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 I don't get writer's block anymore. My problem is there aren't enough hours in the day for sleeping and writing. That and the fact that over the years I've been conflicted with Catholic guilt (and I'm not even a Catholic) about the ethics of writing an online journal (I delete it every now and again when it gets too much), and the ethics of writing full stop. Still, there are plenty of really good journals out there written by people I admire, so if it's alright for them, it's alright for me.

I’m glad you understand what you think I said but I’m not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant.

 Anonymous

29/07/10

I've been getting into my accordion. After months of staring at it, walking round it, moving it around the house and generally working up the courage (and to be fair, finding the time as I was quite busy for a while) to start playing it, I had my first lesson yesterday. We covered a lot: learning any musical instrument is profoundly physical; I'd forgotten just how much so. Even though my accordion is quite small and light, it's still like holding a two-year-old, so you have to be aware of how to hold it, where to put your hands, how to have the straps, how and when to work the bellows, which on my accordion are still quite stiff... We also talked about how to stand and sit with it - legs more or less 180 degrees apart (well, not quite, but let's just say the short summer dress I was wearing would have been mighty unwise in broader company)... We also got to make some noise. Having discovered the C and D chord buttons I can now do an oom-pah bassline while working the bellows, so my homework is to keep practicing those left hand movements with the bellows and bass buttons. I don't want to get ahead of myself as I do feel - and sound - a bit clumsy (as when learning to drive, I was reminded of how terribly unco-ordinated I am when having to use both hands at once). However, because I'd labelled all the keys, I found I was able to play Alouette with her, so I was astounded to come away after my first lesson able to make a sound and play a passable tune, melody and bass. And all without too much theory: we didn't look at a note of sheet music, although that's bound to come at some point. 

I can't help but compare myself as a learner now, with when I was a kid. As a six-year-old I took to the recorder so quickly and easily I can't even remember learning, but as a kid you tend not to dwell on stuff like that; it doesn't occur to you, you just get on and do it. Having evolved into an adult who reflects rather too much much - about everything - I hope I don't hamper my own progress. The good thing is that I'm less afraid of the instrument now and of the prospect of learning something new. I've only had one lesson and I've no idea where this is going to go, but so far my teacher seems fab; she's been playing the accordion for thirty years and not only can she play some mesmerising stuff but she's dead unpretentious and un-precious about it. If I get to play some French chansons and Tiger Lilies music, I'll be happy. Listening to this, this, this and this earlier (all Tiger Lilies songs are a bit rum), I had more of a sense of how that sound comes out. I've tried looking for some Tiger Lilies sheet music, but there's none available, so it seems.

I've been very good with alcohol lately, only drinking red wine sensibly with food (get me, all grown up). But this makes me want to drink gin (even though she dies at the end!). This book is on my Amazon wishlist. 

This lady has been in the news a bit lately (including Deborah Orr's column in the Guardian, where she spells her name wrongly):

Any excuse to post a pic.

26/07/10

About a week and a half ago - it was before MH went away to Germany - I felt myself ovulating: a funny little pinching sensation that always makes me lean forward and clutch the edge of this desk, or stop whatever it is I'm doing. At the time I thought I might be mistaken as it seemed too early on in my cycle. However, I wasn't mistaken as yesterday I started my period, only 19 days since the last day of my last period. I wasn't expecting it for a few days yet and, again, it took me by surprise. 

Looking back there were clues, but these days I tend only to recognise them in retrospect. I wanted sweets - cake, biscuits, chocolate*. On Saturday night we went to see Simon Callow The Man from Stratford** at the Taunton Brewhouse, a lovely theatre with a bar/ restaurant, where I had my first alcohol in over two weeks - a large glass of red wine, with food, no less: mushroom stroganoff and salad. Yesterday, however, I woke up feeling dehydrated and hungover, even though I hadn't felt particularly drunk the night before (mind you, it had been a hot night)... Then yesterday we were out again for a birthday meal. I had roast beef (thought I ought to eat some meat - although they don't make it easy in this country, beef is seldom cooked well; it was chewy and a bit tough), with another glass of red wine. The meal was quite a large one (as Sunday roasts often are) and when we got back I had a post-prandial lie down. Waking up, I discovered I'd started my period.  It was as if it was saying, "Right. You've had your fun, it's my turn now."

I felt tired and weak and useless for the rest of the day. It was too hot to go outside so I stayed in and watched The Three Musketeers, a film I always enjoyed as a kid, but it was interesting this time to watch it with new eyes. It might be my period talking, bringing out my inner bitter cynic, but it annoyed me that while the male characters got to swagger around with their dirty great swords hanging out, fighting and winning and solving problems and generally being successful, the female characters were presented as insipid and simpering sex objects, heaving bosoms on legs, particularly Raquel Welch who, as if not drippy and dippy enough, seemed to embody the role of clumsy stooge who kept dropping and bumping into things. Even the fight between her and M'Lady at the end couldn't be resolved without Michael York coming to the rescue and resolving it for them. There was also a weird bit in the middle of the film where Michael York appeared to be fighting someone while holding an electric lamp...  A horrid film, very much of its time, I think. No wonder feminism came into its own in the seventies. Even the Carry On films gave women the upper hand while the men looked ridiculous. This one tried to have its cake and eat it.

Anyway, shortly after that I watched Top Gear, which I normally enjoy, but this too succeeded in annoying me. I mean, who buys that Cameron Diaz and Tom Cruise bagged the two topspots on the Star in the Reasonably-Priced Car leader board? I don't. Knowing the ego on that man, I wouldn't be surprised if it was conditional to him appearing on the show: "Yeah, I'll do it, as long as I'm top of the board." People say Jonathan Ross is sycophantic, but Jeremy Clarkson plumbs depths hitherto unfathomed.   

This is a lovely talk from Ted.com. See, I'm not all bad.

*I've also been wanting cheese, fried food and cola. So I've given in. Today I had pizza (Florentina).

** Lovely, lovely. I could listen to him recite Shakespeare all day. He came into the foyer afterwards and I could have spoken to him, but chose to worship him from a distance.

23/07/10

Michael Sowa - Pig In Soup.

For some reason this image kept coming to mind. I knew I had a postcard of it somewhere, but after trawling boxes and boxes of old postcards, greeting cards and letters I've amassed over the years (and I've kept virtually everything I've ever been sent, archivist that I am), I couldn't locate it. And the thing was, I couldn't remember the title of it or the name of the painter, so in the end I typed "pig in a soup dish painting" into Google Images, and lo and behold. I'm convinced I still have the postcard somewhere - I must have had it out sometime before and put it somewhere I thought safe at the time. 

