Said it before, but Elizabeth Monson totally redefines nail art for me… Just a few of her latest here… via
“Look, I know it may be too soon to be looking on the bright side, but may I be the first to point out that the streets of Vauxhall, home of some of the gayest gay clubs on earth, are now filled with policeman and construction workers.
All I’m saying is if anyone wants to join me in an Indian head-dress with YMCA on a ghetto blaster we could make a LOT of people very happy right now”
Whatta gal!! xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
And so it was that the 12th of January officially became the date that l fell back in ♥ with Korea in all it’s camera happy, overdressed, sentimental, teeny weeny bear-wearing (check the hoody in the last pic), toy-dog-loving nonsense. These pics where taken at Ilsan beach, Ulsan on this unseasonably warm and refreshing day.
In-keeping with the theme of love, those padlocks in the first pic are placed there by couples who, under the spell d’amour are compelled to leave a lovelock to declare they’ll be together “4eva n eva”, [wonder how many still are]. Best part of the day came when my gorgeous Korean and inexplicably single bud Sharon hissed, “hate” in my ear, while observing a couple engaging in the ‘lovelock’ ritual.
Bitterness will give you wrinkles Shazza ;D (Sasha)
My anecdotes may at time be mundane, they may at times be meaningless, but they are HERE which means l at least wrote something. And thats what matters the most.
So, this New Year weekend l stabbed my freezer to death. As in I took a huge psycho-style kitchen blade, knelt before my trembling fridge/freezer and literally stabbed it in its guts. Now this is not a lame metaphor for killing my “inner freezer” to thaw my “frozen heart” or some such crap cos while sounding a bit shit, would make sense. No. l actually stabbed my freezer that l put food in to keep it cold. But before you think me suffering from Requiem-style fridge delusions, l’ll explain l was simply trying to negotiate the problem of my freezer ‘drawer’ having been rendered a freezer ’slit’ by the sustancial ice-tumour that had encased it. So as l am an indepedent type of gal with a massive knife, l decided to tackle the problem head-on. I was chipping away at the ice, as happy as one can be doing such a thing, when l misfired and fatally wounded my cold storage appliance. It hissed and spluttered out a strange smelling gas which l instantly assumed to be noxious, causing me to run around my apartment, flinging open all windows and balcony doors lest l suffocate from inhaling the deadly fumes. However, as the Siberian freeze engulfed my apartment l considered freezing to death alongside my dying freezer another real -albeit poetic- possibility. Yet, for the second time in a fortnight, (l count surviving the Mayan doomsday the first) l cheated the grave but was left to consider the inconvenience l’d caused myself in what to do with the contents of my fridge. Then l figured that when you live in South Korea in Winter the entire fucking world is your walk-in fridge. And now my food is frozen au natural on my balcony. Silver lining as they say.
So that happened.
Did l mention its cold here?
Next l had the realisation that people in South Korea go shopping for outfits to go shopping in. As in they go to shops with the intention of buying oufits they will wear to go to more shops. Then they will wear these garments to buy more garments for the purpose of buying more garments. Not since l was told by my Sunday School teacher that, “God has always been there” have l been so overwhelmed by the implications of a ‘logic’ so implausible. I vividly remember my seven year-old self trying to make sense of the infinite; what it means to have “always been there”. I’d fixate on an image of God, (who looked a little like Santa’s more sculpted, handsome younger brother (makes sense now?), travelling backwards through clouds, hurtling towards the beginning of time. But knowing it would never conclude because there was no beginning- “God had always been there”- just totally did my head in. Then, as it is now.
“God has always been there…”
“The chicken or the egg…”
“Shopping for outfits to go shopping in…”
(Can l be first to say that, it works! Brad is, like, totes ‘Our Father’! I should get credit for pointing this out. And by credit l mean cash.)
