first major retrospective at the Tate.

Alex Pearl - dreamer.

Too old.

2011-11-03T07:31:00.001-07:00

My new gallery Polski Sklep still lies empty. Occasionally it is used by fly posters and sometimes provides nominal shelter for one of Ipswich's homeless. Yesterday I noticed a sign in the back of the shop, never before have I seen such a complete expression of human misery.

I have made some more assemblages today. The raw materials have been hanging around for some time. Unfortunately, for me, the creative process (gags) is as much to do with memory as anything else. Remembering an idea, remembering where things are, remembering I have things,
remembering the idea again, remembering to make it.

Alex Pearl - mnemonic

Greybeard

2011-11-02T09:00:00.001-07:00

The sky is darkening, I cannot tell if it is caused by the lateness of the hour or impending rain. I have returned from my residency space where I have been trying to tweak a little success.

The abandoned cress has died and should no longer be a hazard unless a passing youth attempts to smoke it. In response to the scene of devastation I have projected an extremely morose time lapse film of cress growing and added a bit more live cress to the space. No doubt a committee will immediately be dispatched from Colchester museums to inspect it.

As usual the video is almost impossible to photograph (at least digitally). The original does not have multicoloured stripes. On the windowsill I have positioned a chalice (of cress) and a couple of abandoned caravans have taken up residence where the old patches have died down.

There is more (pictures to follow). But I have some parcels to open (alongside the now ubiquitous red card). My eye has arrived, my 1960s suit, I suspect is at the post office. The suit is for a presentation next week at Firstsite. I am to introduce my artist slaughtering project "Operation Pusscat" and I hoped that a nice suit might give me the air and confidence of The Italian Job's Michael Caine. I hope the heating won't be on as I tend to sweat more like Lee Evans. Here is the eye and the other sculptures.

Alex Pearl - raconteur

Faction

2011-10-28T09:15:00.001-07:00

Having finally reached a state where I felt well enough to leave the house I made a trip to visit my space in "The Cloakroom". The whole thing had been dismantled. The magnetic piece I had painstakingly arranged on the radiator was in a neat pile. The cress was dried out. The fake lift controls were piled on the floor. Photographic evidence follows.

It was a vast improvement. I am now juggling with the idea of removing all trace of myself from the space. In the basement the cress grows on and the video tape is nearing it's end. I had hoped the cress would, like it's relative on the carpet, have chance to grow old and die but it looks like being triumphantly fecund.

I am making a long delayed trip to Southend to introduce a film. I am undecided on what to say, on how to introduce it. Usually I just stick with the facts but that may not be interesting.

More later...

Alex Pearl - still redundant.

Life in my Basement

2011-10-25T02:34:00.001-07:00

There are little plates of meat all around the house. I must be careful where I tread lest I feel a cold squelch between my toes. This said, I have not been moving much as I too have some sort of disease. An upper respiratory infection has left me a little lacking in vim and totally lacking in vigour. I should have been to my residency space but have not had the energy. It must now be a quite pitiful reflection of my own demeanour. Dead cress, stains and silence. There is life in my basement however. In a corner, under a constantly burning bulb, a little green world has been struggling to life. Over it hangs the single staring eye of one of my cameras set on time lapse. In the first week, while I was away I forgot to ask Annabel to do the watering and thus returned to an arid scene. But now a few stems are snaking into view.

Mr Pig (aka meat bear) is also showing signs of enjoying her new ultra pampered existence, a life which is summed up by the bedtime photo below.

Alex Pearl - sick note.

Guttural Doggeral

2011-10-21T11:08:00.001-07:00

After being away serving the I.T. needs of my venerable parents I have returned to a world of watery meat. Pig has had to come home as we can no longer afford to keep her in cat hospital. Frankly she was enjoying it a little too much. Cooing nurses would perform an hourly Nyotaimori for her pleasure and delectation. We were warned that she could die in the night so I decided to take her into my bed while Annabel tried to get some sleep in the dog bed. I lay awake all through the small hours waiting and stroking the happiest cat in the world. The only thing that died was my left arm. Today, while A was at work, I was left to syringe as much meaty slop into her gullet as I could while she emitted the most horrific and quite funny growly gargle gnyar gnyar gnyar gnyar gnyar gnyar (the Pig, not Annabel). Now, in the evening, I am distinctly meaty myself and the pig is sound asleep on a vibrating sheepskin rug next to a cat pheromone atomiser being groomed with a Mason and Pearson boar bristle brush.

I have also been working, as the meat on my laptop keyboard testifies. Commissions East seem frantically keen for me to apply to two of their recent opportunities. Having emailed me four times and rung I feel I should oblige. So I have been photographing my little cars and caravans and wondering what I can do to enhance the grounds of a new FE campus. I should say, that:

Commissions East have been frantic for me before,
And it has always come to nought,
But this time I might make it
From the long to the short (list).

Alex Pearl - poet (bad)

Post Apocalyptic Adventure

2011-10-18T05:14:00.001-07:00

Something has gone amiss. The trains have gone. I have managed to catch the only one running with a few other brave souls. The conductor cannot and has not made any promises about our eventual arrival in London. Personally I find all this stuff exciting, it's like a snow day or a petrol strike, the world has changed and all we can do is enjoy it. There is an armed presence, in a final attempt to keep society going two police officers patrol the corridors.

I am hoping to get to my parents house in time for tea. They have a number of jobs waiting for me: nailing up the doors and windows, skinning the neighbours, digging a bunker. Meanwhile, at home, Annabel awaits for the return of the Pig. Not to be released until she has a good feed it is likely this pickiest of eaters will run up a hotel bill in the late hundreds before she deigns to return.

Recently we have been dreaming up money making schemes as we drift off to sleep. The latest is the use of the common house fly
Musca domestica in a revolutionary beauty treatment. Inspired by it's eating technique (vomiting stomach juices, trampling them in and then sucking up the, ahem, dissolved material) we have decided to pioneer a treatment akin to the skin eating fish pedicure that is so popular. Our Fly Facial will involve hundreds of specially bred flies being encouraged to vomit on the faces of the rich (and stupid) in a sort of organic derma-peel. We think the idea really has legs (sorry).

back in Ipswich I shall be absent from my residency at The Art School Gallery for a few days during which time the dangerous cress will wither and die of natural causes. While this is happening I am making a new film of cress growing in my basement at home. I am hoping to project the resulting film in the cloakroom where it's insubstantial and art approved medium should protect it from health and safety legislation.

Alex Pearl

Phlegm

2011-10-17T09:28:00.001-07:00

Mr Pig is in intensive care and, although the prognosis is favourable we have been informed of some expensive sounding blood anomalies. The hospital was in Deepest Kesgrave a dark land, seemingly barren and empty of inhabitants. Yet at the same time a walk down it's empty streets will make one's neck itch as if tickled by the point of an arrow. We had to get the bus back and found ourselves always in the wrong place. It seems that buses through Kesgrave are perfectly timed so that no human can catch them. Each bus is spaced in such a way as that any sane person will give up waiting and begin walking to the next stop before they arrive. Then, when the sane person is at a point between stops where they cannot reach either in time, a bus will appear (empty of course) and drive purposefully past. This process will happen many times until either the person reaches their destination on foot or becomes insane. As you will know, if you have ever managed to catch a bus in Kesgrave, the passengers are all insane and will stare at you with uncomprehending eyes.