While searching, I came across some Quint Buchholz postcards. His images are pretty surreal too. I think I was spurred into checking them out because I'm still feeling pretty insecure about the Grayson Perry project. I have to submit the proposal for it in a couple of weeks, and as usual when embarking on something new there's a feeling of "Oh my God!". MH has pointed out that that's as it should be, and I know he's right, but... I  happen to know that Grayson Perry is at the Port Eliot festival this weekend. We're unable to go - not that I mind too much, as I'm not sure the artist himself is the best person to to ask about what I need. Also, I'm never one really for meeting famous people. I never want to bother them, or inflict myself upon them.

I think Pig in Soup is a great painting, but not really suitable for my project, I don't think.

Richard Herring's journal is always interesting (I read a couple of comedians' blogs and I take my hat off to how they manage to make a living out of being on the road - how any freelancer in the showbiz/ arts world manages), but this week has been no exception. I particularly identified with his description of the drunken man on the tube train. Trains seem fertile ground for that type of behaviour; I suppose the odds are fairly high when so many people are forced within such close proximity. The bit when the drunk man tells Richard Herring to tell him a joke is a joke in itself, blatantly ridiculous. I think it was Bob Monkhouse who said, if you were at a party and met a gynaecologist you wouldn't ask him/ her to take a look at your wife. People don't say, "Oi, you, farmer! Milk me a cow!" or "Oi! Teacher! Teach me a lesson!" I like to think that if I'd been there I'd have supported him, but it's a tough call.

Herring also talks about the Fosters Comedy God Award. It's not cool to like Michael McIntyre but he's popular. I guess my favourites on there are Tim Minchin, Bill Bailey, Dara O'Briain and Flight of the Conchords. Russell Howard seems like a really nice guy, and some of his stuff is funny. But I find his seven-year-old primary school kid schtick irritating, those naff little anecdotes from his childhood he inevitably trots out on Mock the Week. I just want to tell him to stop it. 

Oh, this dress is beautiful. When it comes to evening dresses, gold is a good colour.

Just because.

21/07/10

I've been getting into TED.com. There's loads of fascinating content on there, so I've subscribed. To do so I had to think of a username, which took some time. Eventually I did, but it occurred to me afterwards when it was too late that I could have called myself Ivan Ellovanitch, which would have been appropriate as the bites on my legs are still giving me itchy grief (my poor legs look like I've been running through bramble bushes). Or I could have called myself Nastychestykov. He was a Russian who played chess, you know.

Calamine lotion, that's what I need (why did I feel the need to look that up on Wikipedia?) I don't care if it works or not, the smell of it is worth it alone. And if it comes from the fridge, all the better. Ooh, the bliss of fridge-chilled Calamine.

Anyway, the items I've watched on TED.com so far are 10 things you didn't know about orgasm (I know, I know - but she's cool), and a performance by They Might Be Giants, one of whom plays an accordion. The only song of theirs I know is Birdhouse in Your Soul, which they don't play there, although the songs they do play are good. I find them really interesting.

I admit, I am a bit scared of my accordion. It's been sat like a small animal crouching in the corner of the living room for months now and I'm like, "Yikes! It's an accordion!" BUT I did make the brave step of ringing the accordion teacher I met at the wedding last month, and we've arranged provisionally to meet next week (she said she might have to re-schedule as they're off on holiday the next day, which is fine; I'm just glad to have made the first step). She wants me to take my iPod recording/ Dictaphone device and get hold of some blank manuscript paper. It's at this point I go a bit rabbit in the headlights. I've not done owt like this since I was at school.

This morning I listened to the Today programme on Radio 4, and there was a bit towards the end when Diane Abbott was being interviewed about the Labour leadership contest. I find her inarticulate and lacking in substance at the best of times, so it was no surprise that, when asked about how she reconciled Labour values with sending her son to private school, there was a protracted silence, a linguistic void, a yawning chasm of worldessness so long I thought there was something wrong with the radio, a temporary break in signal or something. In the event, it was somewhat amusing: she obviously can't explain herself on that one, so she's given up. Now, I've nowt against private schools, nowt against them at all. But it is a bit rich when the politicians, who are the ones who've buggered up the state system in the first place, don't have the guts to send their own kids to the local comprehensive, can't even bring themselves to send them to the very schools they deem fit for the rest of us. Even David Cameron recently admitted to being terrified about sending his children to a state secondary school. I mean, if that's the case, what hope is there for everyone else?

Personally, while I would settle for either Milliband as Labour leader, I'd actually vote for Andy Burnham, but he doesn't stand a chance.

Then I listened to Woman's Hour, during which Jenni Murray said that next Wednesday they were devoting the whole programme to the theme of childlessness. Given that most topics covered on Woman's Hour tend to be about some aspect or other of childbirth/ parenthood, this sounds like a refreshing change. Society is indeed obsessed with having kids - newspapers, TV, adverts - visions of the perfect family are everywhere. Which is fine - families are a microcosm of society. I'm all for families, whatever shape or size. But let's have a bit of balance, as those of us who are not parents do exist... I'm intrigued that the vicar and his wife in Rev don't have any kids, and while I wonder whether that's something that will be explained or addressed at some point, I also wonder, well, why should it be? Why should it even be an issue? Why should it automatically be assumed that one will/ ought to/ should become parents? Like marriage, having children was once an economic enterprise. You had children for pragmatic reasons, so they could help support the family work and continue the family line. In that sense, having children really was a business decision, an enterprise; sentiment never really came into it. These days it makes less economic sense, certainly for me, and seems to be over-romanticised.

But then I'm often cast as a mean-spirited princess of darkness. No wonder I want to be Peter Mandleson's fag hag, to dabble in the dark arts with the dark master. Teach me, master. Teach me everything you know...

Today for lunch I had Linda McCartney sausages grilled on the George Formby with sweet potato mash, broccoli  and peas, with Victoria sponge cake afterwards.

I only say that because I wanted to post the link to George Formby.

20/07/10

These are the three photos I've been writing an assignment about, images from Hans Bellmer's 1936 Die Puppe booklet:

At first sight, they're mighty strange. However, I've spent so long looking at them, thinking and writing about them, they seem anything but surreal now. I had to make up my own question, so I've been arguing that it is possible to locate them within the trajectory of feminist art-historical enquiry by relating them to Freud, Lacan and Battaille, and discussing them with reference to feminist writers such as Rosalind Krauss, Judith Williamson, Amelia Jones and Laura Mulvey. Some of the techniques Bellmer used are identical to those of Cindy Sherman, only he was using them 40-50 years earlier, so my argument is that he is entitled to stand alongside female photographers today. The one I've had the most fun with is the second one, with the disrupted male gaze in the background, although the most problematic is the third one. Bellmer's influence on the Chapman brothers is clear, I think... It's amazing what some people used to do with cameras during the first half of the last century. They really understood its language.

