Art Fist

‘Hysteria and Doughnuts’: The work of Emma Melton – by Jon Cronshaw.

artfist — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 09:24:34 +0000

From a zombie-like face gorging on a doughnut to a melted beast made beautiful through make-up. Leeds-based painter Emma Melton’s work deals with the issues of female representation in the mass-media in a way which is both intellectually informed and visually stunning.

Emma Melton’s work deals with issues relating to women’s self-perception such as compulsive eating, anorexia and body dimorphic disorder. She draws attention to the way in which beauty rituals and food consumption are related to the way women are perceived: “The way in which women have historically been represented in art as emotionless objects for the male gaze is something that I try and challenge. By using the image of the hysterical woman, I’m trying to show that women are not just objects to look at, the emotion on display I see as a source of strength and empowerment. I want to challenge the traditional images of the idealised female nude and show her as a real woman with real experiences and therefore aim to remove her from the male gaze.”

Meeting in her studio on a cold November afternoon, I bore witness to some incredible paintings that were eerily disturbing. Drawing reference from a theoretical understanding of ‘hysteria’ and from the imagery of horror films and fashion magazines, Emma Melton’s work would perhaps be the result if Francis Bacon were to have drawn his imagery from a diet of Cosmo’ and Romero. “I like to think about way the in which the mass-media effects people. I’ve seen a lot of horror films that have inspired my work; I love zombie films and films like The Exorcist. The girl in The Exorcist is quite hysterical.”

One painting I am particularly drawn to is reminiscent of Two-face from the Batman comics, with one side of the face portraying a pretty blonde woman applying make-up, while the other side represents a horrific and deformed face which looks as if it has been melted and burnt. In opposition to Two-face, whose injuries were caused by having his face splashed with chemicals by criminals , turning him insane and into a criminal himself – Emma’s painting covers up the deformities with chemicals to address the perceived insanity of not wearing make-up. She explains: “it is about how women are considered deformed and disgusting until they’ve been made into what they should be. Before you put your make-up and clothes on, you’re a monster.”

Hysteria is a key theme of Emma Melton’s work. Drawing inspiration from 19th Century photographs of women in various states of ‘hysteria’, she asks probing questions of herself and the experience of women in general: “I use the image of hysteria to convey my feelings. The deception of the ‘hysterical woman’ comes from the 19th century photographs Dr. Charcoat took of his patients who displayed symptoms such as ‘flirtatiousness,’ ‘deceitfulness,’ ‘exaggerated gestures ‘unseemly displays of emotion,’ ‘excessive wants or dislikes,’ ‘overt sexual behaviour’ or ‘the ostentatious refusal of sex.’ It has been questioned by 20th century feminists whether ‘hysteria’ is a positive or negative reaction to oppressive social realities.”