“Go Back!” screams the poster, “lest you be served your exorbitantly priced green tea latte by this sexless oddity!” As Christmas is over l have to draw attention to this ad-bomination while l’ve the chance cos someone really ought to be held to account over this. I mean this guy is EVERYWHERE in Korea; he’s got a show on TV and mostly hawks make-up (true) and clothes but also does a few things in addition; promo for coffee chain being one of them which spawned this ad-trocity (stopping puns now). Now l’m aware of the laws of beauty and can see the appeal of his perfect, almost digitally symmetrical face. Also, l’ve no issue with feminine-looking guys, this is South Korea after all- in my eyes the nation responsible for one of the greatest cultural paradoxes on Earth; custom condemnation of homosexuality yet -unable to resist the high standards in grooming and scathing criticism of outward appearances gay culture is famed for - creator of THE most homo-centric culture since the the Greeks, to the point where you cannot tell whether any guy under 30 is being your usual oversensitive, bitchy gay, or just Korean. But back to this ad. What is it? Why is it? A cautious attempt at festive-cross-dressing? Cos if it is l guess l’m just used to more overt displays you know? Like screaming trannies or glamourpuss lady-boys or big burly men with bowed legs, stubble wearing negligees. I’m not used to this unnerving is he?/isn’t he? with everso-delicate moob-age, housewife hair and 70s-style lounge-wear santasuit which just screams ‘castration’ or ‘flat tiny penis’, (and believe me, Korea’s menfolk do not need anymore bad press in that department).
[swoooosh- sound of cloak covering back]
Happy New Year babas!!! May we make it happen in 2013 like nothing ever seen before! ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥(Sasha)♥♥♥♥♥♥♥
The stATus of kAT[e]us (ash).
The statUS of Kat[e]US??
kATE ASH and her stATE- ASH.
this is kATE and she’s my mATE, she’s fucking GrATE [sic]check out her stAT[E]uses… DAMMITT!!!!
So anyway, this here is the Kate. She’s pretty isn’t she? So pretty infact that when you remove that carrot her head lolls, her eyes roll, “Ah gots the glitterrrrr tittiieees” she hiccups and pops a spit bubble. Or that’s what should happen. However, her beauty has not stunted her brainty meaning removal of that carrot reveals a tongue as sharp as a needle, (not literally) eyes flaming with flames, (again- not literally) and - to quote Lloyd of Dumb and Dumber- “a rapist’s wit”, (there is that).
NB. Please replace carrot afterwards- t’is good manners to leave as we find.
Anyway, l begin the serialisation of Kate’s fb statuses with a rather firey entry and my personal favourite from 2012 thats l call, ‘Kate Goes Shopping for Finery’;
“Fuck you Lambeth Council online-payment-system!!
I type in my reference number and get asked if l would like to ‘add to basket’… So now lm ’shopping’ for parking fines??!
‘Hmmm, do you know l AM in the market for booting £65 into the sun for the unforgettable experience of momentarily straying into a poorly signed bus lane whilst attempting to navigate London’s wanky road system without killing the myraid cattlesque pedestrians blithely stumbling into the path of my metallic killing machine. Hell, why not make it two. Proceed to Checkout.’
You can follow the Kate yourself here* and actually us too here**
Status coming up; Kate tries meditation
(theres a rhyme in this…)
[medi]KATE tries to MediTATE.
(lm stopping now.)
♥ my galaxynote
IM SO FUCKING BORED RIGHT NOW. Like l don’t recall ever feeling this before in my life. Fustrated? Yes. Suicidal… hmmmm, no, but despairing absolutely. Heartbroken? Irrepairable damage l’d say, but this kind of gently grating boredom might yet be one of the toughest things l’ve encountered. It is essentially a complete lack of wonderment or unpredictability in one’s life. If it sounds like a juvenile complaint, like lm some firstworld brat fastened in my safety seat in the back of my parents’ car with my felt pens and colouring book on the floor, bawling cos l’ve nothing to play with, then perhaps you’re right. But what would be a truer analogy is looking out the car window and seeing a world of limitless opportunity, a cataclysm of mayhem and mystery whizzing by at a thousand miles a second, yet l remained fastened in, a mere spectator to it all. Its the guilt of squandering the kind of opportunities** that millions would kill for that l feel it so acutely the sensation is almost physical.
Not boring #1: Tanadori Yokoo (1966)
Admittedly l do live in Korea which has the potential for endlessly fascinating encounters and mishaps. But that only happens with the will of curiosity. And sometimes money. And paradoxically NOT having a job. And I have a job, no money and a bad case of the homesickness and its DARK and FREEEEEZING which equals less fascination in what l see around me in this potentially exotic, distant land and instead the suffocating effects of routine smattered with weirdness in Baltic conditions. And weirdness is not the same as wonderment. Weirdness is a conclusion brought about from finding something odd but the lack of curiosity renders it just weird and nothing more. Curiosity is what compels us. Had we stood at the foot of the mighty Sphinx of Giza and said, “Well that’s just fucking weird”, we’d be no closer to learning the riddle of the Sphinx or there even being a riddle cos the Sphinx would just be some weird sandcastle of a big cat. No curiosity. No curiosity to kill the big weird sand cat with no nose which doesnt -to be perfectly honest - even look like a fucking cat.