On Facebook things seem to have quietened down a little though I am ready for a tussle with any wide boy arts administrator that cares to have a go. Once, in a dull moment at my old work we all came up with our cage fighting animal alter egos. Amongst our number we boasted the aggressive lineup of: The Red Squirrel, the Slow Loris and I was the Shrew. Bitter to the core, I chose my familiar as it was known as "the lion of the hedgerow" and also because I had trodden on one the previous week. Unfortunately my fighting skills are not great but inside I am a fomenting mass of bile.

I haven't spoken much about Sluice, it was less gruesome than many art fairs with the feel of an early Zoo and, for me, almost as exciting. It didn't seem unprofessional unless unprofessional means friendly nor a "wasted opportunity". But many opportunities are meant to be wasted.

Jasper Joffe said a few things in jest during the talk that I thought perhaps had more than a ring of truth about them. One was that all the best artists were at Frieze and Sluice was full of, shall we say, lesser artists. I wanted, but was too shy, to take up that argument and say yes maybe the best (whether that means most successful, most expensive, consistent, impressive, boldest, whatever) are at Frieze but that lesser, quieter, unconfident, whatever art is also interesting, some times more so, than that of the "big guns". Secondly he said we were all middle-aged has-beens, an idea that was backed up by a, young, member of the audience who told us of a friend of his, straight out of college, who was showing at Frieze. Again I would like to agree (I certainly fit the bill) But I would again like to say that there is something also about the sadness of a middle aged has-been that is quite beguiling. Not young, nor brash, perhaps not exciting even, but still alive.

Andrew Bracey's paintings on film strips

I am reading Aldiss' Greybeard in the bath. It's youngest characters are older than I, the human world is grinding to it's inevitable finish. There is no future and although I don't know how it ends, I imagine things will just get quieter.

Alex Pearl - not mad yet.

The Cat's Tail

2011-10-17T05:07:00.001-07:00

Now that Sluice is over the shit is flying. Well minor wind anyway. Cathy Lomax made some good points about the fair and art fairs in general on her blog and then there followed some interesting comments not least from Mat Jenner who I believe is head of the Arts Council in the east. Though in fact if you try to meet him you will find he is mostly based in London. The comments on Cathy's Facebook page are quoted below.

Cathy Lomax http://cathylomax.blogspot.com/2011/10/art-fairs-v-artist-led.html
Cathy Lomax: Art Fairs v Artist Led
cathylomax.blogspot.com
Yesterday at 7:29pm

You, Mimei Thompson and

Marianne Morild Thank you Cathy, very important that these views are being aired.
Yesterday at 7:56pm · Like

Mat Jenner I agree. But- and it is fair to say (excuse pun) that sluice was very disappointing in it's presentation. Whilst it is true the contemporary art fair is a contrived, political hegemonic spectacle, the alternative- if we wish to present one- must aim to compete at the level of artistic professionalism.
Yesterday at 9:32pm · Like · 1

Cathy Lomax Its nice to have a bit of criticism - there was lots of ooo its better than Frieze here (at Sluice) which of course is a ridiculous thing to say. It was a convivial chance to meet a group of artist led organisations, all together in one space. I think that to a great extent the presentation fitted the event - it did in the words of Tilda Swinton when talking about Derek Jarman have a 'whiff of the school play'' about it - that is kind of the point - these are not well financed commercial organisations and it had a friendly un-imposing feel to it. I believe that Sluice did not get the arts council funding they applied for - maybe if it had the organisations involved would have been able to set up earlier than the evening before the event started. This made it very hard to present work in the best way possible and was the major downside for me. There was also one space who thought it was ok to set up 15mins before the press view - this was arrogant and stupid in the extreme as it impinged on the way neighbouring spaces looked and this level of unprofessionalism in unacceptable.
4 hours ago · Unlike · 3

Mat Jenner Yep, I see your point about the intended atmosphere and resources. Though there is clearly a fine balance to be had between being true to the spirt of the event, the types of organisations and doing the artists work some justice. For me, it was a wasted opportunity. From what your saying it sounds like the management could have been better.
Maybe next year it will find the resources and get it together a bit more.
1 hour ago · Like

Alex Pearl Please excuse the long sentence that follows but it should be read without taking breath.

It seems to me that while the Arts Council has pulled the plug on many of the institutions that support early career and none-mainstream, local and less commercial artists that it's representatives should be wary of criticising the "Professionalism" of those people who, without funding, are trying to ensure that we don't lose our cultural diversity.

What we don't need from public funding is a series of flagship buildings that allow a lot of back slapping.
52 minutes ago · Like
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Mat Jenner i say this as an artist and audience member. And to be honest, its was an opinion quitely openly held by a number of people who attended.
29 minutes ago · Like

Mat Jenner i'd also take issue with your view that the plug has been pulled on a orgs supporting emerging artists. but that's another discussion and one best had in person.

Like the royal family I am not convinced that leaders of the Arts Council have the luxury of making private comments as artists or individuals and frankly I find mr Jenner's desire to discuss ACE policy "in person" a little threatening.

But I have more important fish to fry today. Pig is still not eating and must be rushed forthwith to cat hospital to be put on a drip. I have tempted her with fresh prawn, steak both raw and cooked, Applaws (laced, I believe, with cat heroin) pâté (finest) and Brie. But she has found my presentation wanting. Not understanding that she will die without sustenance she is to be force fed.

Alex Pearl - allegorian

No Sluice til Saturday

2011-10-14T04:47:00.001-07:00

I am on we we duty. Mr Pig has been ill with a temperature so I am waiting for her to give a sample. She is not in a hurry. We have laid down some special cat litter which does not absorb urine and have lain in wait since late last night.

In order to pass the time I have finally started my tax return by gathering together the piles of receipts scattered around the house. As with every year I seem to have mislaid my P60 despite putting it in a very very safe place. I did find Annabel's and am at least happy in the knowledge that it is now also in a very very safe place. Though clearly not as safe as mine.

2hrs later ...
Bored with that (still no wee) I have decided to make a film of growing cress to project in the Cloakroom space at Ipswich Art School Gallery (from now on IASG!! which sounds a little like someone being strangled). I believe the reason for the cress ban (see previous post) may be health and safety related) I am not even vaguely clear on what threat to health cress poses but hope to be enlightened soon.

Still no wee. Sluice is tomorrow, we shall be attending after a third visit to the vet, with or without sample.

Still no wee. I am considering wringing her out over a bucket but she is looking at me with disdain.

Alex Pearl - urine collector (failed)

Save The Cress!

2011-10-13T07:40:00.001-07:00

My cress has caused outrage. I do not yet know the precise nature of the complaint (I don't think it is vegetal cruelty) but the cress planted in the carpet may have to go.

I am guessing the worry is damage to the carpet. If so it is a huge shame as the carpet is not a thing of beauty and the cress is only now reaching it's peak. In protest I have begun to clear my space of nearly everything except the said cress.

The rubble of my iconoclasm (of sorts) is tangled under the fake lift controls facing the entrance. It is a great improvement.

Alex Pearl - destroyer of worlds.

SLUICE

2011-10-11T09:01:00.001-07:00

I have very wide feet.

In order to order some new shoes from an online company based in Derby I took a pre prandial trip to Clarks for measuring.