John Logan – Special Agent – (Part Three) – by Michael Dixon

artfist — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 09:10:56 +0000

John was confused, which unsettled him, as he was never confused about anything. But he wasn’t supposed to ever forget anything either and he had clearly done just that. As he drove along the highway back towards the bureau HQ he tried to work out what this eel napping could all be about and why such weird shit was happening. John had worked some of the biggest cases in the city’s history and had never come across anything like this before. He knew he just needed time to work it all out. He needed to get back to the research and work out just why anyone might want to steal all the city’s eels. John knew where to start, if he was going to understand why eels would be so highly prized then the first thing he needed to do was to get a greater understanding of the eel itself. John needed to get into the mind of the eel.
At the bureau HQ John went to the undercover operations centre. He met the head of the department, Mark Philips. Philips was recognised throughout the law enforcement community as one of the best undercover operation runners in the world. He had got agents into organisations that were usually thought impenetrable, in so deep that they’d been able to take down some of the biggest crime syndicates in the city. Philips had been an undercover agent himself once but that had come to an abrupt end when he had become internationally famous after a rogue agent leaked stories to the media of Philips getting himself so deep into the Yolamata gang, that they had selected Philips himself as their man to assassinate the city mayor. Philips could get a man anywhere but even he wasn’t ready for what John wanted from him.
‘You want to get into eel society?’ said Philips. ‘That’s fucking weird John, you feeling ok?’ Normally John would have bitch slapped anyone who dared to speak to him like that but Philips had special privileges, on account of his history. John let the remark slip.
‘Yeah’ he said. ‘If someone’s going after the eels then I need to understand why. We ain’t got any suspects so I can’t get in their head yet. But there is a head I can get into. I need to get in the eel’s head.’ John’s logic was flawless and Philips could now see this.
‘Logan’ he said. ‘I think I know how we can do this.’
Seven hours later John was on a plane, bound for the City Eel Research Centre, located in a classified area in the South Pacific. Philips had already made a few calls and arranged for John to be assigned to the centre for a few weeks. Philips had called a contact at the centre, a gangland informer who had been given a new identity at the research centre to escape his former comrades and had told him, in no uncertain terms, that his job was to teach John anything he wanted to know. If the informer didn’t co-operate with John, Philips warned, his cover would be blown and Philips would no longer be able to guarantee his safety. Philips didn’t like making threats like this and usually tried to avoid them in his day-to-day work. But this case was important and there was no time to waste with the usual pleasantries. Philips had not told John the name of this man, because the man, Mario Capalito, was a man John himself had once put away. For John to get on with this man would be more than difficult, it would be near impossible. But it had to work.
When the Sea Plane landed at the beach side harbour Capalito met John as he climbed off the craft. ‘Holy fucking shit!’ he cried as he saw who he was to train.
‘Capalito’ said John, cautiously. ‘I thought you were dead.’
‘I was’ said Capalito. ‘But Philips saved my life, never thought I’d see you again, I hated you more than any man alive after you put me away.’
‘But you still testified against your friends’ said John. ‘What happened in prison to change your mind? I never thought you’d be a rat.’
‘Hey fuck you!’ said Capalito. ‘You don’t know what it’s like in there!’ Capalito was angry with John for insulting him. Working together like this would be hard, really damn hard, but he had considered Philip’s threat and knew what he had to do if he wanted to live much longer. He was a wanted man back in the city; with over nine thousand euros on his head, screwing this up would cost him big.
John began to explain what he wanted from Capalito as the pair sat in the porch of the beach hut where John would stay until he went back to the city. Capalito listened carefully, trying to take in the nature of the work he would have to do. Getting John inside the mind of an eel would take a lot of work but Capalito had been at the research centre for some time now and figured he knew enough about eels by now to give it a try. John signalled to the nearby assistant that he wanted another mojito, then when it arrived he waited until the man was out of earshot and told Capalito why what he was doing was so important.
‘Listen Capalito’ he said. ‘I think this eel thing goes a lot deeper than anyone realises. I can’t tell you who I thought I heard, but it wasn’t some regular joe-crime-guy in the front of that truck.’
‘Who was it then?’ asked Capalito.
‘I can’t tell you’ said John. ‘I can’t tell anyone at the moment, it’s too dangerous, not until I’m completely sure this is what I think it is.’
Capalito wasn’t happy to be kept in the dark about whatever it was John knew, but he remembered Philips’ threat and knew that John Logan wasn’t a man to dick around at this point in time.
‘Ok, don’t tell me’. He said. ‘But let me know exactly what you want from me.’
‘I need to get out there with the eels first thing tomorrow’ said John. ‘I need to learn everything there is about what it’s like to be an eel. I need to become an eel.’
‘That’ll be hard’ said Capalito. ‘Damn hard, but I’m willing to try.’
