20 Boxes

I spent 3 days obsessive-neatly wrapping and packing accumulated books, papers and clothes in June. I sat on the floor of our large kitchen/living room, hunched over as I discarded bumf and saved for posterity. My back killed, but I was against the clock. Husband went to buy me some GT Dave’s kombucha as a treat to get me through. It was pretty much a job I did alone, as it was pretty much all my stuff. I inherited packing boxes, sharpie markers, tape guns, newsprint paper and bubble wrap from the week before – Leslie and I neatly sorted Peter Wollen’s papers for their future life in the BFI archive, awaiting the day that a researcher will make a break through upon finding collected library fines. So I had the skills to archive my own California life so they could be shipped separately. 20 boxes with hospital corners later and my life was all wrapped up. We loaded up our car with the assorted leftover debris and went to cat-sit for 3 weeks on the Westside, before returning to Sheffield. Our cat-sit stint served as a buffer between our two separate lives.

We said au revoir to the ranch in a number of ways. (Not goodbye). We threw a party to celebrate my birthday, with CalArts and Mexican friends. My birthday present from Husband was a horse ride on one of the ranch horses, Bear, a retired park-ride horse with a shoulder injury, indulged me whilst we walked the arena and some lemon groves. I cried as I got off, it was an intimate and emotional experience.

Once we left we visited a couple of times, to spend time with Gera and his family, going to the beach with them, and to cook a meal for Ellen and David and spend time with them. The ranch was the first place husband and I lived together, and as I look back on our time there, its like a dream, I can’t believe we were so lucky and everything worked out so well. A part of us will always be Deep End Ranchers. (Saying goodbye to Lily the Springer Spaniel broke my heart, and with no spaniel in my life at present, I don’t know how I will ever cope with stress again. She was a fluffball of love who slept on our bed and played fetch obsessively, oh bless her sweetness!)

The final three weeks flew by and contained some Iyengar yoga classes, beach walks, a goodbye to me and Brica beach party followed by barbeque and our final Mexican meals (our staple diet for the year).

I saw a posted for Jarvis Cocker playing at the Wiltern Theatre in LA, two days before our flight home. Husband facebooked his old friend, now Jarvis’ guitarist, to wangle us some free tickets (we’d pretty much run out of money) and so we found ourselves at the gig. Jarvis, a professional Sheffielder, was a great way to get us excited about our return home (and down to earth). His witty observations and great music connected me to our roots. Before I left Sheffield in 2007 we went to see the Red Hot Chilli Peppers and I remember using that to get excited about my new California life.

As I looked out the window of our flight from Heathrow to Manchester (we had a direct flight from LA to Heathrow), I saw the grey sky and green fields with different eyes. My land felt foreign. The next 6 weeks were in a sense, a struggle to find myself, at home. I took part in a Summer Yoga School at the Sheffield Yoga Centre and S1/Critique at S1 Artspace, both important places in re-situating myself. On the critique programme was Jerome, a friend I know through S1 and particularly coffee mornings showing and telling our work.

I house sat for 10 days in London. I meant to see art, but after a trip to the Freud Museum, the Camden Arts Centre and the Photographer’s Gallery I realised I wasn’t in the mood. Instead I went to see ‘the London Folies’ and ‘Hotel Follies’ and put Fopp DVDs, M & S blouses and a What Katy Did waist cincher on my credit card. My job applications for Photo Technician at Sheffield Hallam University and Project Manger at BLOCspace were unsuccessful. The real world felt bleak. I felt empty and lost. I wanted something to that would totally take over my life instead of the bits of bobs of a freelancer I left in 2007. I saw an advert for ‘Fine Art Teaching Researcher’ at Sheffield Hallam. The post was for a full time three year PhD in Fine Art with some teaching. The details sounded like everything I wanted in my life, perfect I thought. I completed the application form and proposal down in London, and I knew I was punching above my weight. I found myself in an art book shop on Charing Cross road. I had the overwhelming feeling of being a fraud – I didn’t know every theory and every artist in all the books there – how could I be ready to teach or generate the original work a PhD required? Well, sometimes, winging it works. I got it! Hurrah! I had to do a 10-minute presentation on ‘Fine Art Research’ in front of an audience of 15 teachers and an in-depth interview with a panel of four. I met the three other applicants for the two available posts. I was the youngest and least experienced. I was relieved to see Jerome was there too. I was over the moon to hear later that evening that Jerome and me were successful.