Incidentally I have just heard that all the art spaces in Derby are under threat of closure due to lack of funding.

I was a little embarrassed as I had no intention of buying shoes from their shop but Annabel assured me it would be alright. Indeed the lovely assistant was most accommodating. After explaining, at length, that no one measures adult feet anymore and that, no I couldn't use the exciting children's laser measurer, she disappeared into the storeroom in search of a set of antique foot calipers. I have to admit at this stage I felt like a bit of a pervert. Then as she grew more excited I was instantly converted from pervert to freak. Apparently my feet are shaped much like those of a duck. It is possible that with a little more adaptive evolution I could return to the sea much like Bobby Ewing.

This is all by the bye as, having given up on Internet shoes in favour of two plastic bags secured at the ankle, I am working on tying up a few loose ends for SLUICE (please excuse the capitals). I have created an edited compilation of some films, an instruction sheet for sowing cress in toy cars and a list of titles which may, or may not, be correct. I am hoping the cress David and Annie took away with them will still be in it's prime when SLUICE opens, but if it is not I am taking a leaf out of the Chelsea Flower Show gardeners' handbook and have several replacements on the go in varying states of advancement.

Alex Pearl - SLUICER

It's growing!

2011-10-11T05:50:00.001-07:00

Alex Pearl - carpet gardener

Eternal present.

2011-10-09T06:39:00.001-07:00

It is Monday morning, I am tired and handing out tea and chocolate biscuits to Annie and David. I took the precaution of buying three packets of biscuits yesterday so that one might remain, packet not biscuit. They are here to select work for Aid & Abet's stand at the SLUICE Art Fair. It rained last night the lingering clouds making Ipswich seem greyer than usual but inside, due to my final capitulation in the matter of the central heating, it is pleasantly warm. I've tidied the basement and laid out a number of pieces for their delectation. I don't know what they will pick. Previously for art fairs (both of them) I have had half an eye on what might be commercial but this time much of my work seems very transient. Will somebody want to buy a caravan planted with cress or moss? They will have to water it daily and, in the case of the cress, harvest and reseed regularly. Additionally, with time, the caravan will rust and decay. Conversely and perversely the jelly pieces seem indestructible, what are we feeding our children?

This fair though is not really about the commercial. It seems smaller scale, more ephemeral and (apart from the title) nicer.

It is Sunday, I have just eaten a small roast dinner with Annabel. I have retired to the toilet to write and inspect Achilles the damp mould. A white fuzz continues to expand from his heart of darkness. A spider, pale, almost translucent, has strung it's web across the corner. It reaches from Achilles' downy surface to a series of brown lumpy craters on the adjacent wall.

I am in the bath reading about vegetable spiders stringing their webs from the earth to the moon. It is too hot. I fear dizziness when I get out and read on waiting for cooler times.

Alex Pearl

Tomorrow

2011-10-09T04:57:00.001-07:00

I'm hiding behind the door in my residency space The Cloakroom in the picture you can see my first attempts to mimic some of the trunking on the opposite wall. Most of it has fallen down because, running out of hot glue gun sticks, I was forced to use a pritt stick. The lift controls are now in place but I've gone off them.

I've also been trying to take over some of Andrew's drawing with a cheap pack of crayons from QD. The cress still hasn't grown as I have not been able to water it regularly enough. I'm waiting for Annabel to pick me up for lunch, if she hasn't fallen asleep she should be here soon. I am hungry. I still think I might have to tin foil the whole room.

Alex Pearl - failure

I got this in my email

2011-10-08T12:12:00.000-07:00

Aid & Abet is delighted to announce its participation in the brand new Sluice Art Fair in Mayfair, London from 15-16 October 2011

"Sluice Art Fair presents 16 international artist run spaces and galleries and will have a dynamic programme of events and performances throughout the weekend."

Aid & Abet is pleased to present new and recent works for sale by four UK based artists

Martyn Cross | David Kefford | Alex Pearl | Emily Speed

Come and visit us on Saturday 15th 12-10pm and Sunday 16th 12-9pm with a closing Finnissage event on Sunday from 7-9pm

Sluice Art Fair, South Molton Lane, just behind South Molton Street and minutes from Bond Street tube.

We look forward to seeing you there!

For more details visit www.sluiceartfair.com

Follow our Website, Facebook or Twitter

image: detail, David Kefford

Aid & Abet, Station Road, Cambridge CB1 2JW

Open Thursday, Friday & Saturday 12-7pm

www.aidandabet.co.uk

Aid & Abet is supported by Arts Council England, Brookgate, Commissions East & Ridgeons

Slaughter House 1

2011-10-07T02:56:00.000-07:00

Late last night I was pleased to hear my neighbours putting their bins out. It was purely a feeling of self satisfaction as I, following the counsel of my phone, had already put mine out at a far more civilised hour. This piece of petty schadenfreude helped my drift happily off to sleep. The previous day, to that point, had not been my most successful. I had intended to attend my residency at the local gallery but unfortunately I was unable to gain residence. As show is being set up by a taciturn, some might say rude, artist who shall remain nameless. Because of this (event, not humour) the gallery door is often locked and more than once I have been seen (or not) pressing my nose up against the crack in the door gazing at the better (and safer?) world inside. Not 16 years earlier a much younger me was doing the exact same thing up to my knees in snow. I had battled my way into Ipswich from Melton in order to deliver my lectures to eager students. Little did I know that Suffolk tends to close down at the slightest hint of the white stuff and I was surprised to find no one at the art school. By the time of my arrival the weather was already worsening and, were I not writing this, you might think dear reader, that I was about to become another tragic Evening Star headline. In the absence of residential employment I gave up, returned home and continued work on my new project. This is not art but a 1965 RSW 16 it is very cute and somewhat arcane in its design. How I wish I had taken note of the internal cable routing before stripping it down. I am trying to sell my other shopper so that I might fund this project. I have made a fine poster to be hung at the new (most recent) Ipswich Art School which is part of Suffolk New College.

I received an email from Andrew Bryant at artists talking. He wants me to come and talk at an event about blogging at Peckham Space on Thursday 17th Nov for a small fee + expenses.

"The plan is that I will do a short introduction of you and your blogs, plus a little bit of background on Artists talking, and then you will talk for 15- 20 minutes each. There will then be, I hope, a lively debate on blogging, social network media and all that gubbins."

I haven't been blogging regularly on Artists Talking for a little while now due solely to the fact that I can't seem to do it from my phone, writing in those in between times. I hope this won't matter. I may copy and paste a few posts from this blog in a cynical move to ingratiate myself with the AN public.

"The working tittle and blurb of the event is:

Artists talking at Peckham Space: to blog or not to blog? Ever thoughtof blogging but not sure where to start, how to make time or how it mightbenefit you? Three artists discus how blogging enhances their work and careers,with advice on what makes a good blog and how to make your blog work for you."
I have been thinking of late that blogging is becoming a bit passé having heard from a number of more trendy mouths a certain disdain for the blogging artist. Perhaps this will become an interesting talking point.

Foreign Bodies

2011-10-03T07:30:00.001-07:00

This will be perfunctory.

The cataract that used to run down the east side of our house has ceased to flow but it's bounty has spawned new life in Hell. Hell is our downstairs toilet, not named for it's heat or smell but rather because it contains a postcard of a painting by John Martin. The new life is a spreading patch of furry mould which I have named Achilles.