That night as John lay in his beach hut he was suddenly woken by a feeling, there was someone in his room, he could sense it. A figure was stood in the shadows watching him. Slowly John reached under his pillow to get his piece – but his gun was gone! ‘Shit’ thought John. He had to think of a plan quickly. Staying completely still his eyes scanned the room for possible weapons, the only thing close by was a half-full mojito at the side of the bed – this would have to do. John shot into action, grabbing the mojito and throwing the remaining liquid in his opponent’s face. As the mystery figure wiped the drink from his face – John dived at him, glass still in hand. Mid-flight John smashed the glass against his own fist, leaving him with a weapon. Before the assailant could react John had him pinned to the floor, broken glass against the fucker’s neck.
‘Who sent you?’ screamed John at his opponent. ‘Who fucking sent you, you son of a bitch?’ Then John realised he recognised the scrawny piece of shit he had on the floor. ‘Capalito, what the hell?’ he said.
‘I hated you so damn much John’ said Capalito. ‘I wanted you dead’.
‘Then why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance, why’d you wait, Capalito?’ asked John.
‘Because as much as I’d love to see you dead, I love eels more’ said Capalito. ‘I want to see you catch these motherfuckers, John’. John knew it was safe to release his quarry. He could see it in Capalito’s eyes, the man didn’t like it but he wanted to see John win. John knew he always won in the end. With Capalito’s help he would.
‘Get some sleep Capalito’ said John. ‘We’ve got work in the morning’.
Next morning at sunrise, John and Capalito were on a boat heading out into the bay. The men had diving equipment with them so they could study the eels in their natural environment. Upon reaching the point where Capalito knew eel concentrations would be greatest, he put down anchor and the men jumped over the side. Swimming to the bottom, John was amazed at what he saw. There must have been at least twenty eels, maybe more; it was the most spectacular sight John had ever seen. John swam to the largest eel and attempted to communicate with it by a series of complicated hand signals, however, the eel did not care for John’s attempts and swam away. John knew that gaining the trust of the eels was going to take a lot of time. He therefore swam over to some small fish, the favoured food of the eels and grabbed one. Making sure the eels could see, John took his breathing mask off and ate the fish raw. The eels looked on approvingly but John knew this simple gesture would not be enough to prove he was worthy of the eels’ knowledge. John swam down to the seabed and sat there for some time, occasionally eating a smaller fish when he knew the eels were looking. With time John knew the eels would come to accept him as one of their own.
After two weeks of spending every single hour of daylight with the eels, as well as occasional nights, many of the smaller eels had come to accept John and spent much time swimming with him. John communicated with them by hand signals, imitating the thrashing of the tail that an eel displays in order to express its mood. Capalito was shocked that John had managed to progress so quickly. Even in his fourth year of working at the eel research centre, Capalito was only able to express simple sentences to the animals. John’s command of the eel language was simply spectacular. After another two weeks John was able to speak to the smaller male eels and all of the female eels and before the fifth week, the largest male eel, who was the dominant eel in this particular lagoon, finally accepted John. Whilst initially threatened by John, the dominant eels had realised that John was not going to try and take their place in the eel hierarchy and had no unwarranted intentions towards the eels’ women. He was also useful at warding off the eels natural predators. In short, by now the eels really liked having John around. He was one of them.
When John finally communicated with the top eel, the eel was shocked to find out what John had to say. By elaborately thrashing his arms around, John expressed how the eel thefts had occurred in the city and of his suspicions about who may be to blame and why. He asked the eel if he had any ideas and by twisting his body around, the eel was able to tell John that he knew of no natural reason why any human would want to take the eels from the zoos on the land. However, looking around nervously, the eel then asked John to swim with him to a secluded section of the lagoon where they could talk in private. Wondering why this was, John swam with the animal to a place where the eel could tell him this secret information.
Upon reaching a suitable distance, the eel began expressing his true feelings. ‘Be very careful’ said the eel. ‘You don’t know what you’re messing with.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked John. ‘What’s really going on?’
‘There are dark forces in this world,’ said the eel, ‘some more powerful than others’.
‘Tell me’ said John.
‘I can’t’ said the eel. ‘It’s too dangerous, my advice is to quit now before anything happens to you.’
John considered this seriously. Being told by an eel that your life is in danger can have that effect on a man. John thanked the eel for his advice and they swam back to the where the rest of the eels were hanging out.
That night John and Capalito discussed John’s progress. Capalito told him how impressed he was. He said he still held a grudge against John but he was able to overcome his hatred through the respect he had built up for the man he had once wanted to kill. He now recognised how John got the results he did, through sheer hard work. He then explained what John would need to do next if he were to truly understand the culture of the eel.
‘Coming up after the next full moon’ said Capalito. ‘Is the eel mating season.’ John worried about what this might mean. ‘The eels have selected you a suitable female’ said Capalito. ‘They feel it would be a great honour for them if one of theirs was to bear your child’. John considered this a great honour. However, there was also no way in hell he was going to fuck an eel. Deciding he now knew as much as he ever wanted to know about eels, John took the first plane back to the city.