Work has wound down for the summer, I'm in between assignments and MH is still away, so things are fairly quiet round here at the moment. I've been walking, reading and crocheting. One of the books I've been reading is this book - Robert Anthony's Ultimate Secrets of Total Self Confidence - or rather re-reading it. I first read it a couple of years ago, and what struck me then was his section on meditation, as I was getting into Buddhism at the time. However, I'd forgotten how brilliant the rest of it is. The reviewer who says he can never get to the end of it because each chapter is so thought-provoking echoes my view. Only for me it's each page. I read a bit and have to put it down because it's like, "Wow!" Some of the concepts are so mind-blowing they need time to take in and absorb. I've read quite a few 'self-help' books in my time, but this one (just ahead of Stephen Covey's The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People) is probably top of the list.

Perhaps it's ironic that I'm not keen on being stared and leered at by blokes, as my newly-dyed hair has been attracting attention. "You look very bright!" said a neighbour (funny how people always state the obvious when it comes to hair). During one of my daily constitutionals an old man called from across the road, "I do like the colour of your 'air! I've always 'ad a passion for red 'eads!" There's a certain type of old man who really does go for red hair. On the very first day of our recent cruise holiday, an old man (he must have been in his eighties) in a lift said, "I do like the colour of your hair, young lady!" And every time we saw him he'd mention it, and would produce old photographs of his sister, who too had red hair. Of all colours, this one stands out in the crowd.  

The French Fancies have all been eaten, and since the oven's still out of action I've not been able to do any baking. However, there's a lovely bakery in town that sells cakes which they bake on the premises, including slices of Victoria sponge, to which I've succumbed. MH has got a lot better lately (while out walking on the beach recently, I went paddling while he sat a distance away, and when I turned round and looked at him, his weight loss was obvious; he looked noticeably slighter), but I eat much differently while he's away. If I'm not careful I'd eat mostly fruit and raw veg (it sounds terribly healthy - I've been doing a lot of quinoa, goats cheese and vegetable salads - but cake is always around, of course), and I have to remind myself to eat meat and fish. It's occurred to me that I perhaps eat too much fruit. I haven't had a drink for ages.

17/07/10

Once again my hair had got to that stage where I couldn't stand it any longer: heavy and lank, hanging in my face, driving me to distraction. So I've been down to the salon for a cut and blow-dry. My grey roots were also extreme but although I wasn't looking forward to covering the bathroom with old sheets and standing naked in front of the mirror for half an hour with aching shoulders, I didn't have my hair coloured as I'm trying to save money. Then my husband, however, bless his dear heart, volunteered to dye it for me - I swear didn't make him. So instead of putting myself through the usual faff and agony, it was a lot more pleasant and comfortable with him pretending to be the hairdresser while I sat in the kitchen. And he did such a good job - he covered everything and the colour is mighty bright - that I may no longer need to have my hair coloured in the salon again! May I recommend Schwartzkopf Live hair dyes - I used the brightest red (the one that colours grey, as some of them don't). I need sunglasses to look in the mirror - bloody hell is it bright.

MH is away in Germany again so I'm on my own for the week. It's been a good opportunity to clean the house and catch up on chores, a long list of them, which has been cathartic. I find that if I'm feeling a bit low, a mega cleaning binge is a good thing for me. If you do it with gusto the endorphins kick in and it's like having a good work-out. I was also in the mood to do some baking, a nice Victoria sponge, but the oven is on the blink, so that wasn't possible. However, with a clean house, washing hung up to dry, and bread baking in the machine, I finally felt able to sit down and continue my assignment. I hear it's a plight of female writers - part of the process involves getting all the household chores done and out of the way as a prelude to concentration. Hence, many of them have clean houses, particularly when about to embark on a project.

Despite the lack of oven, I've still had cake: Sainsbury's do their own brand of French Fancies, which they call fondant fancies, and which I had to try to see how they compare with Mr Kipling's. Apart from the name (and the price - they're thirty pence cheaper) they are absolutely identical in every way; I'd never be able to tell the difference (they even do the same number of each flavour - three chocolate, three pink (strawberry? I still can't quite tell) and only two lemon, which is wrong, I say, wrong...) You can't beat a fondant fancy or three.  

While cleaning, I listened to Jonathan Ross's final radio show, which has been part of my Saturdays ever since it began. I kept reading it had begun ten years ago but I distinctly remember listening to it in 1999 before MH and I got married, in the little house we rented with the wooden floorboards in Canterbury, so it's been at least eleven years. Before it had to be pre-recorded, that show genuinely was an exciting listening experience: knowing he was broadcasting there and then, you never knew what was going to happen next, and could feel him 'in the zone', his mind freewheeling. Kudos to him for playing a Bowie track each week, too (if it had been me it would have been a Kate Bush one, naturally). Then of course, because of a few sanctimonious Daily Mail readers, his wings were clipped, and consequently, those of us who count among his fans are having to go without some of the best radio there's ever been. I mean, my theory is, if you don't like it, don't listen. That's what the off switch is there for... As it is, I've been listening to more and more Radio 3 in the mornings, as my stomach isn't ready at that time of the morning for the economic doom and gloom on Radio 4, it's too early for Lauren Laverne's show on 6 Music (she irritates me a bit but give her her due, she plays some good music), and I really can't stand Chris Evans (talk about scratching down a blackboard - even I'm not that much of a masochist)... We don't like successful people in this country, people don't like folk who have happy lives, do well and earn lots of money. You have to suffer and be in the rubble before people show you any grace. If he'd had cancer and lost all his hair he'd have been canonised.

After I casually remarked that I harbour a secret ambition to be Peter Mandleson's fag hag, I was tickled pink when his book, The Third Man, arrived in the post after MH ordered it from Amazon. So it awaits my attention, which is somewhat amusing as political memoirs aren't usually my genre of choice. Maybe I'll learn something about politics from it, which would be good as that's a subject about which I feel woefully, embarrassingly ignorant... I hope it's a good read and not a dull one, as there's plenty of it. It's a mighty tome, as hardbacks often are - holiday reading, perhaps.

Having mentioned Kate Bush, I felt the need to listen to some. This is one of my favourites from The Red Shoes; I remember it being played in HMV in Sheffield when I went to buy the album on the day it came out - talk about giving me palpitations. Only she could sing 'bullshit' and still sound cute.