Distinctly pubic in appearance I fear Achilles has not long to live as the wall is rapidly drying out.

In the kitchen there is more excitement as my cress filled caravan is bursting snakily into life.

We were supposed to have a rest yesterday with a view to going to Hayley Lock's latest show at Dr Johnson's house today. It didn't really turn out that way as Annabel managed to ram an earplug deep into her ear. Apparently she was dreaming of ants. We walked across Ipswich to the idiot clinic (my unsympathetic name for the minor injuries unit) where we were told we must get to Colchester immediately where an expert would Hoover it out. Said expert was a cocky junior doctor who proceeded to burst her eardrum when he mistook it for a bit of plug and attempted to rip it out with a pair of pliers. The registrar was called to clear up the blood, ichor and tears and usher us out before our thoughts could turn to litigation. Annabel is grizzly and dizzy and a little more deaf than usual but we are keen to get to Hayley's show.

Alex Pearl

Aquarian

2011-10-01T03:43:00.001-07:00

After fainting on the underground platform I spent an hour dazedly drinking Tanmen soup watching a slightly more blurry than usual London pass me by. I had not eaten nor drunk enough during the set up of Treasure but mostly I blame my aqueous nature and the extremes of temperature on the London transport system. As I was rushing to catch my train to Southend (where I was to present a film) I was subjected to temperatures, on bus, overground and underground, ranging from shiveringly cold to airless torridity. Those who have not met me in person will not be aware of my body's ability to shed moisture. I can become awash in seconds, liquid bubbles up on my face and flows, not like a dripping tap, but more like one in which the washer has completely perished.

I did not make it to Southend

Setting up the show at Asylum chapel was a dusty but relatively easy affair and though I had to leave before it was finished I hope it looked ok. We had had stern warnings about putting nails in the Walls and the dangers of the macerating toilet but I enjoy the let off of an unusual space.

Finally dazed on a train home, having consumed litres of liquid without recourse to the bathroom, we were entertained by a florid man screaming obscenities into his phone. It always happens on the quiet coach. When asked to "tone it down" he took additional umbrage and threatened to take his interlocutor outside. As we were moving at over sixty this seemed rather extreme (that word again). Surprisingly the police were on board (with cameras attached to their heads). They made the man apologise, which he did in the most graceless manner possible.

I am returning to invigilate now and am using my time to take stock next to a man rehydrating with Stella Artois. I have missed several deadlines including one for a great commission at Kettles Yard in Cambridge. I feel a bit of a fool.

The cress is sprouting.

Alex Pearl - water sign

Invasion

2011-09-28T07:57:00.001-07:00

I am trying to make a nuisance of myself. As part of my residency and in the less real world. During the coming weeks I have decided to work with the ideas of invasion, colonisation and infection in an attempt to overtake the cloakroom. That was part of the statement I had to write to explain to visitors what I am up to. So far I have managed to: underlight a number of chairs some of which, inadvertently, went into a meeting; stick a number of things to the wall (most of which are dropping to the floor as I write; and start a little cress plantation in the carpet. It may be too dark for cress but I am hopeful something stunted will begin.

On Twitter I have been poking away at Suffolk New College. My sources tell me new staff have been employed but I know that neither those who were made redundant nor those who are employed but wanted more hours were approached (as was promised during the redundancy process) Suffolk new College are insisting that no one has been employed and yet that new person (who I know and who is lovely) started yesterday. She won't mind me saying she has no special skills not held by existing employees or the redundant ones. I am very confused. In their last response SNC said: "This is incorrect,but if you want any further discussion regarding your concerns and questions please contact HR on IPS 382409." I enjoy twitter too much to bother, but maybe someone else should.

Alex Pearl - interior gardener

In the cloakroom

2011-09-27T04:35:00.001-07:00

This is my first day at the Art School Gallery, Ipswich. I am a little late but not too late. The cloakroom is a small irregularly shaped space which has already been inhabited by two artists. There is black insulation tape everywhere and scribbles on the wall. My first impulse is to clad the whole room in tinfoil not as a reference to Warhol but to keep out astral rays.

I am developing plans quickly and without thought (mustard and cress seeds are on order) as are a number of caravans. I am hoping to leave the space every day looking like a half finished installation.

Alex Pearl

Disclaimer

2011-09-25T11:17:00.001-07:00

The views and opinions expressed in the interviews and/or commentaries are solely of the individuals and are nothing to do with Alex Pearl or any of the people mentioned in this blog.

Alex Pearl - amateur lawyer and conflict resolution expert

Just Harried?

2011-09-24T11:18:00.000-07:00

We have survived Deptford. It was the opening of the Core Gallery open which was proudly displaying a painting by Annabel Dover. The painting, of a chimp's tea party, was one of those made from secret photographs of the images stuck on Anne Frank's bedroom wall and is one of my favourites. Being intrepid we thought nothing of paying £40 each to travel by train and tube to spend thirty minutes edging round a packed gallery. I had never been to Deptford before. Annabel had, with a view to mooring a boat there in an attempt to find an affordable London address. The black water and looming ironworks had put her off. We exited the DLR station onto a deserted road reminiscent of the opening scenes of Attack the Block and proceeded to walk (quickly) down empty streets to the industrial estate (Annabel informed me) which was the site of the gallery. We passed gangs of hungry men straining to hold anabolic bull terriers. I looked down and to the left, a method I had been assured, disarms all but the most psychopathic of attackers (surely they are the worst sort?). Annabel however made kissy noises at the dogs and tried to pet them. This approach seemed to quite unnerve the owners and we made it safely to a main road. Annabel seemed quite perky having been tired earlier and kept pointing down unlit alleyways and suggesting "shall we go that way?". Eventually we caught sight of a different breed of skinny Londoner (the artist) and felt much safer.

Core Gallery, little more than a wide corridor between studios (or at least that is how it seemed in the crush), had a lovely lively atmosphere which instantly made me feel awkward. Luckily it was Annabel's night so I immediately resorted to the role of bag carrier. "Don't talk to me I'm just here to carry the bag" (I projected). Annabel met several old friends, Twitter/Facebook friends, and people that she had never met before, she introduced me but I was just there to carry the bag. Mostly people seemed to be artists, selectors, curators, tutors at the RCA or some sort of occult combination of all four. Annabel though she had managed to insult an American curator/writer/artist living in France (though not at that precise moment) by suggesting she might teach to support her practice. She later told me of Graham Crowley on his motorbike and marvelled at the height of David Dipré.

TEXT REMOVED FOR LEGAL REASONS.

It was a lazy day today. We had lunch in the local vegetarian, guardian reading, reiki using, cafe. Annabel drew this picture of me molesting a tiny porcelain doll.

I've burnt a dvd for Charlie Levine's show at THE EVENT in Birmingham and another for a talk I am doing at Coexist on Friday. I had forgotten about the latter and have it double booked with the opening of the next edition of THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. I will have to travel from Ipswich to London in the morning to set up, get a train back to Southend to introduce my film, then swing back to London to stay overnight before invigilating on Saturday. This yoyoing has persuaded me that I have to pare down my exhibition in the Chapel to a few discrete objects in boxes and possibly a film.

By the way I am at the Firstsite opening, schmoozing.