Jack Frost is my Homeboy – by Michael Sterrett

artfist — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 09:09:06 +0000

Oh the downright pity of it all. Nero, Caligula, Pol Pot, Hitler and a further collection of assorted bastards dredged from the annals of time couldn’t have conspired to create a purer nightmare than the one we now face.

I am of course talking about that most loathsome annual event; New Years Eve. Sweet Jesus it’s awful. Give me a drab Easter Sunday, a sigh inducing Bank Holiday or even a downright mediocre Pancake Tuesday over that most hated of nights.

How I dread to see the morons line the streets in their droves, trussed up in their finery, their thoughts and expectations aching, arching towards that incessant countdown. 10, 9, 8, 7…

The cold night air cares nothing for their revelry. Fireworks are drowned in the drizzle, kisses numbed in the frost, the pale moon watching silently like an old uncle thats heard this story a million times before.

And the resolutions, oh fuck off!

“What are you doing for New Years?”, every damn person I meet will ask me in the days and weeks leading up to Xmas.
Every fibre of my being shudders in disgust. I want to answer them truthfully,

“I’m going to be rocking silently back and forth begging for an end to this nightmare we call existence, shamefully knowing deep down that I’m too much of a coward to end it all, too terrified to take that oh so final step into the cold abyss of death from which no traveler has returned. What about you, got any plans?”

But instead I play along, self loathing welling in my bones.

“Y’know”, I say cheerfully, “Probably just have a quiet night in. Maybe treat myself to a few lager shandies”. 6, 5, 4…

Thank Jesus for the cold. The frost comes down. Oh the beauty of it all. I dream of an icy blanket placed over everything. Quiet and still. A new ice-age just for me.

I find heat unbearable. At the first signs of summer I feel ill. The sun makes idiots of most people. They hang around in their summer clothes, smiling and listening to crap music.
The sweat pours off me.

I think about the final scene in John Carpenter’s ‘The Thing’.
After dispatching the fiendish alien Kurt Russell and Keith David sit in the icy wilderness, a bottle of whiskey between them, waiting for death to wrap them in it’s icy embrace. There is no more beautiful scene in all of cinema. That’s how I want to go. But somehow deep down in my soul I know I’ll probably end up having a heart attack on a boiling hot August afternoon. All around me beautiful women and their stupid children will gawp at my pain, an ice cream van’s inane tune a grim final soundtrack to my death throes.

3, 2, 1…Happy New Year!

The Lord Jesus Christ Goes Solo – by Dean Ellison

artfist — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 09:03:24 +0000

The Lord Jesus Christ has confirmed long rumoured plans of a solo project, some say confirming his growing disenchantment with the decline of quality output from The Godhead and the diminishing social significance and acclaim from recent albums.

In a controversial move, Jesus made the announcement through Rev. Tim Barton, vicar of St. Michaels Church in Parbold Lancashire, rather than His Holiness, the Pope, who has usually told God’s Will to humanity. He denied any falling out with the Holy Spirit or the Holy Father saying that they had given Him their blessing, but they were content to stay out of the spotlight a little while longer.

Christ attributed his decision to a need to explore new ideas. Despite a uniform front from The Holy Trinity, over the years Jesus Christ has often expressed a wish to develop His own identity, try more experimental approach to spirituality and find a way to fuse Eastern ideas with African rhythms.

For some time The Father, Son and Holy Spirit have been working on what they have called “a breath of fresh air” and “groundbreaking new ideas and concepts” due to hit Christians in the Year of Our Lord 3084. Sources close to The Holy Trinity have remained tight lipped about the project but the Rev. Tim Barton, a long time friend of Jesus, said that what he had heard so far “was full of surprises”.

Although Rev. Barton was unable to confirm a release date for His solo project he confirmed that Jesus Christ had Steve Albini set to produce and that guests lined up to feature include original Can vocalist Malcolm Mooney and Insane Clown Posse’s Shaggy 2 Dope.