13/07/10

Yesterday I went to the doctor's surgery to book a smear test, a task which, given I've had several letters urging me to do so lately, I assumed would be straightforward. It was strange, however. After tapping on her keyboard for a few moments the lady on reception said, "Bear with me a moment," and made a phonecall. When she put the phone down she said, "I'm afraid there aren't any. There's nothing there" - a real 'computer says no' moment which struck me as mighty bizarre. Yet instead of saying something like, "I don't understand, what do you mean there aren't any?" I responded as though what she'd said made utter sense, as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world, and complied with an, "OK"  (maybe subconsciously I was relieved that there were no smear tests - like they'd been magicked away by a good fairy queen)... "I'll have to get the nurse to ring you to arrange a time," she continued, and which, to give credit, she did so last night. I now have a smear test booked for a few weeks' time, so lots to look forward to there.

That's typical of me though. So often, like, almost on a daily basis, something like that will happen where my brain cannot compute or process an occurrence. Someone will say something that's so blatantly stupid and nonsensical, yet instead of speaking up about it I remain silent. It's like I'm totally overwhelmed. I think it's to do with the apparent confidence some people have - the conviction and certainty with which something's done can help people to get away with a lot. They could say "16 Greek greenhouse manifold" and I'd go along with it. It's also a hangover from my childhood - I spent my school days in utter confusion, especially in maths, never knowing what on earth was going on yet not saying anything about it for fear of looking stupid or making a scene. If I didn't understand something it had to be my fault... These days I'm less scared of saying, "I don't understand" or "What do you mean?" Or "What's a NOT gate?" Still need to do it more often, though. 

On Saturday I had a face-to-face tutorial with my tutor and those in the regional group. They're such a great bunch of people I wish it were possible to meet up more often (there's four of us in this immediate area who do meet up informally from time to time without the tutor to discuss things we feel a bit more self-conscious about admitting/ asking in the presence of a larger group and our tutor - although I'm sure our tutor wouldn't really mind us saying basic things like, "I still don't get essentialism or what phantasmagoria is")... It was the first time I admitted in public that I'm one of those weirdos who likes Cindy Sherman's latter work - her so-called 'vomit pictures', where the female body is dissolved into detritus, vomit, slime, menstrual blood and hair (all very base, all very Battailleian):

It was also good to hear about the ideas we've had for our projects as we're all so different, and I needed reassurance about my ideas on Grayson Perry. Whereas much ink has been spilled over Cindy Sherman - feminists have had a field day with her, so much so that it's hardly worth adding any more - the opposite is the case with Grayson Perry (he's not been around so long, I suppose). I had assumed that he'd already be written about to death, that there must be a few papers about him knocking about, but I've been astounded to find there's hardly anything written about him at all - not of a seriously scholarly nature. There's his autobiography (which I've read) and one or two other biographies and coffee-table books containing glossy photos of his work, loads of breezy interviews and magaziney-type articles, profiles and reviews of exhibitions in some of the more popular journals, as well as quite a lot on Youtube, but nothing meaty. I wondered if I wasn't looking hard enough, or not in the right places (although I've trawled the online OU databases and pretty much drawn blanks), but my tutor said  that while she imagined PhD theses were being written as we speak, she'd be surprised if I found much on him at present... She advised me to choose 2-3 of his pots to compare/ contrast, and apply theory - Kristeva and Battaille - which is right up my street, but daunting starting from scratch. Normally you have some sort of safety net, some soft cushioning... We'll see. I might do him, and set myself up as a world authority on Grayson Perry, or I might change my mind and do someone totally different. I'm still in the thick of the third assignment to think about it too heavily just yet. Uuughh...

I was interested to read this about female comedians. I don't know anything about the comedic life, and I don't know whether it's just a matter of women not being as funny as men, but I do think reactions can be different. If you're a slightly cynical woman like myself or have a slightly dry sense of humour, people are quick to point it out and make a feature of it and let it define you, and say you're miserable, negative and mean-spirited (I was recently called 'mean' for saying I thought people on trains were rude - I mean WTF?). We're also criticised for talking about nothing else but bleeding (not that I see a great deal of difference between that and this). And I think women perhaps care too much about what others think - I know I certainly do. We're supposed to be motherly and kind and nurturing. I think we are less competitive - and I think subconsciously we don't want men to be put off. Personally, however, I wish I had the guts to be as dark and bleak as someone like Frankie Boyle - a female version of him would be something to behold (although people would still probably have problems with a woman aping a man's style). Steel beneath the delicate exterior can be powerful. I get the impression American female comedians are more edgy.

Why's everyone giving this man such a hard time? People say I'm mean (although I reserve the right to be mean about people on trains because they are bloody rude), but in this country so many are mean-spirited, nasty and churlish about other people's pay packets. I say he does a vital job and deserves every penny. Good on yer, mate.

Is this the best song Tori Amos has ever recorded? I think so. Give me peace, love, peace, love, give me peace, love and a... yeah.

09/07/10

The sun is still here - I'm amazed. I've got two bites on my left leg and they itch like hell. They've been on fire and I've scratched them so much they've oozed and are now scabbing over, or one is - the other would if I didn't sit in such a way that I keep catching it on the edge of this desk. They look a lot like the mosquito bites I had in Italy last year... I LOVE this light, it's enchanting. Aesthetically it's really worth getting excited about, although I can't sit and sizzle and bake in it; I always wear a hat and sunglasses (although I let my legs go bare), so I shall forever be pale. I'm not sure a tan would suit my colouring.

I'm writing another assignment (they keep on rollin'). This one's about the surrealist photography of Hans Bellmer. I have had to construct my own title this time, and it's caused me much head-scratching, but I've got one (hopefully it is suitably sophisticated). So far I'm at the stage where I have a beautiful mess of random sentences, half-sentences, words and quotations in no particular order, a large lump of clay which I have to mould and sculpt into a recogniseable coherent form. As usual, it comes to me in dribs and drabs, typically when I'm doing something else.

I also have to construct a question for an up-coming tutorial about my up-coming project, which so far I think will be about Grayson Perry. Mind you, much as I like him, I fear I might be choosing him for the wrong reason - he's such a flamboyant, likeable character, but I don't know a great deal about his work, other than he does pots with disturbing images on them. I've been so busy with the current assignment that I haven't had much chance to think about him or search for information. Most of his work seems to be snapped up by private collectors, so I don't think there are that many on public display (does the Saatchi Gallery have some?)... The only question I can think of so far is, 'Grayson Perry is nice, bless 'im. Discuss.' But I don't think my tutor will go for that... One of the people in my tutor group suggested I email him, but I always get cold feet with that sort of thing, and I'm sure he's always being bothered by the likes of me, by everyone. Besides, I don't know what to ask him yet.