Busy Doing Nothing

2011-09-20T04:22:00.001-07:00

Annabel made this list to sum me up and it seemed as good a place as any to get me back in the swing of blogging after a little break. It seems I write more often when I am doing nothing and hardly at all if I am busy. I never saw the point of taking holiday photographs.

Alex loves Sci Fi

Alex fancies Gay in purple

Alex talks about his windy tum quite a lot

Alex is clever at making good things out of crud.

Alex feels defeated easily
Especially by his wife and daughters

Alex loves bikes

Alex loves his dead jack Russell Tozer

Alex likes Rapha trousers

Alex hates Cath Kidston

Alex likes tea

Alex likes baths

Alex likes snow

Alex is very scared of spiders

Alex is kind

Alex is very clever

Alex is terrified of being beaten up in the street.

Alex looks tired at the mention of babies

Alex likes boobs

Alex likes sniffing dog paws and to a lesser extent cat paws

Alex is very good at cooking and even makes things like egg rolls

Alex is a lovely and incredibly soft father

Alex doesn't like 4x4s

Alex doesn't like cigarettes

In order to be close to Folkestone during the latest chapter of The Count of Monte Cristo we stayed in a beautiful modernist villa in nearby Lydd. I have always fancied living a simple pared down existence in a modernist cell and so was very excited until I entered my bedroom. It seems that spiders, the most un modernist of creatures also love 1930s architecture. Ten of the largest Tegenaria Duellica I have ever seen lay in wait ready to drain my eyeballs of liquor. Annabel had to do battle for half an hour before it was safe for me to sleep.

Folkestone went ok. Ok is a bland word but it sums up my usual feelings after a show. Compared with the grander (but not too grand I am relieved to note) work on show in the Triennial our stuff blended in neatly with the junk shops on Tontine street. Perhaps it was too self effacing. Still I felt a lot better about it when I remembered the sight of Kapoor's helter-skelter thing doing the big "I am" on the Olympic site in Stratford.

For me, however, the charm of some of my work has worn off, meaning I am able to start rejecting some as weaker than others. I have a studio visit in a week or so. Aid & Abet representatives are to select work for the Sluice Art Fair, my only hope is that I haven't thrown most of it away.

Before that we have Treasure in London. The Count of Monte Cristo has been described as resembling a Radio One Road Show. Is that a compliment?

Alex Pearl - fading fast

The Cloakroom

2011-09-15T10:14:00.001-07:00

I have just seen irrefutable proof that my eldest daughter has appeared, in her underwear, in "NUTS" which I believe is a gentleman's magazine. Thus has not come as a huge shock but I cannot say the news was welcome either. I am writing from an informal private view at the local gallery. It is a small gathering, which is lucky because it is a small room.
The Cloakroom Space is found to the left of the entrance of Ipswich's "Art School Gallery". Without a specific purpose, it has been turned into a sort of informal artist residency space. It isn't big and it isn't funded. So far two artists have used the space. Andrew Vass (another artist recently made redundant by Suffolk New College) spent several weeks drawing on everything. The walls, ceiling, floor, doors are covered in twitchy obsessive lines as he glanced (I imagine longingly out of the window). Andrew often makes me think of the Friedrich painting of the bedraggled hero on the mountain top. But in the cloakroom he was probably more like this one.

Then came Bradie (an ex student of ours) came along and blacked out the windows and stuck tape in places Andrew hadn't been. There's a bit at the start of "Portrait of a Lady" where James describes his heroine in a parlour with the windows covered in green paper. That's all I can remember from my A levels and I am not sure I remember it correctly. I am next, I don't plan to change a thing.

"She had never opened the bolted door nor removed the green paper (renewed by other hands) from its sidelights"

This is my version of the lady portrayed above.

Alex Pearl

Dangerous Liaisons

2011-09-13T09:10:00.001-07:00

I have decided to write my blog in a new and exciting place every day. The decision is partly due to my desire not to get stuck in a rut and partly to provide my readers with something fresh and exciting. Today I am in Nero, which is none of these things, sorry. It does, however, provide me a vista upon the populace of Ipswich. Two tall community support officers are surreptitiously trailing some wizened little boy-men in tracksuits. They may not be around much longer (the faux police, the boy-men are flourishing) they are heading towards the Cex shop where they will try to pretend boredom with their two playstations (again) and the staff will suspend their disbelief. I imagine that soon some burglary victims will pass by and buy a replacement for their loss. The weather is such that three young women in tshirts and hotpants cross paths with shoppers in woollens, jeans and body warmers. Annabel is in London at a meeting and number two daughter is 'enjoying' another day in 'fulltime' education (less than two and a half days a week). In their absence I have been packing things up for Folkestone, buying a cool-bag for the jellies and some gold spray paint (I wanted faux leather but there was none).

While I have been writing I have seen five ex students. It is a common problem. In Ipswich I am hardly able to walk down the street without seeing the good the bad and the pierced. Buying Anusol is almost impossible. I find I also know far too much about some. One, a balloon fetishist, caused some consternation for her parents recently when it was discovered she was fast becoming a star of Internet balloon porn and was being sent inflatable gifts from troubled men around the world. I mention her because she has just passed the window struggling to hold down a very large bag.

Alex Pearl

"When the storm clouds come in, the eagles soar while the small birds take cover"

2011-09-12T06:56:00.000-07:00

Trying to find out information about jelly on the internet is not as easy as I had thought. However through trial and error I seem to be beginning to master the material. The fish I made a couple of weeks ago is still perfectly happy and solid despite having a bellyful of pearls. But that was just a start I am not working with layering and raw gelatin. It is not long until the show in Folkestone and the jellies will be performing a good deal of fridge surfing before they arrive in the window (where no doubt they will instantly begin to sweat and disgorge their contents.)

This is similar to how I feel about interviews but I fear I may have to endure some sooner or later. We have located a flat for my daughter. In fact I have just taken a break from filling out the guarantor forms which are a little tricky when one describes oneself as self employed. There are one or two opportunities on the horizon (like approaching storms) but none are what I would call convenient. Meanwhile the art related rejections keep rolling in. Only this morning a lovely little residency in Newcastle refused my fabulous application. Having said this Annabel's experience at my former place of employment seems to get more farcical everyday. This should not be a surprise from an institution whose principal lists one of his main interests as sitting in the sun. Indeed he is a fine nut brown. Mr Muller also styles himself professor and he was apparently head of a university department once. But I am certain I am right in saying that professorships of that sort do not travel with you when you "head up" a further education college in Ipswich. Interestingly on Linkedin the title has been dropped. One thing I do miss from my time at Suffolk New College is the regular incredible email from our leader who, despite having a doctorate in psychology, seems unable to string a sentence together. During the redundancies last academic year he really made my day when he accidentally hit the 'reply all' button to an email telling us all we had to reapply for our jobs. His panic was evident when he told the head of Human Resources to prepare an emergency press release in case we squawked. I mustn't say more (today) for fear of incurring a libel suit, however, I was told a fabulous story the other day of a principal of an FE college (in Suffolk) who, finding himself late for a conference, booked a taxi to Manchester. That was the same week the same college ran out of toilet paper (allegedly).

Outside, like me, hurricane Katia is grizzling away but she seems to be lacking her old power. My suicide pills arrived today but due to an error in the printing process I am having a new batch made. If anyone would like an unsigned second I may be persuaded to send a few out on the understanding they are not to be used. I don't want anyone ending their days with substandard goods

Fetch the Engines!