The Gentle Art of Making Enemies – by Colin Cox

artfist — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 08:59:25 +0000

The relatively new pastime known as twat baiting is derived from the baiting of twats in order to make the veins on their foreheads protrude. This can take various forms which can be delivered with or without the use of wit, logic or coherent thinking. Two of these forms are known as ‘The Knowledge’ where people spot gullible and easily led morons with rather extreme opinions and use terms and expressions like “send the buggers back”, “hang ‘em all”, “prison’s too good” and “bloody do-gooders.” And to hit them with the exact opposite train of thought; the other is known as “The Ignorance” whereby people who tend to think that they know best and then hit them with a very ill-informed view in order to set them off on a tangent of trying to prove their far superior intellect by spouting a load of far left liberal crap which is often very idealistic and almost always completely unworkable; The Knowledge is best practiced when faced with Taxi Drivers, builders and the people of Stoke on Trent. Why do people choose to partake in this activity? Mainly, I would say, that it is just way too much fun watching people getting upset about things they like to pretend to understand, which is often the latest moral panic for the week such as: Terrorists, Paedophiles, Asylum Seekers, racism on Big Brother or The Credit Crunch. Everyone seems to have an opinion on these things, including myself, but it is way too good an opportunity to miss being able to upset a few people almost to the point of violence with a few well chosen words and opinions. The rules of this sport are simple. You get points according to various reactions: slight disagreement scores one point; the raising of your participant’s voice scores two; causing someone to walk away angry scores five; producing a threat of violence from your opponent scores ten, with a bonus of five additional points per warning that you’re given, and finally you score a whopping fifty points if violence ensues with an additional fifty if you’re wounded / knocked unconscious and one hundred points if you are brutally murdered. For more information on who are potential opponents in this game you just need to keep an eye on readers of the tabloids, particularly The Sun, The Mail and The Express, and an eye on the rabid dogs on Facebook who want to bring back the death sentence of inverted sawing. As the sport goes, it is tremendous fun, but like all extreme sports should be approached with extreme caution and never attempted under the influence of drink or drugs as disastrous consequences can and often will ensue, not to mention the possibility for you to look as foolish as your overzealous and over opinionated opponents.

Art Fist Issue Four – Editorial by Jon Cronshaw

artfist — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 08:54:14 +0000

Art Fist Issue Four

2008 is coming to an end and none of my friends have won our annual ‘celebrity death sweep’, also known as ‘body bag bingo’. This is an incredibly bizarre turn of events, as 2008 has been an amazing year on the celebrity deaths front. We’ve seen the passing of gun-nut Charlton Heston, alleged paedophile Arthur C. Clarke and everyone’s favourite Scientology funkster, Isaac Hayes. The 2008 nominees were pretty strong, but with less than a month to go until the new round of nominations are in, things aren’t looking hopeful: Patrick Moore, Fidel Castro, Amy Winehouse, Ronnie Corbett, Bruce Forsyth, Britney Spears and Norman Wisdom have all managed to evade death’s icy grip – come on reaper, pull your finger out!
So here’s how it works; you and your friends nominate two celebrities who you think, or hope, will die. The first is an open choice, I would recommend going for someone old, preferably ill, with a track record for bad luck. Someone invincible like Keith Richards is a bad choice, so I will probably go for Senator John McCain – he’s pretty old and he’s just over exerted himself trying to win an election. The second choice is a wildcard; this must be someone under 40. Someone like Kerry Katona or Michael Jackson would be a solid bet. Then you choose what the stakes are; you could play for honour, for money, the choice is yours.
So, sick games aside, what do we have in store for you this issue? Well, we have a comic by Tom Newell who won our front cover competition. We have a whole host of reviews, features and creative writing from contributors old and new and we have an artists’ showcase which we will run every 3-4 issues.
Enjoy Christmas and welcome to Art Fist. – JC

Brideshead Revisited (2008). Review By Amelia Wood

artfist — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 15:59:14 +0000

I sat in the darkened cinema expectantly awaiting the blur of beautiful costumes, exquisite stately-home settings and aristocratic tones to wash over me for the next two hours. I could feel the tension pass between me and my fellow watchers like a pulse, hear the mournful whisperings of ‘Charles’/’Sebastian’ hanging between us and the screen; the electric excitement of this much-awaited moment escaping us almost in squeals – we had been IMDB-ing it for months, planning the date of our trip, prepping ourselves for revelling in the romance not to mention imitating the youthful indulgences of the protagonists by polishing off several cheap bottles of wine in one night. I could continue but I’m sure you catch my drift – the re-making of Evelyn Waugh’s 1945 novel Brideshead Revisited had been a much-anticipated moment.