I was stared at again in the pub the other night - it's as if some of those men never get to see women under forty any more. Perhaps I'm at an age when they think it's OK to leer - not too young, not too old. Some men seem to think we women like being leered at - but it's horrible. I mean, it's OK to look discretely, but don't make it obvious. I look at people, but for different reasons. Last weekend in town I saw an older woman - in her 60s/ 70s - wearing a strapless cotton sun-dress and no bra. Now, this might seem OK, but she was a BIG woman, and her dress left absolutely nothing to the imagination. You could see everything she had: they were big and pendulous - hanging down to her waist. My first thought was how could a woman of that size possibly manage without a bra. I'm big enough but nowhere near as big as that, and I certainly can't. And then I thought, it's a free world, she's not hurting anyone, I guess she can do what she likes, and I admired her lack of self-consciousness. But how come she can walk down the street and no one bats an eyelid, whereas if I walked around dressed like that there'd probably be uproar. Even in this hot weather I still prefer my shoulders covered.

Vivienne Westwood is 69:

She looks fantastic. I LOVE what she's wearing there. I hope I look as interesting when I'm 69.

That Vivienne Westwood pink strapless  polka-dot dress Jane Goldman wore to the premiere of the film she co-wrote the screenplay for is for sale on Net-a-Porter. Or it was - it's mostly sold out now. Not that it makes much difference to me - the price is eye-watering; I could never justify that (well, maybe if I was getting married again and I was feeling flush I might talk myself into it - at least it would be re-useable -  but then again: £800 for a dress feels like an oxymoron to me...).

Watching the Tour de France last night it occurred to me that Lance Armstrong is probably the most manly of manly names there is - even more the ultimate porn star name than Vince Cable.

Prince says the internet is dead. Has he tried checking to see if his computer's plugged in? He might have to re-boot, or jiggle the cable around a bit (fnaar fnaar) - or failing that, RTFM.

07/07/10

Doing an MA in art history is remarkably like doing a literature degree, except instead of having to read massive tomes (I got into modern poetry in the end) we look at paintings, photographs, sculptures, installations and architecture. I used to think there was less to 'read' in them, but I'm coming round to the idea of seeing art-objects too as a 'text' in which there is much to be 'read', many layers to peel away. There's certainly lots to read in terms of surrounding literature. I have been reading articles well-known in the lit. crit. world, stuff by Laura Mulvey and Barbara Creed - I dug out my old copy of her legendary 'Alien and the Monstrous Feminine', article, which I had tucked away in an old file. Mulvey too makes some good points about ‘… the difficulty of the body, and above all the female body, while it is subjected to the narratives of fetishism’;  ‘… it is the female body that has come, not exclusively but predominantly, to represent the shudder aroused by liquidity and decay’; ‘The human psyche thrives on the division between surface and secret…’ I've also discovered the title of a chapter in a book which I'd like to read: 'Body Horror? Food (and Sex and Death) in Women's Art' by Rosemary Betterton. She's nailed it right there for me: all the stuff I'm interested in in a sentence. 'Female bodily wastes are seen as the true source of repugnance, not least because they reveal what cosmetics work to conceal.' No surprises that Cindy Sherman and Laura Mulvey are mentioned there.

I'm still keen on this photo for the living room, but MH isn't keen...

One of my fellow students read the very first MA essay I'd written last year and described it as 'Whoosh!' I guess I like my essays to be like Chekov's idea of a short story - like swallowing a shot of vodka: short, sharp, clean and firery, packing a punch and making you feel unsteady. That's one of the reasons why I call this site 'Under Ice' - that sensation of a quick plunge in ice is what I try to emulate through prose. It's how I like to write (plus, where there's ice you also quite often get alcohol...) But I'm learning to write more like a leisurely, scholarly glass of Burgundy or Claret. Smooth, slow, rich, velvety, wallowing in the experience...

Reading articles second time round, they do get easier. What seems oblique and inaccessible at first begins to make more sense. My essays certainly seem more simplistic on subsequent reading. After my terrible mark (43%), my most recent essay shows I'm heading in the right direction (65%). It was nice to get marks into the 90s before, but this unit is where the real learning is being done. I seem to learn best through abject failure and humiliation - in a way I think I crave it; it feels more authentic somehow. I'm one of those classic cases who doesn't really trust my own success, and feel safer with failure; perhaps I'm a little too comfortable with it. I've certainly learnt to make friends with it - Beckett's 'fail better' philosophy has been a big help, my mantra: it is better to have tried and failed, than not to have tried at all. So much out there will try to stop you attempting to what you really want, especially when it comes to writing. The writing world is full of doom-mongerers and nay-sayers. Well, they can all fuck off. It is up to me to create myself, to determine myself and my world. Rejection and failure are the first steps to success.

My husband seems to be undergoing a bit of a transformation. Having been under the weather and listless for a week or so, he also had to keep taking his glasses off while working at his computer. Yesterday he went to have his eyes checked out and the optician said his eyesight has actually improved. So he's on the lookout for new glasses - either a pair that will make him look even more like Heston Blumenthall, or something that won't. Cutler and Gross is a beautiful site which sells beautiful glasses. That pair she's wearing there (with the red frames) - I want a pair of those... MH has also lost quite a bit of weight and is getting more food-conscious than I am (not that that would take much effort).

Rev is the best thing on TV at the moment. It's dark, edgy (yes, I will use that word) and realistic. We need more progs like this, as opposed to that creepy Curtis stuff, Dibley and all.

I for one will miss Wossy on the telly - or on iPlayer, as I'm now used to watching his show -  I don't care what anyone says. On his show this week was Tim Minchin, who I always enjoy  - it's like looking at myself in the mirror each morning. His song about Jane probably echoes the feelings of quite a few.

And I've worked out why I like the Tour de France - the merging of body and machine. Those guys are awesome.

05/07/10

The sweet breeze on sticky skin: needless to say, it's been open-skylight in the bedroom at night recently. The top of the house gets hotter and more humid than the rest, significantly. However, this means we're at the mercy of the seagulls, who, apart from half an hour or so between 2.30 and 3.00 never really stop sqawking. They make some serious noise: it's like having a drunken opera singer screeching Wagner or experimental modern opera outside your window all night. For relatively small creatures they've got bloody powerful lungs, and when there's a multiplicity of them, they make a mighty chorus. Like that bit from Verdi's requiem -  the Dies Irae. So we've had to resort to earplugs, which I'm gradually getting the hang of putting in -my ear canals seem to veer off in funny directions, and change every time. But when they're in, I think I could sleep through anything (I sometimes even put them in when I'm studying, to help eliminate distractions). I like this site.