The day of the interview, our 20 boxes arrived from LA. I’ve spent the last week unpacking the boxes and trying to integrate this surplus of stuff into my Sheffield home. I realise now that some of it is worthless rubbish that went straight in the bin, but on the Ranch, I needed to defer that decision to trash everything. I just didn’t know what was what at that point.

In the meantime, Husband has been focussed on mentally preparing for his first return to full time study since he left school aged 15. He’s doing BSc Biomedical Sciences at Sheffield Hallam University, the same campus I’ll be at! Unfortunately, he broke his collarbone 15 days ago so we’re sitting in the Northern General Hospital now. I got my wrist re-Xrayed too (lingering pain).

Things are slotting into place. The boxes are getting unpacked. Tomorrow is my first day at Hallam. Husband and I can go in together.

On Reflection

Today, I am 31 years old and 15 days. When I was born, my mother was 31 years old and 15 days. My mother died when she was 51 years old and 15 days, 11 years ago today. From today, and for the next 20 years, I will be an age that my mother was at some point, with me. After that, I will have no maternal precedent. Phew. Talk about taking stock. I probably took too much stock. But, being away from my usual ritual (visiting the book of of the dead and kerb of remembrance at Hutcliffe Wood) with Dad meant I had to do something today to recognise the day. I went to the beach, to reflect.

Yesterday we went to the beach too. Plan A was always going to the beach - we were meeting Gerado, Marta and their daughter Paloma in Santa Monica. But, the day prior Gerado told us about a rodeo taking place that he'd just been told about and wanted to ride in. So, we went to a ranch near to the ranch we used to live at in Santa Paula with Gerado et al. It was absolutely scorching at this ranch. Bulls were hired for the day ($60 each), and we looked at the bulls Gerado has previously ridden, including one that took a gash out of his leg and his horse. But no other riders turned up! Perhaps the short-noticed didn't work for everyone. It was a bit sad, as this was the one thing we never got to do that we really wanted to do. So, instead, we went to a small beach in Malibu that we discovered through CalArts friends last week. And bless him, Gerado paddled in the sea with his jeans and cowboy boots on. A strict uniform that works for any occasion. It was Paloma's first visit to the beach and she loved paddling. It was lovely to see them all again, as husband became very close to Gerado working alongside him on the ranch.

Friday night was the opening of MFA Conversations. Its a small gallery, packed to bursting with art. Its strange being a group show with other recently graduated MFAs that I don't know. I couldn't help thinking how pretentious they are. A guy from a blog came and photographed the artists next to their work. It was totally cringing being asked to pose, and smile with teeth showing. The curator had initially said she was putting the price of our work next to each piece (now that's cringey) but fortunately, she created a price list that also had a sentence by each artist on their work, so it wasn't just strictly a price list. I don't know how I felt about it all.



I don't know what you leave with when you get an MFA in the UK, but here, this is what I have; in order to pass we have a type of exit interview, where a panel of 3 teachers and a transcriber meets you in your studio for 45 mins. You discuss your work and your two years of study in an in depth way. Based on this, your 'review' and your performance during the MFA, and your thesis show, you are either passed to graduate or not, in which case you are awarded an 'Advanced Certificate' instead of a masters. And if you do pass, you just get a masters, no grade. You get a transcript from your review, and, I did not know about this until I received it the other day, a report form from your mentor. In the interests of sharing I shall put my usual modesty on hold and type up some of the contents of this report, because it is a very useful document and something I know I would really have found useful after my BA (where all you get is your grade, for me, a 2:1, and absolutely no feedback).

Preliminarily blurb: The purpose of this report is to provide the student with an easily understood assessment of progress towards the future, noting strengths and ares for improvement... The report does not serve as notice of any academic sanction.
1. How do your rate your mentee's artistic development this past year? Did s/he mount an exhibition or similar project?
[Tallulah] had a very productive year. She deepened and expanded on her interests and put enormous effort into her thesis show - researching, writing, rehearsing, and performing, - all told revealing incredible perserverance, bravery even, and humor in and through it all.
3. Has your mentee attained a visual literacy and awareness of the cultural and historical context of their practice appropriate to current year level?
I think the emphasis of [Tallulah's] work this year tended to be more theoretical and conceptual than visual. I think post-grad school, she will be better able to synthesize her visual abilities with her, now more sophisticated intellectual concerns.
5. Are there areas to improve on? Are there specific recommendations for next year?
[Tallulah] is a serious and thoughtful artist. Her work has a great wit and a thoughtfulness and vulnerability that adds to its richness. I think that [Tallulah] takes criticism very hard and very personally - I encourage her, after a long, hard year, to try to feel more confident and satisfied with herself and how far she has come

All in all, my report is a really wonderful document to walk away with. More useful as a document to look back on, and for now, as my jumping off point, than a grade.