The translucent spectrum of the novel and previous 1981 ITV dramatisation that lies before this 2008 re-make cannot be avoided. The writer/directors and actors had both these great works looming over their heads as they embarked on the project. They almost loom so large that it makes me wonder why they bothered at all. But this attempt aims to bring this tale of an innocent love between two young Oxford men – one lead into the others dysfunctional Catholic aristocratic family – to a new audience who does not have a collective memory of the recently lost aristocracy as our grandparents might have done in the 1980s. Waugh writes of their decadence, their seductive nature and their slow, inevitable crumbling – as seen by Charles Ryder, a lower-middle class town dweller, told to us as he looks back upon his life. This film did not seduce me and I wasn’t convinced that, had Charles Ryder seen Sebastian, the rest of the Marchmain family and their Brideshead home through the screen I did, he would not have been seduced either. I expected at least to catch a few subtle
reflections of the previous version in this re-making but was instead presented with an ugly re-hashing – as if someone had crudely torn strips of dialogue from the novel and the 1981 version then messily pasted into the mouths of these actors and allowed a drama GCSE class to fill in the gaps at high speed. The knowledge of the 1981 version did not obscure my experience of the film – if I hadn’t already known the story line I would have been lost. The lack of voice-over from the Charles Ryder character or narrative frame rendered the title useless – the sense of ‘revisiting’ Brideshead came only in one final scene. There was a total lack of emotion in the building up of the relationships between Charles and Sebastian, Charles and Julia (Sebastian’s sister) or Charles and Brideshead (the exquisite home they occupy – a character in itself). Instead emotion was hastily whipped up in lazy film-making devices, through a montage scene of Charles and Sebastian frolicking in the grounds of Brideshead and the repeated scene of Julia saying ‘hello Charles’ in an un-convincingly seductive manner. If anyone has seen ‘Team America’ (from the makers of South Park) then you will know what I mean when I talk about a totally gratuitous montage scene. Snapshots of an idyllic summer spent at Brideshead provide a small amount of groundwork on which to lay ‘the kiss’ scene. Initially, I was against the idea of this, since Charles and Sebastian’s love is so innocently non-physical but this moment, surprisingly, worked. There is never a suggestion that their relationship goes beyond this – in fact this kiss is needed since in a feature-film length version the depth of their closeness and they way it builds up over time cannot be satisfactorily conveyed in any other way.

The acting, on the other hand, leaves somewhat to be desired. An overly optimistic view might be that they tried really hard, put a good effort in – a comment I would usually associate with parents speaking of their child’s role in the annual nativity play, not with professional Hollywood actors. It felt too much like they were pretending – dressing up and running round a big fancy house. Lady and Lord Marchmain, played by Emma Thomson and Michael Gambon respectively, pulled up the standard slightly, as more experienced actors. Matthew Goode and Benjamin Whishaw (Charles Ryder and Sebastian Flyte) however much they looked that part on the poster couldn’t carry off such seminal roles. Many characters featured in the novel and TV drama were pushed, flatly to into the peripherals, such as Sebastian’s younger sister Cordelier (Felicity Jones) and Oxford friend Anthony Blanche (Joseph Beattie). As the significance of these characters isn’t fully explored the reappearance of Blanche seems unnecessary and confusing for a viewer unfamiliar with the plot. A successful film requires collaboration between good writing, directing, acting, editing etc but this film lacked so severely in each of these areas. The recent plethora of costume drama films blurs into one in my memory but I’m thinking in the direction of Atonement, The Duchess… In these I was seduced by the wallpaper, enraptured by the costumes and transported to a time far, far away when the ruling classes spoke like the Queen. Brideshead Revisited should have neatly followed suit – hence the excitement – but alas I was bitterly disappointed and from this moment forth aim to warn every lover of Waugh, Brideshead or the costume drama genre away from this bastardisation of what we love. I had vaguely caught drifts of other reviews, had heard there was a kiss between Charles and Sebastian, but after my endured cinema experience wondered WHY did nobody warn me not to see this film?