Not boring #2: God Is Dead (cover) Ron Currie Jr
There is no resolution to this (until Spring) And there are other factors at work here- you could rename this post, “Why Ulsan is Shit and Why Am l Not in Seoul“, ‘The Eternal Siberian Winter‘ or ‘Deafening Silence… A Life without Music,ipod, Laptop,wifi, TV‘. The biggest truth is l have to, HAVE to write something and l’ve been holding off until something exciting happended. It hasn’t. Too cold. So this be it. l hope my beautiful CLFmag bedfellows Fifi and Anna dont mind my ranting because the last thing l want to do is bring them down with me. But it feels a relief to do this- to whinge. It does little but pave the way for more whinging (or not- l feel better already) but all l can do is promise to keep it as entertaining as l know how…
Lovingly everly Sasha.
* From The Smiths/Morrissey (who appeared twice in this post) ‘Shoplifters of The World’.
** Referencing the fact that l was lucky enough to be born in a First World country where education and opportunities to pursue dreams are there for the taking and to waste that, when l think of the millions of people who never and will never have that, kills me.
(One last thing… Today is 12/12/12 which a massive deal (or not) so l declare this post my revelation and promise to be honest & grateful foreverandeveramen.)
Top: Q-Tip & Janet Jackson
Middle: Carly Simon & James Taylor
Bottom: Mia Farrow and Frank Sinatra
(a) Fictional ‘David’- because he’s a robot
(b) Human Micheal Fassbender- because he’s acting like a robot
(c) Human Micheal Fassbender - because hes ‘doing the robot’
(d) Fictional ‘David’ looking like human Micheal Fassbender acting like a robot
Obviously its not (c) because theres no dancing in Prometheus [more's the pity] but there’s definate flirtation with the idea of love and sex with robots. Which is fair dues given its inevitability; their destined-to-be-prehistoric counterparts already live among us (in Japan, keeping old people company apparently). But rather than looking like a Dyson in a wig, those future-bots will - like David- be implausibly realistic and constructed with the express intention of getting us all excited. Its a lot to get your head and your ‘youknowwhat’ around [literally], or perhaps not if youre a man; there’s little dispute of whether they’d be willing participants in a rubbery tryst having been inserting themselves into inanimate objects since time immemorial, there’s little if any question of them screwing Mizz ‘Bot when it’s feasible they’d fuck the bubblewrap she arrived in. But the idea of women being attracted to humanoids is a largely unexplored and tabboo area. (Just wait for the ‘50 Shades’ style erotica about some pile of wet blamange getting electrocuted to the point of orgasm by her short-fused control-freak(y)-bot.) But for the rest of us normaloids, how do you make peace with being attracted to something whose evolutionary trail leads back to washing-up bottles and toilet-roll holders? Would l be willing to- lets face it- be penetrated by a robot? Cos that’s the ugly truth right there- except not so ugly cos its a Micheal Fassbender-looking truth which is what caused this problem in the first place. If he didnt make such a f**kable robot l’d be doing something more constructive with my life than going around asking friends if theyd make it with the Fassbender3.0 to which one mate came with the very considered reply, “Yes…. as long as he’s not a toaster.”
There is an altogether more sinister side to synthetic allure however. Take 70’s classic film The Stepford Wives based on the 60’s Ira Levin novel whose message was so poignant, the term ‘Stepford Wife’ became part of modern lexicon referring to females who are so submissive, so perfect, so unobjectional to their menfolk they are obviously programmed that way (hint -like robots). I’ll not spoil the film any further for those who’ve yet to see it, but its worth considering the likelihood of synthetic company becoming preferrable to human females with our bloating and mouths that nag rather than give round-the-clock BJs, especially when the [non disputable] reality of ever frisky sexbots (who’ll be programmed that way) inches ever closer. Check this out (via) ” A 2012 report from Victoria University of Wellington, New Zeland, predicts red light districts by 2050 and claims this wpuld cutbdown on sex slavery and infections. And what do they call these prostitute robots? Hoe-bots. Meanwhile, a US profucer of cutting edge sexbots, Douglas Hines, has produced Roxxxy who can do pelvic thrusts and even simulate an orgasm. Ofcourse to some degree, all robot orgasms are simulated. Which would at least remove any uncertainty;
‘Were you faking?’