My 'little and often' gardening policy has dwindled to 'little and not very often', alas. However, yesterday I was an earth mother for a day. I woke up, brushed my teeth, put my contacts in, threw on my old jeans and an old t-shirt, and went straight out into the garden - no shower, no make-up or anything. I worked up a good old sweat catching up on chores: strimmed the lawn, trimmed the gorse bush, gave the pot plants a good watering, did a bit of weeding, tidied the borders, potted some geranium clippings, and generally pottered about (KBO, as Churchill used to say - keep buggering on)... By the time I'd finished (it started to rain) I smelt rather ripe - you couldn't really tell where the garden ended and I began. But did I have a shower? - oh no! I had lunch, did some sorting in the spare room, and hoovered all over the house. I then did some yoga stretches and rowing - by the time I had a shower it was 18.00 (Pimm's o'clock).

The more time I spend in the garden, the more I love it (even though I'm the world's crappest gardener - I've decided to stick mostly to herbs, geraniums and roses. I know where I am with those). It could be an exquisite little space, especially if I manage to sort the lawn out (it needs some serious TLC, it's patchy, weed-ridden, parts of it are dead, in fact). Patio doors from the downstairs living/ dining area would make the garden feel like an extra room. We can eat out there already, but it would feel more natural with doors opening straight on to it. Wisteria shall also definitely play a part somewhere.

I read that Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson recently got married -  a couple of years ago, or so. There's something about older people getting married that seems extra sweet somehow (I'm always surprised when older men marry older women: somewhat cynically, I tend to imagine they always go for identikit glamorous blondes, Britney Spears lookalikes)... But anyone going to a concert involving Laurie Anderson ought to have known not to expect Walk on the Wild Side and Perfect Day (Satellite of Love is perhaps my fave of his). If she's done a concert for dogs, she may be interested in a symphony of seagulls.

01/07/10

So yes, I had started my period after all. I guess there was no mistaking that tiredness, which had me flat out, dragging me deep into the mattress, bone-heavy. What was unexpected however, was its quiet arrival, so shy, timid and unassertive this time -  no sobbing, no despair, no moods - when normally it imposes itself onto my being like a vuvuzela. Unusual, but a good thing... My husband gave me a box of French Fancies - he knows just the right thing to do sometimes. I let him have one of the lemon ones, of course.

Last night in the pub (we go sometimes to read) I became aware of a man staring at me.  It really was an obvious, full-on kind of stare, which he maintained as he stood up and walked to the bar. I made a comment to MH about it, who said, "Oh yeah, I saw him staring at you as we came in." This depressed me, baffled and bemused me in equal measure. I just don't get it. Not only do I smell at the moment, but I've got bad skin, and my grey roots are showing. Kelly Brook I am not (she's the only attractive woman I can think of off the top of my head - apart from Angelina, of course. Oh, and Christina Hendricks)... I don't go around courting attention, in fact, I'd rather be anonymous and invisible most if the time - I'd rather observe than be observed. Being stared at, especially by lecherous old men (he looked a bit like Max Clifford) makes me feel highly uncomfortable. I also felt sorry for his wife, who was sat next to him (I presumed she was his wife as they held hands as they walked out).

There's a shop in town I haven't been able to go into for months now because one of the men who works there (in fact, I think he owns the shop) does the same thing - stares at me in an obvious and sustained way. What is it with some men? Do they have no self awareness? Have they not seem women before - daft question I know: I've seen him around with his wife/ partner and young baby.

Rosalind Krauss (who wrote Bachelors - an incredible book) has been described by one of my fellow students as having 'delicate, exquisite thought processes - like an intricate lace cloth'. So true, and beautifully put. I'm learning that the high-end academic writing contains some fabulous word-manipulation. What she (and other writers) sees in Cindy Sherman is just awe-inspiring. Disrupting conditions of viewing, the non-locateable gaze, formlessnes. I didn't know that Cindy Sherman worked with Babes in Toyland in the 1990s, appearing in the video for this song (typically, she's hard to locate). I love all that stuff.

I love this dress and this one, but I have no money to spend on things like that at the moment.

30/06/10

I was wondering why I was feeling so tired, when I had no particular reason out of the ordinary, and then this morning it seemed I'd started my period. I'm a bit doubtful as it's just a trace, a bit of spotting, and four days earlier than expected, so it may be a false alarm. And funnily enough, heavy fatigue has been the only real symptom so far (apart from a bodily smell which thankfully only I could discern, but I put it down to the heat and sprayed myself with extra perfume)... I've not been rabid or stroppy or grouchy or moody, or even hungrier than usual - and that is strange... So we shall see. Maybe I have, maybe I haven't. This lady's story is just awful.

My studies have been especially engaging and inspiring this unit, and I've been reading some fantastic articles about Cindy Sherman, Claude Cahun and Hans Bellmer. Some of the writing is so brilliant it must take years of practice, and I can't hope to emulate it. It goes without saying a lot of thinking goes into this stuff, but some of it really does articulate ideas I'd find so hard to put into words, or that's fluttering on the periphery of my awareness, my consciousness. That's what writing is, I guess, putting words where there were no words before...  And I've really only just started. No wonder it's hard, it's not having it: I've got to earn my place, to gain its trust. Who am I to expect it to come and meet me? I'm intruding on its territory. It's like picking up an accordion and expecting to play it perfectly straight away.

Some of the themes I've been encountering are mind-blowing - right up my alley. I surfed some of this stuff as an undergrad, having to read texts like Literature in the Modern World (still on my shelf) and just not being able to get it. I thought it was the biggest load of pretentious tosh ever. I wanted to read literature, not literature about literature. Little did I know I was dismissing all the biggest thinkers of the 20th century out of hand, but my head wasn't there. I remember sitting in lectures sometimes barely being able to understand a word. Much of it was to do with confidence and identity - God knows how I got my degree in the end. Now I've grown up a bit, and understand just a little bit more, and I've realised that the idea of rendering the invisible visible, that of 'the exploded body' is what I've been interested in all along.

I was relieved we didn't win the football. I'm no expert on sport, but it seems to me we don't really deserve to win anything at the moment because our national psychology is wrong, as is our work ethic, and the media. We've got to let go of this World War 2/ 1966 rubbish - it's not serving us. Sport doesn't owe us anything; some re-wiring is needed.

The other night I watched Rev, which I thought was really good, and of course couldn't resist the title of this piece, which contains an interesting discussion from where I clicked on the link to this pic, which is so good it's worth posting:

The video to the song is here. It had me wondering why they didn't do it in a church. Religion is an odd thing. I don't define myself as 'religious', but Rome really brought out the proddy in me.

26/06/10

Most Mr Kipling cakes I can take or leave, apart from his cherry Bakewells and his French fancies (my husband and I both like the lemon ones best). I've always had a bit of a thing about those French fancies - they look like dollies' cakes, and take me back to my childhood, and are so more-ish, with the distinctively-flavoured and almost-but-not-quite-sickly-sweet icing, soft sponge and sugary fondant filling at the top. Mmmm, they're lovely.

