The cats

In the later hours of the evening, when everyone else has gone to bed, it's quite fun hanging out with the cats.

It's a pity they're so disgusting but.

It's funny. I grew up with cats. One even had kittens in my bed when I was a kid. But I much prefer the dog now. Fucking cats.

It's a bit after one, and I'm quite pissed. Not very abusive, as you'll notice. There's shit I could abuse – the opening I went to this evening, for example – but I'm not.

Goddamn mellowing with age.

The opening

The reason I haven't posted about the opening last week until now is not because it's taken this long to recover. Well, not only because of that. It's because I've had computer problems.

It was a fun night. There was a good turn-out, including a goodly number of students from my class. No Massey staff-members bothered however. None.

I'm really pleased with how the show looks. I'll take some installation photos and post them in the next couple of days.

In other news, I've been reading Michel Sanouillet's Dada in Paris. It's the first English translation of the 1965 book, and contains an appendix of correspondence between Picabia, Tzara, and Breton. It's pretty indispensable.

Something in Wellington to go to

Generic and specific art

We were 'close reading' a couple of texts in our theory class yesterday. One of them proposed using the term 'generic art' to refer to installation – generic as opposed to specific art, such as painting. I think it's a great term. You can imagine it in actual use:

A: 'So, do you want to go see some generic art?'
B: 'Nah, not really.'
A: 'No, me neither.'

Speaking of specific art, I've started a couple of paintings. It's a nice change from drawing. Not so sure about either of them yet, but we'll see how we go.

Pipe convert

After I gave up cigarette smoking, I smoked cigars for a while. But that was stupidly expensive.

So I've been smoking a pipe. You've got to put up with a fair bit of comment, smoking a pipe. I've been laughed at by some young cunt in the smoking area out the back of the Bristol. But it's good. Very contemplative.

We've got a friend staying with us, and he's been giving up smoking cigarettes, and has adopted the pipe as an alternative.

Good work.

Jinx update: Immediately after posting this last night, I broke my pipe in half. My nice Maltese one.

Rainy day viewing

A friend of mine sent me a link to some lectures that accompanied the Duchamp, Man Ray, Picabia show at Tate Modern.

I'm going to concentrate on Picabia for the research paper at school this semester. We have to give a seminar where we present three texts related to our research. I'm thinking a couple of texts by Picabia, and this.

School once more

So the mid-year ceasefire is about to finish. Hostilities resume next week.

What a fucking waste of time.

Jesus Motherfuck

I've just redone a couple of pictures the cat destroyed the other night. The other couple will have to do as is.

Fuck man, drawing is fun and all, but redoing them isn't. It's both disheartening and stressful. I really liked the originals, and I'm far from sure that the new ones are ok.

I'd much rather be doing new ones.

Max Beckmann

I'm reading Beckmann's collected writings. They're quite a lot of fun so far, not that I've got very far, just the early diaries.

They start off very serious and earnest, when he was 19 and reading Kant, Schopenhauer, and Nietzsche. He'd set out his philosophy of beauty and go on about Minna Tube, who would be his first wife. It's like an extended love letter, one which includes explanations of why he'd have to sleep with other women – because he's an artist who reads Nietzsche basically.

Apparently, in later years, he'd read these diaries aloud to Minna of an evening.

I particularly like the one from Paris in 1904. It can be paraphrased thusly:

I'm in the pub. Gee, drinking wine's quite good, eh? I'm getting quite pissed.

Later now, and I'm really pissed. Woohoo!

Hey, that's fucking Edvard Munch sitting over there!

Ye gods, I can imagine the reaction if I tried sitting Rose down and reading this blog aloud to her!* Let alone if I tried the artist who reads Nietzsche line.

But then, we do live in much more conservative, strait-laced times.

I mean, fuck, when Picabia went a bit mental, his wife wrote to his girlfriend and said, 'You look after him. I can't be fucked.'

Minna Tube gave Beckmann the flick in 1915, cos he kept on sleeping with other women and cos he wouldn't let her have a career of her own. She became an opera singer.

Gabrielle Buffet (Picabia's wife) had an affair with Duchamp before giving Picabia the flick.

*After reading this, Rose pointed out that I do sit her down and read Nietzsche aloud.

Time for some drunken abuse

Fucking hell, what are these stupid things we call social gatherings. I've just been to this literary opening thing at Robert's, and fuck it was weird.

These fucking word people. I shouldn't go on about them, because the art people are just as bad.

It's the only vaguely funny game in town, so what the fuck else are you going to do!?!

Fucking hell!!!

Cunts.

Only good game in town.

How else are you going to amuse yourself in this miserable existence?

Pictures beat words every single time.

Ans this is the date on which the TARDIS explodes.