‘Yes, I am a robot.’”
So, like, yeah. Prometheus: ★★★☆☆
* See that pretty bit of Korean script? I wrote that /copieditfromanattendancesheet.
There is a bin, a small bucket that’s emptied over the side, and a lavatory without a seat that would be impossible to sit on because its jammed sideways into a cupboard with a broken porthole. The thought of maybe having to sit on it - or, worse, kneel in front of it in the humping swell - is too awful to contemplate. Overall, l’d have to say that this is the most aasertively filthy environment l’ve been in since l was a student. This boat is a Norman Wisdom assault course of pratfalls, whacked heads, lost fingers, rope burn, slicing steel, crunching blocks and grinding gears, or just simply and silently tripping and disappearing overboard.
Back in Busan!!!
being back in Korea was much easier a transition and glad to be back but already have the growing sense of restlessness thats gonna make these next 6 months a toughie. Buddah said, “the trouble is you think you have time”. I don’t think that for a second.
At the dead-end of our lovers lane – a side street of abandoned factories – where I perfected the pitch that springs open a bra; behind the lilac bushes in Marquette Park, where you first touched me though my jeans; in the balcony of the now defunct Clark Theatre, where I wiped popcorn salt from my palms and slid them up your thighs and you whispered, “I feel like Doris Day is watching us,” we didn’t.
They rushed down the street together, digging everything in the early way they had, which later became so much sadder and perceptive and blank. But then they danced down the street like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’
Revisiting my literary muse. Taken from [what is for me] the sharpest, darkest and funniest section of the novel*; post shark attack on the three Swedes; the point which perfectly demonstrates to what extent Richard’s (protagonist) precarious grip on reality is slipping away.
* The Beach is the story of a young backpacker travelling through South East Aisa, who after being given a secret map becomes part of a hidden beach community. Think a druggier more paranoid version of Lord of the Flies.
The stunned quiet after Karl said “shark” only lasted a heartbeat. Then we all
started jabbering again as abruptly as we’d all shut up. A circle quickly
formed around Karl and Sten — the same kind of circle you get in a schoolyard
fight, jostling for position whilst keeping a safe distance — and
suggestions started flying thick and fast. It was a crisis after all. Whatever
else a crisis causes, it causes a buzz, so everyone wanted to be in on the act.
Étienne and Keaty, tending to Sten and Karl respectively, were instructed,
“He needs water!” and “Put him in the recovery position!” and “Hold his
“Hold His Nose” was directed at Étienne — said by one of the Yugo girls —
because you have to hold the victim’s nose while giving mouth-to-mouth to
stop the air from escaping. I thought it was a stupid thing to say. You could
see the air bubbling out of the hole in Sten’s side so his lungs were obviously
fucked, and anyway, you couldn’t imagine anyone looking more dead. His
eyes were open but showing the whites, he was as limp as rags, and there
was no blood coming out of his wounds. In fact, just about all the advice was
stupid. Karl could hardly be put in the recovery position while he was
jerking around and screaming, and I didn’t have a clue what use he’d have
for water. Morphine yes, water no. But in emergencies people often seem to
call for water, so I assumed it was said in that spirit. The only person talking
sense was Sal, who was yelling at everyone to get back and shut up. No one
took any notice though. Her role as leader had been temporarily suspended,
so her good suggestions were about as useful as the bad ones.
The whole scene left me feeling flustered. I was telling myself, “Alert but
calm,” and waiting for my head to come up with the kind of suggestion that
was needed. Something that would cut through the chaos, creating a stern
efficiency that was appropriate to the gravity of the situation. Specifically,
something like the way Étienne had acted on the plateau. With that in mind,
I considered pushing my way through to Sten and saying, “Leave him,
Étienne. He’s dead.” But I couldn’t shake the idea that it would sound like a
line from a bad movie, and I wanted a line from a good movie.Instead I
pushed my way backwards through the crowd, which was easy as most
people were trying to get closer.
As soon as I was out of the circle I began thinking a great deal more
objectively. Two realizations hit me at once. Number one was that I now had
a chance to get my cigarettes. Number two was Christo. Nobody had even
mentioned the third Swede, who might have been on the beach, wounded
and waiting for help to arrive. Possibly even dead like Sten.