2011-09-09T05:14:00.001-07:00

I spend a good deal of time waiting in for deliveries. My day is punctuated (better than this blog) by door bell rings. Only yesterday I received two separate deliveries, one from the Royal Mail (a book for Annabel), and another from a well known courier service of mixed reputation (some porcelain for Annabel). Then a letter came so I decided to nip down the road for some humous. Upon my return, ten minutes later, there was a red card on the doormat. I had been caught out. Another postman, clearly a member of the postal SAS, must have been lying in the bushes waiting.

Today I waited until lunch, took in a parcel and some letters and headed down to the post office to collect yesterday's parcel. Yesterday's parcel turned out to be four parcels which I dutifully balanced about my person and cycled home (much to the amusement of the post office staff). On the doormat were two red cards.

I have also been flat hunting for my daughter. Due to limited funds some of the accommodation is a little choice but we did see a nice looking place on London Road and went to check it out. "Is that it?" I said pointing to a road containing three police cars and an ambulance. "No" said daughter in a squeakier voice than usual "It's the next one". London Road contains the fabled residence of Ipswich's most famous son, Steve Wright. Not the DJ, the prostitute murderer. I mention the prostitutes because the survivors were clearly in the next road. Not willing to hold history against an area we pressed on until, after taking a quick photo, we turned on our tails and fled.

Alex Pearl - intern delivery boy for parcelforce (unpaid)

Fools Gold

2011-09-08T12:02:00.001-07:00

While sifting opportunities on the Axis site I came across a little nugget. A three week residency in Cardiff followed by a solo show. There was on offer generous renumeration in the form of £500 (half before, half on completion) from this the lucky winner was asked to find travel, accommodation, food and materials. A ticket to Cardiff (return) £80. Twenty One days in a cheap B&B at say £20/night? That's the £500 gone and I haven't even raised a pencil in anger. At these rates my pencil raising days are soon to be over.

Down in the studio a crude A-frame is taking shape. Fashioned from a mismatching range of found (and stolen) bits it will not, I fear, look particularly professional. For the Monte Cristo show in Folkestone we have decided to make things difficult for ourselves by showing each of our exhibitions in rotation. The sign board will inform our public exactly who's work is on display and when the next changeover will occur. At least that is the plan. I believe another member of our cabal has been out hunting down curtainage so that each changeover may gain some sort of performative frisson. I am just hoping my jellies won't melt.

This is Tiberius, a fly is clutched in his nearest greedy maw. Annabel tells me that Elvis used to fly in his jet to get "fools gold" which is a whole loaf of white bread, cut sideways, filled with a pound of bacon, a whole jar of peanut butter, a whole jar of jam. This was then deep fat fried.

Alex Pearl - sign writer and horticulturalist.

The Age of Aquarius

2011-09-06T08:39:00.001-07:00

I am frustrated. Some time ago my Paypal account was "limited" due to "suspicious behaviour". I had tried to buy a water bottle on eBay. My intention was to get fit again and, conscious of the importance of hydration, I thought another bottle might be helpful. So far my training (ahem) has not gone very well. In the past I had been used to popping out for a quick eighty mile spin and was not quite prepared for my lack of prowess. After five miles of huffing and puffing along the route of this year's Tour of Britain I was gasping in pain and looking for a inconspicuous spot to stop and turn for home. My speed was still there but clearly not my stamina. I should point out here I was riding a bicycle and not running. On my second jaunt I managed seven miles before chest pain and dizziness forced me home. Next time I hope to manage twenty miles and get a taxi back. Miserable damp August has now given way to it's even more sulky older sister September (I don't know where I am going with this) and so, due to inclement conditions my return to fitness is already in abeyance and I am on eBay. It is two weeks since my "limitation" but I still cannot buy anything until I receive a special code in the post. You see because Paypal does not believe I live here and am in fact some sort of illegal water bottle dealer they are sending me a letter. During my "limitation" I may of course add money to my Paypal account but none may be withdrawn. I am beginning to think my father (a great fan of saving) may have had a word.

Things I would like to buy on eBay.

Ps Tiberius caught another fly yesterday. Mr Pig in her jealousy has developed a runny eye.

Alex Pearl redundant artist

"The Gloomiest of Men"

2011-09-05T08:33:00.000-07:00

I forgot to mention last time I wrote that our now sole house plant (the others having disappointed me most severely) is a Venus Flytrap. I presented it to Annabel when I heard she had not been allowed one as a child. I am determined to make amends for much of her past and have so far: taught her to fly a kite and... bought her this plant (clearly my determination has not been as fruitful as I had hoped when I started to write this list). Nevertheless the flytrap is named Tiberius, a name I had been insisting upon for our first born. Some might say my choice of name was perhaps a ruse to put any future parturition off but, in my defence, it was chosen as an homage to James T Kirk shirtless captain of the Starship Enterprise. The point of this preamble is that yesterday Tiberius caught his first fly! Our pride and squeals of joy filled the house. Annabel was doubly shocked and overwhelmed because she believed that fly trapping would not occur in our climate. Mr Pig was so put out by our new found vegetable devotion that she immediately slew two flies herself. She crunched them smugly as we drank our tea and, afterwards, looked a little nonplussed at our disgusted expressions. Beyond the domestic I have been working on invites for the next two chapters of The Count of Monte Cristo. The first will be in a small shop window on the fringe of the Folkestone Triennial, the second in an enormous chapel in South East London. I have popped a couple of unfinished examples in below.

Alex Pearl (free lancing graphic designer)

Hothouse

2011-09-04T04:26:00.001-07:00

On what was probably the last summer's day I decided to do a little drawing in the garden. Since reading Aldiss' Hothouse I have become increasingly interested in the stealthy speed with which plant life overwhelms. That Buddleia I pruned in the spring is now twice it's original size, rotting apples pile insolently under the trees and the ferns continue to block the drain causing a beautiful cataract whenever the bath is emptied. I am finding myself drawn into that old art chestnut of man v nature, probably not a good idea. I don't draw much, except for fun, or when nature calls, and when I do I tend to use cheats and tricks, tracing, continuous line, not looking etc. It was fun seeing Pulp Fictions at Transition for this reason. It was an intimate and informal show without reference to theoretical armature. The small, informal drawings, painting, collages and prints were clustered in groups defined by arms reach. I don't think there were grand statements rather a feeling of "I like this". It was a shame the night was so sultry. It was only possible to spend a few minutes at a time in the gallery which frankly quickly began to smell like a gym changing room. So more than a hundred visitors lounged on the balcony, chatted and watched aeroplanes cross the sky. My phone had run out so here are my drawings instead.

Alex Pearl unemployed artist

Update.

2011-09-02T05:44:00.001-07:00

I have discovered that A. Cuntz was not the name of a cyclist but rather that of a sponsoring company dealing in automotive parts. The company itself was named for it's owner the doubly unfortunate Adolf Cuntz. The company has now merged with Speyer to form Cuntz-Speyer.