Die Plankton @ The North Bar. Review by Lee Jones

artfist — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 15:56:32 +0000

I read a recent article in Leeds magazine No-Title which described Die Plankton as ‘enigmatic nihilists’ – this could not be further from the truth. In an age where painting seems to fall into the categories of mild titillation, high theory or shit-smearish abstraction, seeing Die Plankton’s digital art on display in the North Bar, Leeds was a breath of fresh air: sometimes funny, sometimes satirical, sometimes poignant and sometimes just plain weird.

To those not familiar with Die Plankton, they are an art collective who perform avant-garde improvised music, create digital art and it appeared that the night I was there they were DJing a set featuring mainly unrecognisable, but good, music (I think I heard some Can, Kraftwerk and Wooden Shjips in there). But I’m not here to review their music or DJing abilities; this review is about their exhibition in the North Bar in October.

The first thing that struck me about the images was that they seemed to subvert curatorial convention. Approximately 20 pieces (all A4 size, except for one large canvas) were arranged across the wall, most of them displayed crooked and in cheap frames, with no sense of order or effort to create something consistent for the eye to follow from one work to the next – perhaps after a few beers this doesn’t make a difference anyway, but sober it created a sense of naivety and almost childlike wonder.

All of the images on display make a nod to the early pioneers of digital art such as Laurence Gartel and revolve around the characterisation of their logo: a simple line image of a one-eyed plankton – Bauhaus in execution – a perfect piece of German design. The subject matter of these images is what makes them important as works of art. They are intertextual in nature – they draw reference from the world around them, taking swipes at and paying homage to a range of subjects from video games and literature, to the construction of ‘scenes’ and racial issues.

At first glance many of the works look as if they were knocked together in about five minutes on Microsoft Paint. A closer inspection of the works reveals, however, that many of them are actually a highly skilled set of images produced probably using Photoshop or Paint Shop Pro – they deceive you into thinking that they are simplistic and childish, when on the contrary they are skilfully produced and intelligently executed.

I was talking to a friend about the work on display; she said that although she found them funny, she didn’t consider them ‘art’ because they weren’t ‘serious’. I’m sure the readers of Art Fist will disagree with me on this, but to me art is about communicating emotive effects to its spectators – humour is as valid a tool as any.

The only work on display which can be considered anomalous was a large canvas, separate to the rest of the exhibits on a different wall. The canvas had poorly-executed potato prints of the logo in various colours and various types of paint. Echoing the composition of Warhol’s repeated portraits and Hirst’s dot paintings this work answered any of their critics with a big ‘fuck you’, I read it as a joke aimed at those who would criticise Die Plankton’s art on the grounds that their other work is not easily identifiable as painting and therefore not valid as an art form – very clever, very witty.
Die Plankton then, are not the ‘enigmatic nihilists’ referred to by No-Title – they are a collective of like-minded iconoclasts who use humour and absurdity to positive ends – ends which have a real sense of genuine fun and political purpose.

Who’s There? The Story of a Leeds Haunting – by Colette Shires. Review by Lesley Jackson

artfist — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 15:53:15 +0000

Paperback: 95 pages; Publisher: The History Press (2008); Language: English; RRP: £9.99

Lesley Jackson reads the spooky autobiographical account of a life of ghostly events by local author Colette Shires. However, it is the 50 year chronicle of a close northern family that also provides a gripping read in locations that are unnervingly close to home…

Christmas is coming and it is prime time for ghost story. Following in the traditional Victorian chills that are provided by a story of spectres, unnatural happenings and weirdness, ‘Who’s There?’ provides a local spine tingling frisson for those living in Leeds. Colette Shires’s autobiographical account of the hauntings that occurred in the homes of her parents may be set in the latter half of the twentieth century but follows in the weird vein as a M. R. James ghost story. What makes this book all the more convincing for even the most unshakable sceptics is the honest and straightforward prose style offered by Shires as she tells the reader in the introduction of her story; “I am not offering proof of their existence, but a true, unexaggerated account of the many paranormal events that took place in the homes of my parents.”