So, I don't have any children, but I have my MFA. And I don't have a mother (although, I know that she is proud), but I have 3 female teachers (Leslie, Ellen & Natalie) I am really close to, that I know I will continue to be friends with for the rest of my career. Maybe life. They really are very wonderful women.

And so, that's a lot to reflect on.

PS As I type this, KitKat, the cat we are sitting, is next to me licking her bum, in a kind of cat-yoga position, that until this week, I did not know cats perform.

The End Of Things

So, here I am. I've graduated. I'm done. I have not fully emptied out my studio, but all my books are boxed and are in transit, along with other accumulated ephemera. The our ranch home is vacated and our bags our semi-packed (we still have too much stuff!) and we are now housing-sitting on the Westside of LA until our flight home 29th July.

So, what happened?

Let me start at the end of school. Literally the Friday afternoon of the last week of school was the graduation ceremony. The week was one of those where you are madly trying to meet final deadlines and that. And I needed a haircut badly. My regular trim appointment was cancelled by the hairdresser as she was ill, so I had to go right before the ceremony. I was sitting next to girls getting their hair done for their prom-night in the hairdressers, feeling way too in the same boat! New hair; old frock. I couldn't find anything I liked for zero dollars in zero time, so I got out a reliable wrap dress and safety pinned it (I've erm, grown out of it, shall we say) and wore an under-tshirt for modesty. Champagne (x3 glasses) and strawberries reception. No alcohol is allowed during the ceremony, so tradition has it that first years smuggle you some alcohol. Vitamin water, with the vitamins emptied out and vodka poured in. Speeches. Line up, on stage, shake hands with the Dean of the Art School, Tom Lawson, the heads of department, other faculty. By that time, I was tired and emotional. I hugged everyone, told them I loved them (yes, even my teachers). Cut to the after-party. I'll conclude with a tableau of that: it felt totally filmic, like I could see the camera shot and the camera pulling up into the night looking down. Husband was there, everyone was dancing to awful music. Happy, relieved, euphoric and sad.

But that was not an end for school yet, we had a show at the ranch from the class I TA'd for, which meant I had to keep making work the next day, hungover and install the day after that.

The end of school was 17th May, but the MFA grad show opened 20th June, so, the end was not an end. The show went fine, I used my thesis show work, but redid the editing to iron out flaws (and because, I lost all my original Final Cut Pro files). We had a show opening, a show closing and a screening at REDCAT. The latter was very interesting. I edited my work down to a 12 minute one channel piece and it was the first up of the night. I had a good response to it.

And even now, in my mind I keep deferring the end. I'm in a show 'MFA Conversations' and another, 'Greater LA MFA exhibition'. The first one opens 17th July and there's a talk I must attend too, before I come home. The latter I won't be around for.

Moving back in time, I need to explain my hiatus. Blogging has helped me in a couple of ways, it's freed up brain space, allowing me to sort through my ideas and anxieties but its also been a way to maintain the dialogue with friends back home. What happened after my thesis show was that my brain took a holiday, there were, in a sense, no ideas or anxieties to unload. And what's more, lucky me, we had 4 lots of visitors that came out to the ranch. That sort of took care of my need to communicate to my friends in other places.

Of course, my tardy blogging absence is inexcusable. But I think its worth me making an effort to reflect now, and figure out what just happened. So, hopefully more from me very soon.

Faking It

Seventeen years of dancing lessons (at Constance Grant Dance Centre to be precise) have taught me a number of things. But perhaps, my favourite of all, is ‘faking it’: when you have forgotten the correct dance steps, substitute them for steps you make up as you go, with such performance, personality and conviction that it looks to the audience as though you either have different dance steps to everyone else on purpose, or that everyone else is wrong. (I’ve had Miss Tracey in hysterics watching me totally re-do her choreography whilst performing and smiling for all I’m worth. But of course, since she taught me the trick of faking, she could do nothing else but laugh!)