Alex Pearl

Sorry Mum

2011-09-02T05:24:00.001-07:00

Getting ready to go out I discovered my tongue resembled a white shag pile carpet such as a sixties starlet might lounge upon. I had a coffee and it looked like the same carpet fifty years later (the starlet having chain-smoked herself to death). Some heavy tongue brushing later I selected my all important wardrobe for a visit to London. I was cold yesterday so I picked out some knee length Argyll socks, plus twos, a green tshirt with a rowing motif and a vintage cycling jersey emblazoned with the name of a forgotten cyclist of the seventies. I don't know how successful "A. Cuntz" was in his time but perhaps a relative will google his name and send me a message (he might have known the starlet as she began to fade). Unfortunately it seems much warmer today so socks and jersey may be superfluous.

(Tomb)

Alex Pearl - dilettante

The Post with No Title

2011-09-02T02:41:00.000-07:00

I awake with a downy head and wonder briefly where I am. It must be Friday because Annabel is up already preparing for a visit to London. Pulp Fictions opens tonight and because we should and for once because we want to, we are keen to attend. Group shows are much more fun, there is more to talk about and I feel less like a stroppy five year old cross at my own birthday party.

The social round is not unfamiliar to me. I have been meeting up with a few old friends over the last day or two. Andrew, who was made redundant with me (though he does not like that word, perhaps he believes it has power), is just back from a trip to Australia and, like me, is thinking none too hurriedly about the future. We talked about our old job, a subject which would take up a blog of its own. In a quiet (quieter?) moment I shall sit down and tell all. It will be interesting and possibly litigious. We also worried about our careers. Andrew is represented by a London gallery but is concerned that his audience is narrow and not expanding, that he has sold work to everyone who wants it and what next? I remember smiling while he told me this. Having sold a handful (literally) of work in the last few years I wonder if I am the same point already. Later we met up with Jon who works in deep south America. He told us of a sculpture classe interrupted by alligator attack (sculpture is no longer taught at his institution) and students who demand A grades for everything. He too is looking to expand his own work having becomed mired in his academic world. We talked of galleries in London he might approach (I wished I had the gall to do the same). Some time between those two meetings Andrew persuaded to commit to an informal residency at Ipswich's Art School Gallery née Saatchi. Again there is no cash but it is just down the road and two studios are better than one.

(I've added links to their websites on the right)

My current studio needs a tidy up, I need to start work on machines to film at the Lido and around the house. At the moment it is still filling up with little sculptures for Folkestone and Sluice.

Mantlepieces waiting for Mr Pig to improve them

I don't know what it is but I like it

Look into my eyes

2011-08-31T03:14:00.000-07:00

Yesterday's meeting with Greg from the council was an interesting one. He and artist John D Edwards are spearheading a vast community arts project to turn Ipswich into a living artwork and raise money for the new art gallery at the old Ipswich Art School. They are both very enthusiastic and the mural project seems to be going very well and raising lots of cash. Everything on the production side is voluntary. John is giving his time for free, all the painters are volunteers and the hire of equipment and supplies is being funded through business sponsorship. My part, I learn fairly early on, is also to be on a voluntary or at least back scratching basis *alarm bells, sirens, claxons, stage right*. They want me to make a film when they start to work on the underpass near Ipswich Town Football club. The underpass itself only has a short time to live as it is the council's plan to fill it in in the near future. The football club has for years been Ipswich's main (only) cultural centre, so channelling its supporters into a decorative underground chamber, just before it is about to be sealed forever, seems an interesting move which reminds me of the Pharaohs of old. Although I will be working for nothing *alarm bells, sirens, claxons, stage left*, it seems an interesting place to make a film and not one in which I would normally be comfortable wandering around with video cameras. Greg also suggested that in making a film for them, my access to Broomhill Lido would be assured. I have to admit I thought it was assured already but Greg, looking not a little unlike Ipswich's answer to Derren Brown, could make me believe anything. Another thing I noticed during our discussion was an interesting and sudden change in the way arts operatives talk. Greg is a Cultural Development Manager and talks of: opportunities,volunteers, publicity and business sponsorship, and not at all of: the Arts Council, artist fees, or Deleuze.

There is a good chance here, that if this is read by someone in power, that I may be instantly cut out, (off?), but I shall plow on to the final curtain. It seems that artists hoping for (financial) renumeration may be heading for hard times at least on projects organised by borough councils.

*artist exits amid smoke, a distant fanfare fades*

Too Many Artists (gibberish from my basement studio also posted in the comments section of the Market Project website under "Too Many Artists")

2011-08-29T12:15:00.001-07:00

I was thinking about this problem today. Yes indeed there are many, many artists and I have been at the vanguard of those seeking a final solution.

As a bit of lazy research I tapped "my latest painting" into twitter and started to peruse the thousands of results. The rage was huge. I meant to say 'range' there, but decided to leave it.

Also very recently I noted the publication of a book entitled "100 New Artists". The idea of 100 new rivals dismayed me, I suffered more than a moment's angst about the artworld's obsession with the new and the next.

I also realised I had stumbled across two quite separate problems.

1. There is too much "art" that either I think is bad or is not "art".

2. There are too many artists (of my sort) who make good (or at least as good as mine) art.

This lead me to think again, but still incoherently about the "too many artists question". I have listed my thoughts in no particular order and without any attempt at structure but more of an illustration of my struggle.

1. "The Deviant Art Problem"

The huge numbers of "unartists" (those who I think are either rubbish or not artists at all) shouldn't really bother me. The fairy porn painter in Cheltenham gets pleasure from her work and others do too. She isn't likely to apply for arts council grant or to take up valuable space in the Tate, (in fact the "unartists" are strong, they don't need the support of the state). We have now a hugely rich visual culture all too visible on the Internet and people like it. In my arrogance much of it gives me something to sneer at (especially if said "unartist" is making a comfortable living from their work). In fact many of these "unartists" have a far wider appeal than I do and probably, and rightfully, would think my stuff wasn't "art" either. Actually they might be more generous than me.

2. "Everyone is an artist"

This is an idea coined by someone very secure in his position, someone with a blackboard and some chalk. Is it only the insecure that don't like this idea?

3. It isn't Brain Surgery

It has been stated on this very site that not everyone can be a Brain Surgeon and therefore not everyone can be an artist. Well yes and no. Anyone can do brain surgery at home too, but it might neither be successful or safe, it might be called something else, like murder. It could be said not anyone can do brain surgery in a hospital (although...) In that sense there is a similarity with art. Not everyone can do art in a respected gallery. They have to be trained (usually) and go through some strange archaic ritual called, I believe, "subscription" or another different ritual which is not like "subscription" at all but gets you to the same point. But everyone can do art at home and it's not likely to do anyone any harm. Unless they try to copy Orlan or give one of us "proper artists" an embolism when we look at their painting of a butterfly-winged dragon with a quote from Proust tattooed on it's tail.

4. Certification

There is this idea that artists should be trained, literate etc., have read certain texts and be able to apply them to their work (as if this will help), and to have some sort of certificate. I for one don't like the idea of someone without such rigour in their lives taking bread out of my mouth. Let's call these people "artists". Of course there are naifs and the insane but they are in a different category and no threat to me and neither are the "unartists".

5. An Aside

Successful "artists" (see point 4 above) should make good art. Nice idea but clearly untrue.

6. A Conclusion

So in conclusion (if I can be allowed to draw a conclusion from such a collection of unconnected so called thoughts)

There is a paranoia amongst my kind (the "artists") that the "unartists" are somehow to blame for our lot. But they are scapegoats, it is we who are the problem.