Anyway, I know I'm a bit behind the times, but I never realised that there was such a thing as a giant French Fancy until today. I couldn't contain my excitement in the supermarket:

I like the way it's surrounded with little French fancies, to give a sense of scale. Made me think that for a doll, a normal-sized French fancy would probably feel as large as the giant French fancy appears to us...  Plus, there's something rather breast-like about that giant French fancy (reminds me of nipples of Venus - Rococo is just the perfect name for a chocolatier). I wonder if they do a giant one in lemon.

I've never been to the Glastonbury Festival and am never likely to as I have a feeling it would irritate the hell out of me (any festival which would have had U2 headlining immediately raises my alarm bells), but today we did go to a world music festival at Dartington Hall, near Totnes - a lovely setting, especially so in this fabulous weather. MH was knackered, bless him, and so we spent much of the time we were there under a tree, him dozing and me reading. It was also great for people-watching - distinctive-looking people always turn out in force at festivals, and Totnes/ Dartington has its own fair share of extreme hair dye and flowery dresses. There's something especially fearsome and formidable about Totnesian women - a sort of "piss me off at your peril look", as if they've just come through heavy therapy and have launched themselves back into the world with a vengeance. And for a hippy-type experience, I'm always aghast at how expensive everything is, and the froideur of customer service on the stalls. Like, we're happy to buy into their product, give them money for their produce, support their enterprise, and yet a smile seems like the biggest hassle for them. What's that all about?

Still, there was great music, nice ice cream and it was just lovely to sit under a tree with my gorgeous husband and watch blackbirds hop by.   

"I'm only human and therefore not without faults," he said, "but at least I don't stink up the place with arcs and paradigms. My approach to dramatic structure is to play Duke Ellington's 1940 version of Harlem Air Shaft, which contains all you need to know about dramatic structure, if you have ears to listen." I don't know if that was his attempt to avoid dissecting his craft, and I can't work out if it's pretentious or not, but that quote from this Alan Plater obituary made me want to listen to it. So it's here.

After having gone every year for ten years until 2007, it's time for another smear test. It's been so lovely not having to think about it these last three years, but now it's back to it... I went a couple of months ago but it was difficult, and I was out of practice, and she didn't manage to get anything. So the NHS keep hassling me with letters: "I am writing to invite you to come for cervical screening as your next test is now due. Your previous results make it very important that you come for a test..." I suppose I shall have to go - and I will (after my next period). But I bloody hate it. Last time, MH came with me, and he and the nurse tried so hard to put me at ease it sort of had the opposite effect. The nurse thought she could distract my attention by talking to me and asking me questions, but I now realise that I need quiet, so I can concentrate on relaxing while a strange woman shoves a horrible contraption up my fanny and scrapes around a bit. Where's Paul Mckenna when you need him? 

24/06/10

On Sunday we went to Buckland Abbey again, where they have several walking routes throughout the grounds. The bluebell forest is one of my favourite places in the world, and while we were too late for the bluebells this year, the foxgloves didn't disappoint:

This little butterfly fluttered along with us for some of the way:

And this sheep seemed happy to pose for us for quite a while:

On Saturday we went to an incredible Totnesian wedding. At the church they had Pimm's with fruit and little purple flowers in it, which we drank while waiting for the bride. When the priest said, "I now pronounce you husband and wife", streamers poured from the ceiling, and we were all covered in confetti (lots of it in my product-laden hair). At the house where the reception was held, I've never known so much champagne in abundance, and a band with a woman playing an accordion (yay!). Two yurts on the lawn were furnished as a harem, with dozens of cushions and low tables laden with Moroccan-style food - spicy dishes with salads and breads - and loads more wine, with cakes, Turkish delight and little pastries afterwards (trust me to roll around in it - with my ample bosom I leaned over my plate, resulting in a red streak down the front of my dress). After food, there was a belly dancer, and more music from the band. With the weather being what it's been, it was a terrific day. Plus, I've found myself an accordion teacher. She says she can get me playing French chansons in a month (lessons due to start sometime over the summer, when we're both available) - although of course that very much remains to be seen.

I've submitted the second essay for this unit. After getting an embarrassingly low mark for my last assignment, I've had to reinvent my whole style and approach, and it's been a teeth-grittingly long hard slog. Glad to get that heavy, dusty social history of art stuff out of the way: further to my previous comment about much academic writing appearing to comprise simple ideas expressed in a fancy way - that impression keeps being reinforced. But it makes it doubly hard when the subject matter isn't all that exciting in the first place... I keep wondering if the dense, pretentious writing style I keep encountering is an attempt to compensate for a lack of substance. Mind you, it's not always the case - the writings of Rosalind Krauss are a bit of a challenge at first, but in a good way; they require persevering, but it's worth it. This is an incredible book, containing studies on fascinating characters such as Dora Maar and Claude Cahun, a Jewish, cross-dressing lesbian photographer who changed her name to a man's even more defiantly Jewish name. Amazing woman. People don't seem to be as characterful these days - although Grayson Perry doesn't do too badly. Good to see someone upholding the tradition of the transvestite artist bending, playing with and subverting fixed gender categories, stereotypes and expectations:

More! More! I say. Very soon (after the current assignment I'm preparing) I have to do a 7,500-word project, and I just might choose him. There's a picture of him wearing some amazing bike leathers here.

Speaking of flamboyant artists, I was saddened to read of the death of yet another - Sebastian Horsley (another article here), whose autobiography has been on my Amazon wishlist for years. Shame he's gone, he sounds like a fascinating fella, someone I'd like to have known, but never did (as the song goes).

I've only myself to blame for the abundance of scarves in my life: I'm crocheting myself another one at the moment, a long green one with leaves, tendrils and flowers branching off the ends. Scarves: I've got loads of them; got two for Christmas last year, two for my birthday, and was given another only very recently. I must give an impression of being a "scarfy" kind of person - or maybe it comes to all women as they hit that certain scarf age (one day it will come to you all, girls). They're nice to put in baskets and rummage through. Or to drape over the stair rail... And much as I dislike the film Love Actually, I am reminded of that scene where Alan buys a necklace, with the bit at the end where she says, " Oh but you always love scarves!'

17/06/10

16/06/10

I don't know anything much about wine, have no clue about what I'm buying or drinking most of the time, and tend to think most of what I taste is abrasive, cloying, vinegary and metallic - what Rik Mayall and Ade Edmundson in Bottom used to call "Esther Rantzen drink" (it was a visual gag). However, I recently had some Denbie's Surrey Gold, which was a revelation. Not only is it English wine, but it actually tasted really good. It had things in it I could taste apart from chemicals. What the description says there about fruit is absolutely true, which sounds odd considering most wine is made from grapes anyway, but I really could smell and taste peaches. Which made me think that maybe there's something in that strange over-blown wine-tasting language you hear people speak on the telly - Jilly Goolden saying she can detect blackcurrants, for example: "I'm getting moss and spider's webs", or, "I can smell blackbirds and white linen, washboards and brass bands" , or "It's reminiscent of the grease from the underside of a sumo-wrestler's thigh" (not my own, that last one - I once heard Oz Clark say it in jest). Insert your own random nouns, basically.