Faking it in art is a tricky thing to own up to. It translates as bullshitting. No-one wants to admit to that. But I find myself, for quite defensive reasons, convincing myself, unconsciously, that THIS IS IT, because I know I am near to IT, so its comforting to say I am here now, I stake my claim HERE. But, alas, on reflection, I am faking it. It is, a rational response to being not there yet, which is, frustrating and at worst painful. This is where I was last week, and I felt that the combined efforts of Ellen, Natalie and David coxed me – gently, aggressively and without judgement respectively to address my not there-yet-ness and keep working towards the right spot. I am pleased to announce, I got there. I think. Let’s wait and see for the responses to my thesis show.

Yes, the moment the scales fell from my eyes was totally traumatic, I felt lost, confused and scared. Unfortunately, that’s what art-making (for me, at least) involves, and so, the reality is, I’ll have a life-time of these occasional total freak-outs.

Faking is a bit of a recurring motif at present. I’ve felt rather like I’ve been taking part in the Channel 4 television series ‘Faking It’. Before Christmas I had my first ever singing lesson from an actress/opera singer, Danielle. We traded skills – I did 1940s style photo-shoot for her and she gave me singing lessons. Six lessons and much homework later, I recorded the song we worked on together. The tune is ‘And All That Jazz’ a Kander and Ebb song from the musical ‘Chicago’, and the words are taken from a section from Laura Mulvey’s Visual Pleasure in Narrative Cinema (1978) essay. Danielle fit the words to the music and recorded her version for me to practice to. I now have her version and my version. And mine is, well, awful. Danielle was very pleased with my progress – being able to sing the right notes in the right order a cappella. But really, it is not an aesthetic high point. But I tried very hard, and that is the way I know how to generate authenticity. Interestingly, I am now having official singing lessons from the Music School. And the Musical style suits my voice. Apparently. Live performance, anyone?

Concurrently I’ve been learning a Fosse-style dance to go with my song. I’ve been working with a BFA1 dance student, Staci, who’s been great. She worked with me, devising the majority of the choreography, teaching it to me and checking it. With some dance experience this wasn’t so traumatic. A little embarrassing when the only rehearsal space was the large main gallery (also a main thorough-fair in the building. Avram, a graduated BFA, very smart and interesting person, just happened to walk by. He hates my infatuation with the showgirl figure, so no doubt he was grimacing inwardly.

I’m going to video myself singing and dancing my song – the main part of my thesis show. I know I will hate my singing and dancing and the piece will make me cringe. However, It’s been an interesting process stepping into other artforms, ones that use the body as the artwork. I admire that quality in singing, dancing and acting. They involve using the body as a conduit for art. This creates a very immediate relationship to the audience, which I think I’m jealous of. It can feel like art is very separate from you, like a baby. Or a poo. Something that was part of you, but now is not, that you leave in the gallery for all to see.

The process of singing and dancing has been great fun, though. I kinda what to get into amateur dramatics now. I really hope that one of the am-dram companies in Sheffield will do a production of an old-fashioned musical (my wish list: 42nd Street, Chicago, any Cole Porter) when I return home. (When I was about 9 years old, Mum, Dad and I went to London for a short-break which we did a few times when I was young and we went to see 42nd Street. A unknown 19-year old Catherine Zeta Jones was in the lead role.)

Prior to all this art-making/trauma, I had a great Christmas holiday. Dad visited for nearly two weeks. He had a bad cold and felt lousy most of the time, but he enjoyed himself and he got to meet Ellen, David, Leslie, Kaycyila (we had Cricket over Christmas) and David and Ellen’s neighbouring ranch-owner friends. He got on with everyone and everyone liked him. He got to understand Ranch life and being an artist a little more. All good stuff. Sadly, Husband is having back problems – apparently due to his pelvis popping out of place. It’s been really painful for him and he doesn’t have an end point when it will stop and get better, so he’s pretty down about it. This year has been a challenge for him, and it’s been a deviation from his dream-plan. But, I think he will go home with some good life-learning experiences ready for his launch into full-time education (he’s going to start Bsc Biomedical Science at Sheffield Hallam University in September).



Thats a crocheted coral reef from an exhibition we went to see, co-curated (and croched in part) by Christine Wertheim.

Desolation

It is my thesis show in three weeks. I have just edited and changed a lot. I think the show will be a video projection. Maybe a video projection opposite.

My show will not be great. It will be ok. I feel desolate. I will not be the best in show. I will be an also ran. I've taken the morning off to cry.

I feel I'm not good enough. I'm not ready for the artworld. I'm not that good an artist. How can I apply for things and try to exhibit and talk about my art? I feel unworthy of the faith art-friends have in me.

I've just finished listening to Rita Hayworth's biography 'If This Was Happiness'. That is unrelenting misery in itself.

I feel desolate.