… it is something to do with the pressure of countless unknown dimensions (beyond the regular three) and string vibrations that make the conditions possible for us to be here.
We are the result of those conditions.
via animalnewyork “Adam Yauch, founding and gruffest-voiced member of the Beastie Boys is dead at 47. Yauch had being going through cancer treatment since 2009 after being diagnosed with a tumor in his salivary gland and did not attend the Beastie Boys’ induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in April, and yet, the news is blind-siding. Aside from his iconic influence on hip hop, Yauch had also co-organized the Tibetan Freedom Concerts in the ’90s and in 2002, launched one of the last and best independent film production/distribution companies, Oscilloscope Laboratories.”
[For me] this is THE quintessential Beastie track because it was the one I feel in love to. They’d been out for a serious minute but it wasn’t until 1995 - the year that made me musically - that I sat up & paid serious attention. Watching Beavis & Butthead on vintage-style MTV, this dropped and blew the ceiling and my inferior mind (& to think I still have the VHS.) You know it’s love when you remember where you were the first time you heard it…
Much love to you Beastie Boys (those here & gone).
… has never been a nest; I’ve always said if someone was the offer me a car or an apartment, all rationality would be out the window and I’d choose the car. I want a car so bad. I don’t think about it too much but if I do, it prickles. I really, really want one. I’ve always wanted one. I think I’d be a good driver too because I dream that I am and I feel I appreciate the art of driving. Yes, yes, I know how this sounds, but my friend’s dad who is just amazing and phenomenal used to let me steer from the passenger seat at 80mph at night on empty motorways, stoned, and the reason I didn’t kill us is because he trusted me cos I got what driving is about; looking into the distance first and the rest becomes automatic. I want to make money because I want [an orange dodge challenger with black stripes] - there is no joy in ugly cars. I would absolutely only use my car for trips, never errands or work - I want to drive it, not shuffle it. Preserving the romance is mandatory.
My car will be a sacred place where I’m getting in cos I’m going somewhere.
Thanks May for guiding me to these pictures.
So last week I posted some palavar about cute coffees. This week, it’s frucking dinosaurs ya’ll. Now I understand this may not be everyone’s cuppa chai but being that through my work I’ve been given the chance to live a vicarious second childhood, seeing the world’s largest preserved dinosaur footprint had me in raptures!!! So if you happen to be in Korea, the Dino EXPO is located in gorgeous, gorgeous Gosesong. It’s only open once every three years so make the most of it. I’m not saying get high or anything but doing so in a dinosaur park & seeing a bona fide dino footprint isn’t not one of the greatest experiences you could treat yourself to. It’s funny cos my friends and I here all have this thing that dying in Korea would be really depressing/embarrassing, (if you’ve been here you’ll know why) but it was unanimous that we’d be happy dying here, in a dinosaur footprint. Dunno how exactly we’d die in a footprint but it’d make a most enviable epitaph. One more thing; it’s cherry blossom season which means flowers everywhere. It’s cherry blossom season, the weather is sexual and there’s fucking DINOSAURS!!!!
So I’ve worked here for 11 months a never really said much about my job… until now. I’m leaving soon and getting a touch reflective so I really have to share. I’ve been playing this for my babas for the last few months and truth is we LIVE for this. The soundtrack of my time in Korea won’t just be 2ne1, Girl’s Generation & all that shite, it will also be The Dinosaur Song.
I dare you to press play…
(1.36 gets me high)
“Don’t like his baggy jeans but Imma like what’s underneath ‘em
And that’s the truth Ruth! Sneaky pics of the Amerikan boy & his crew taken last night; some of the most motivated ‘artistes’ I’ve seen in a while so no doubt these cats will be HUGE. Ironic cos couldn’t even be arsed to get off the bed to take frontal shots, but the from back there wasn’t so bad…
Hope ya’ll see what I see!
It begins in the nightmarish aftermath of Kevin’s rampage. While he serves time in a youth facility, we meet what remains of Eva Ktachadourian (outSTANDing Tilda Swindon) ; a woman etching out the most moribund of existences. Once the model of liberal aloofness, she now lives in shadows; dodging confrontation in supermarkets, getting assaulted in the street, having her home vandalised, all the while absolutely accepting of her role as mother of a mass murderer.
“Do you know where you’re spending the afterlife?” asks a doorstep preacher.
“I’m going straight to hell”, states Eva very matter of factly.