So, what is at the heart of my desire to cull "artists"? Is it that I feel I have some sort of superior right to funding, sales, attention? Is it that I believe that all these other "artists" are diluting that pot of cash or standing in the way of recognition?
If so I am not part of the solution, I am part of the problem and I have to accept I am one of the "too many".

If I am to complain and say we have too many "artists" I can only aim my machine gun at "my sort" of artist and I must stand against the wall myself. This metaphor makes it hard for me to pull the trigger and hopefully you get point.

By the way the Asimov story ended badly.

Alex Pearl

The Future is Orange.

2011-08-28T10:16:00.001-07:00

Broomhill Lido looked lovely in the sun. From the entrance you can see the changing rooms on the left, blue for boys, pink for girls. We walked around it and into the deserted and beautiful Broomhill Park before returning home clutching an armful of seeding weeds. I felt a little guilty as we slunk past the finely manicured gardens of Ivry street as handfuls of downy weed seed floated nonchalantly over hedges and gates.

I have recently been commenting on posts on the Market Project website a sort of research forum set up by Alistair Gentry, Julie Freeman, David Kefford and others (my typing thumb is tiring). As I am now redundant my interest in how artists survive is piqued by necessity. The link (for those interested) is on the top right of this blog. I have also just discovered an organisation called Arts & Business. I'm not sure exactly what they do but I suppose there is a clue in their title. There is a tang of Cameron's big society on the website. Case studies cover Dame Vivien Duffield's philanthropy (Royal Opera House, Deal Festival, Watts Gallery) and her reward (prince Charles Medal) and how to volunteer to support the arts. Also I think they are encouraging business to grow links with the arts. It's all very well but it does seem unlikely that anyone will volunteer to help with my next show or that Siemens will sponsor the drinks. I know, my selfish attitude doesn't help. Back in the nineties I was delighted to be a finalist in the Hunting Art Prize. There were promises of a huge cash reward and even sales. I didn't know they were arms dealers and nuclear ones at that. I even had a CND badge back then. By sponsoring the arts, I suppose, The Hunting group hoped to what? Improve their image? (I doubt that was an issue). Avoid some tax? (possibly, I'll ask my dad) probably just someone on the board or their spouse liked art and fancied having a prize. I'm not passing comment but really just want to point out that art and business appear awkward partners. But then again is that an old fashioned view? One of my favourite paintings is the Arnolfini Wedding Portrait. Did VanEyck worry about Arnolfini's dealings?Actually it is possible they were friends.

Anyway, as the fruit on the window suggest, it pays to be hopeful.

There is an Asimov short story in which a nuclear physicist goes to see a numerologist to improve his career. The numerologist turns out to be a statistician who advises him to change the first letter of his name. That is as far as I have got. I will report the result tomorrow.

Alex Hearl

We will fix it (wrong mice)

2011-08-28T05:49:00.001-07:00

Sunday is cinders day. In the spirit of postwar make do and mend I am dyeing my shoes blue in order to give them a new lease of life. I am also darning my jumper. Actually it isn't my jumper, it was abandoned some time ago (by persons or person unknown) in my old studio, perhaps because it was rather moth-eaten. There are seven holes, I have darned three, and I have to say I am becoming steadily more proficient. Soon we will take a stroll down to The Broomhill Lido for a recce and to pick some rosebay willow-herb for Annabel's experiments. My application to Middlesex has been received and no doubt instantly shredded.

Alex Pearl

Alan, Blogger won't let me comment on my own blog. (so here is a reply)

2011-08-27T12:58:00.000-07:00

Ah hello, it was the W that threw me (otherwise I might have guessed). Superheroes usually need very little to hide their true identities. I remember your attempts to teach that chip to understand wordprocessing commands with great fondness and made sure it crept into one of my films. Thanks for the moss offer, I must admit to having cheated having spliced a fresh sample on top of the old (I am not sure of my technical terms here) as you can see I too have a penchant for parentheses.

Paranoia

2011-08-27T05:33:00.001-07:00

Annabel received a letter from her mother this morning. I know this because it had "Alzheimer's" stamped on it. I was hoping to get some post too, but did not. Paypal have frozen my account again due to "suspicious activity" and have promised to send me a letter with a code in it. The activity as far as I can see is buying 1970s matchbox cars and a water bottle for my bike (all under £2). How suspicious is this? But, I suppose as we hear of anti psychotics in Nurofen plus packets and the approach of 9/11's tenth birthday, a little healthy paranoia is inevitable. I did get an email from the lovely Helen Dearnley who was trying to set up an art project in Lincoln. Unfortunately the funding has not been forthcoming and my little residency is quite undone. Let's hope my other projects do not suffer the same fate.

Suspicious?

I have had two interesting comments on previous posts by a mysterious figure signing themselves AWC. Who are you?

Alex Pearl

Blockage

2011-08-26T05:54:00.001-07:00

It is raining as it has been since late last night. One of the downpipes is blocked causing a cataract at the side of the house. I think it may be caused by the roots of a fern that has gained purchase some four metres from ground level. I like the hopefulness of this image and fear it may not survive the application of heavy duty drain cleanser. There are a couple more opportunities to look into this morning, visiting lectureships. Also I have a meeting next week with Greg from the council to finalise filming at Broomhill Lido and perhaps another little job in Ipswich. My only worry is that Greg did not mention payment (for the other little job) and will want my services for free or at most for the joy of publicity. I am happier about other upcoming events: Pulp Fictions at Transition, Sluice art fair, Mayfair and Creative Machines Minimalist Sculpture, Birmingham seem, at least potentially more lucrative, but we shall see.

The bins were emptied this morning, which was a relief.

Alex Pearl (redundant artist)

Annie on the Stairs

2011-08-25T02:38:00.001-07:00

I am hanging around the house more than usual and noticing new things. The house, like the mice on the mouse organ must have had this life in my absence but now I am witness. On the stairs to the basement hangs a cast of "L'Inconnue de la Seine"
Her face familiar from those resuscitation dummies one practiced kissing on in the Scouts. Yesterday whilst filling time between coffees and light tidying, I passed the stairs and was entranced by her face. She was bathed in a cool morning light and looked most peaceful.

Alex Pearl (still redundant)

I am

2011-08-25T02:23:00.001-07:00

I am redundant. I have no job. I am a self employed artist. I have a significant (for me) amount of money in a secret off shore bank account. I have a house to sell and am slowly but persistently hocking my possessions on eBay.

My current situation is what I would call interesting (although I am not sure my mother would agree with such a cavalier assessment). My savings, I think, will give me a comfortable life for one or two years, during which time I must make my fortune or find alternative employment.

My plans include:
1. Applying for residencies hither and thither.
2. Looking for visiting lectureships thither and hither
3. Becoming a world renowned artist.
4. Continue in my role as Ipswich's only bicycle messenger (unadvertised)
5. Keeping a diary of my adventures. For what else is there for a dilettante artist to do?

So far I have managed:

1. To apply for a fashion residency in Vienna (something was lost in translation).
2. To use emotional blackmail on all my acquaintances in a position to give me work.
3. To apply for and fail to get all commissions etc advertised by the Film & Video Umbrella and Animate Projects.
4. Deliver parcels to, and collect them from, the post office.
5. Trying to make moss grow in a car, easy when you don't want it, difficult when you do.

Alex Pearl (still unemployed)