Watching Andrew Graham Dixon presenting Travels with Vasari on BBC4 again last night, I was reminded of Anthony Amos, a local painter who used to have a small gallery at the top of the hill in Totnes. I say "used to" because walking past it the other day we saw that his paintings were no longer there and it was now a different shop entirely, selling antique bric a brac and flea-market items. This worried me, as we're great admirers of his work - so much so we bought a painting and a couple of drawings of his 4-5 years ago, and in doing so met his wife, who was the face of his gallery (Anthony was apparently quite - as they say - reclusive, although I always entertained the idea of one day meeting him, perhaps maybe even interviewing him)... Anyway, it turns out that he's died, which is so sad... A genuine, great undiscovered talent, I think, an artist who cared more for his work than recognition - or at least that's the impression I get. I have a similar feeling to the one I had when Peter Redgrove died - but at least I got to meet him. When they're not that old really, death seems so unnecessary and anger-making.

There's so much amazing talent around if you look for it, so many creative people with great gifts. Living in this part of the country, I'm a bit biased, but the light is spectacular round here, you can really see why artists fall for it (I love the dawn light - it helps me get out of bed in the mornings - and that alone is miraculous). Watching another arty programme on TV recently - the Modern Masters one on Picasso a few weeks ago - I saw Lydia Corbett, who now lives in Devon. For a short while in the fifties she modelled for Picasso, and was the inspiration for Brigitte Bardot's dishevelled blonde bombshell look. What I wouldn't give for one of her lovely watercolours.

Uugh, not to romanticise it, though. If you're going to do it, really give your heart and soul to art - be it painting, writing, music or any kind of creation - it's tough. I've sat here trying to write all day (essays and other ideas), and I now feel sluggish, lethargic, drained and bloated. And smelly, grotty and smeggy. It's funny how sitting in one place all day can make you sweat.

15/06/10

Writing, getting words in the right order so they convey what it is you actually want to say in the best way possible, is like hewing stones from big rocks, then pushing those stones up a bloody big hill (as Kate Bush would say). Some of the MA writing is quite political, and while I have a peripheral sense of politics, instinctive and intuitive, I've never really articulated my thoughts on politics in an explicit way (although some might say my writing on this site can be a bit political now and again). The essay I'm writing at the moment is hardcore, requiring heavy thinking. When it flows it's very good, but it's a bit like panning for gold, nuggets are few and far between. I can only do it in short bursts, before I do a few rows of crochet, put some washing in the machine or curlers in my hair - as I have done this evening (my how female and domesticated in a Hilda Ogden or Norah Batty way that makes me sound).

"The hardest-core femininity that I can muster": good old Grayson Perry - all the things I like in one person: art, cross-dressing and dresses. What more could anyone want? Alas, though, I'm unlikely ever to own a piece of his work. The most I can hope for is one of these, I think. Unless... I reckon we may be able to get a good dress-swapping thing going on.

I once heard a radio interview with his dressmaker, and reading this reminds me I'd love to do a dressmaking course and make my own clothes. The most I can manage at the moment is the odd bit of crochet - although recently I bought a really nice dress from a charity shop, on which I'm going to replace the buttons to make it more interesting. That's a start, I suppose.

There are some things one can't make, however, such as Russell Brand's Black Rat trousers from Sass and Bide. I want a pair, but not yet - potential Christmas present, maybe.

14/ 06/10

Last night I was ironing and thinking while the Australia v Germany match was on TV. Germany scored their first goal and I didn't notice, so absorbed was I in my thoughts as I was pressing my dresses. Sometimes I think so much I could stand in the stadium itself with all those vuvuzela horns blaring and still not notice what's going on around me.  But then ultimately, I'm indifferent to the footy no matter how hard it tries to capture my attention. It's nice to see the knights of the red crosse England flags out and about, though. 

Am trying to write an assignment, whose form is a critical analysis of an article about how art exhibitions became scenes of class-rituals in the early 19th-Century - all to do with the social history of art, how it's bound up with social hieracrhies. My problem is not knowing what to say, but how to say it. My previous tutor seemed to like my breezy, bracing journalistic style, but my current one has pulled me up on that - it just won't do. I have to stick to the rules, the rigors, the accepted style. However, being forced to write in a particular way is doing me good, even if it does make my head hurt... The secret of academic writing appears to be saying fairly simple and obvious things in a fancy way, and then repeating those simple and obvious things in a variety of fancy ways. Variations on a theme. Some academic writing is sloppy and lazy and threatens to consume itself, but the same could be said of all genres, I guess. Mind you, the art history material I've had to read has always been of very high quality, perhaps because, as a relatively young discipline, it's still trying to justify and assert itself. It all serves to make the BA I started almost 18 years ago look like child's play, which at the time it wasn't of course. My brain feels as if it has grown or evolved, as has my capacity to target, select, process and marshal information, and construct arguments. Plus my attitudes and priorities have changed, how I view and define myself (although that's still in a state of flux). I've always had trouble with saying who/ what I am - a student/ teacher/ writer/ wife whatever - owning myself, being happy in my skin. Labels aren't always good, but identity is almost everything... Taking the train to work in the morning, that raw time of day, it's almost as if I have no skin; the sea air is pure, the light slices through the clouds, so sharp and clean. I can feel it flooding each cell, through the soles of my feet, the pores of my skin, the fibres of my muscles. My skin tingles, entangled. 

Read this article in the Observer this weekend. What a wonderful shop that sounds, and she's Jeanette Winterson so I'm in awe of her writing. That shop is yet another to add to my London-To-Do-List of shops, galleries, exhibitions, plays, vintage clothing emporiums, hair parlours and underground cabaret-jazz bars (like this one, located in the urinal where Oscar Wilde used to go cottaging - the toilets remain a religious experience, so I'm told) whenever we go there again... I identify very much with what Jeanette Winterson says in her online column about "writing as much as I can without really saying anything": that to me has become the skill of writing a journal that's out in the public domain (not that I imagine for one minute that this is something the world and his wife reads, or would even want to read). There are no comments on husband, family, work, anyone I know - so that's everything of any real interest out... All very different from writing a private diary - which I don't, in case anyone is wondering. If I did I'd never have time to live life, let alone write about it.

Hmmm. Do I have the cojones to read this, I wonder? 

10/06/10