At night her mind’s landscape looks like a fractured kaleidoscope of past events, close and distant, real and imagined – there’s barely any distinction. Numbed with wine and pills she spends hour upon torturous hour agonising over to what extent she is responsible; was Kevin born evil or did he somehow ingest her discontent with motherhood in utero. While Eva struggles with this chicken and egg style conundrum, it soon becomes clear that no amount of subtle resentment could have created something so abhorrent.
Baby Kevin cries relentlessly and will only calm down around his father (John C. Reilly). Toddler Kevin he refuses to speak or interact. As a young child he forgoes potty training and instead practices the subtle art emotional blackmail . Under the guise of a study, Eva constructs a shrine to her former charmed and independent lifestyle prior his arrival - Kevin understands this desecrates it immediately. Just another act of spite, suitably measured to keep his father blindly on-side. By being as despicable as he knows how, Kevin both corroborates and encourages Eva’s guilt, “Just because you’re used to something doesn’t mean you like it” he challenges his mother, “you’re used to me.”
Her failure to deny this accusation of dislike could only have strengthened Kevin’s destructive resolve - demonstrations of which became more pronounced and deadly as he becomes a teenager ( played by the stunning Ezra Miller.) By this time the resentment is so entrenched that any attempt by Eva to salvage any semblance of a relationship is met with a mixture of amusement and contempt from Kevin. There is nothing in him to be salvaged.
WNTTAK is an uncomfortable and absolutely necessary examination into the minefield of parenthood via the anomalies of parental guilt and moreover, parental love; perhaps the only love that will bind descent people to intolerable ones. As Eva picks though the broken egg shell remains of her life, sifting though the could-haves the would-haves, it becomes clear there was only ever one should-have. They should have talked about Kevin, which is exactly what they failed to do.
Happy New Year y’all! xoxo
Kim Jong ‘Dear Leader, who is a perfect incarnation of the appearance that a leader should have’ il, is toast
That’s actually one of the official titles by the way. ‘It’ apparently died from “great mental and physical strain caused by [it's] uninterrupted field guidance tour for the building of a thriving nation” end of official statement. Which I kind of don’t doubt as pouring your heart into keeping your nation brainwashed domestically, ostracised internationally and starved to the brink of death (save that million who did die), for some decades, can’t be without some physical consequence? No?
Like thefirstpost said, “In his elevator shoes and bouffant hairdo, he was the wacky dictator - unless you lived in North Korea.”
If you can get in in your region, please play the video below - you’ve seen nothing like it.
You see today we take a stand and we will be heard!
I will NOT pay for extra for file-sharing. I will NOT send multiple emails.
This ENDS HERE!!!
(Sorry, I’m just a bit overwhelmed right now)
“The Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the
others took the least notice of her going, though she
looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would
call after her: the last time she saw them, they were
trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot.”
Extract: Lewis Carroll Alice In Wonderland
So remember that post last week when I said I’d like to do ”an art a day”?
Ahahaha! (wipes tear of laughter)
Kind of forgot Dormouse’s paw too…
The Tat: happy to announce that for the first time, in a 17 year relationship with tattoos, I have finally found The One. If y’all know what I’ve been through to get this (and still going through), you’ll forgive my indulgence. Be prepared for endless posts featuring me my new tattoo together, joined at the hip (literally), insufferable, smug, cocooned in togetherness, spending Sunday afternoons in matching cashemere, discussing our matching taste in films at the our favourite after-hours coffee-arterie.
The Tit: If I can knock up at tit in 30mins, (am somewhere between liking and hating said tit), why don’t I say something like, “I hereby decree that will produce one drawing/photo/layout per day for 30 days.” . Now please note that I didn’t say that, I said I might be tempted to say something like that - if for no better reason, it’d be nice to think I’d be capable of the commitment. But then there’s the part of me that thinks, why inflict your mediocre drawings on people who come to your blog for legit artwork. Bit like building a fancy pants museum and then hanging your first year junior art project in it, innit?
Let’s see how long this lasts…
I am NOT an artist. I studied art to A-level standard and then quit before getting a qualification. I have no specific fine art qualification - I just draw things sometimes. I’m alright at copying stuff. I have neither that tolerance or the patience to be a real artist so serious kudos to those of you who manage that.
# Unfinished tit inspiration is a gift for my Grandma for Christmas, one I’ve been promising since I was about 8. I don’t like to rush these things you see…