The action, as it were, of the story starts when the young Colette and her family move into a house in what was once Grant Street in the late 1950s, which now makes up a small industrial estate on Roundhay Road just north of the centre of Leeds. As soon as the large but close family move into the house, unexplained paranormal events occur that frighten the family and friends that increase in their intensity. Colette tells the story of her time in the house and of her movement from youth to that of a young, vibrant woman enjoying life in the 60s. However, throughout this time she is living in the attic room of the family home and experiences some terrifying events such as the
time when Colette and her friend Gail are on their way out to a dance and Colette makes the grave mistake of delving into her wardrobe to retrieve her friend’s coat. “My hands had been resting on the shoulder of a man in a green striped jacked as he crouched amongst the dresses.” Brrr!

From here, the drama increases in its intensity and moves through the years from the house in Grant Street to the house in Potternewton to her mother’s old age and residence in a series of retirement homes. Throughout this time, the ghosts continue to stalk the family members providing them with experiences of increasing fear, danger and in some cases, nearly threatening their lives.

This story is told without the sensationalist leanings that is provided by such television shows as ‘Most Haunted’ and without the possessed gasps of Derek Acorah, which make the story all the more believable and ultimately frightening. It is the stark ordinariness of the setting and sheer normalness of the Shires family that give the supernatural events their sinister edge. However, alongside the story of the haunting we are given the chronicle of a family lasting 50 years and this is what makes ‘Who’s There?’ such an interesting read. Throughout the decades of strange events lives the large and extremely close family and as the ghostly happenings provide the reader with a thrill; it is the progression of the generations of the Shires family that provide a real hook for the reader giving the saying ‘the truth being stranger than fiction’ real meaning.

Playing in Urban Places @ Leeds Metropolitan University. By Charlotte Morgan.

artfist — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 15:48:05 +0000

On the 3rd October I attended Playing in Urban Places at the Leeds Metropolitan University Gallery and Studio Theatre, a symposium that set out to ‘investigate the creative ways that the city is uncovered… generating a platform for discussion and debate around the experience of interacting with location.’ The one day event was chaired by Guy Julier, with papers, audio-visual presentations and performances from Quentin Stevens, The Den Project, Matt Delbridge, John Crossley, Varsity of Manoeuvres, John Wild, Marianna & Daniel O’Reilly, Sarah Butler and Victoria Stanton.

The projects presented at the event demonstrated varied approaches to the significance of stable senses of place in the forming of our identities, which in our culture of connectivity and global exchange are key concerns for many urban theorists and practitioners. The active processes of these projects ranged from community engagement commissioned within regeneration schemes, intervention into technological systems, participatory activity in the public realm and defiant acts of marking.

Given the academic context of the event, the notion of playful action within the urban environment alluded to the spheres of site-specific and socially engaged art practice. Broadly mapped through ephemeral sculpture, institutional critique, intervention, public realm curatorial projects, community engagement and altered models of moving through space, these practices developed historically in response to the designs, systems and conditions that define our urban experience. The term ‘site-specific’ now covers a range of divergent processes and intentions, yet these processes are ingrained with subversive and political associations, often seeking to expose the multi-layered contexts in which they operate and question the very definition of urban space. Therefore, the subject of play not only alluded to established forms of urban recreation that take place in designated areas in designated leisure time but to the subversive potential of playful acts in contesting the conditions by which these designations are made.

Along with contemporary art, the speakers and attendees at the symposium represented a range of disciplinary fields including architecture, interactive media and cultural geography and exemplified a widespread critical focus on the identity and agency of the individual inhabitant within the shaping of the contemporary city. The event lacked representation from prominent practices that explore altered methods of physical navigation, instigating a re-encounter with place-bound identity through pauses, meandering movements or processes of getting lost. However, the event successfully highlighted the breadth of intersecting disciplines that interrogate the conditions of urban space.

In context and content, Playing In Urban Places suggested the potentials of interdisciplinary collaboration to form an open dialogue between academic discourses, the practices and professions that shape urban space, the structural form of the space itself and the physical, social and imaginary encounters of the urban dweller; operating outside of the bounds of any one practice to influence the design and perception of the city.

An extended and fully referenced critical response to the event entitled PlayWrite is available on request, which further discusses the complex relationships between place and identity in urban experience and studies the range of spatial practices in more detail, drawing upon the narratives woven through daily encounters with physical and imaginary space. The text considers the influential writings of Lefebvre and De Certeau along side Jane Rendell, Miwon Kwon, Victor Burgin and a variety of contemporary practitioners.