ARTISTS TALKING

# 89 [30 December 2011]

Story of tracker Dusty chalky dancing travels

"How can you make art about our dance?"

Moving to Glasgow involved a train journey north in the summer of 2009, and then a final a climb up to the west end of the city, following my nose, to Kelvinbridge on the Great Western Road, which takes you to Loch Lomond and beyond: one bag under one arm, another over the adjacent shoulder. 



Later I arrived at the third and top most floor of the tenement where I would reside for one and a half years: using my new set of keys, I entered the flat. Waiting for me was my landlord on the eve of her departure for a month-long trip to the south of England and my new lodger, an odd little drifting number in a summer dress who was well balanced on the balls of her feet. She greeted me with a smile.



A few days later the lodger invited one or two friends round for a meeting - I was keen to stick my nose in.


First two girls and then a third and finally, after I had been introduced to them all so far, a fourth came in through the front door, through the hall and in to the kitchen where we sat. I shook her hand in greeting, she smiled a wry sort of smile, and I took my leave of the table and left the room.

A week and a few more meetings later their plans were set amidst. But they needed help. And they would get it and get at it.



My time with The Group, you could say, started at this point in time. Now 2012, almost three years later, I have taken many a task and gone on one or two dusty chalky dancing travels with them. 



They push on and they give more, and they get more in return. They live in Glasgow still and many of their meetings, although not in the same flat, still happen in the kitchen... or the living room or the bedroom or the dining room.



The same lodger who hosted the first few meetings visits me from time to time in my new studio apartment in the centre of Edinburgh above the rail station. There, we battle and toil for words and for domestic objects to polish and shine in to art-forms. She prefers to stand upon them, ride them and holler or whistle from them. I prefer to steal them, much like I steal words, and drag them in to my studio and embellish them with meaning.

Whistle blower your table shine is mine.

THE BARREL THE ICE THE SNOW

Remember our outstretch to the gallery opening in the twilight months of 2009, chalk was on the walls as well as art and we whirled the room practicing and outlaying our movements in time with each other and apart from everything else. And before this, atop the shattered tower at the back of Trongate - we sketched out our footwear and step tip toes. Then, in the summer of 2010, together we built on our display in an empty warehouse scattered with sculpture. And then the same warehouse a month or two on shovelled under the snow, the ice and the barrel.  

# 88 [14 November 2011]

A current project is 'Parallèlement à l'intérieur (au-dessus de)’, an explorative run-through of work with another artist, Jennie Picken, that will culminate in a show in Glasgow in 2012, along with a partnering show in Amsterdam.

The plan of action was to post physical elements of work to one another, myself being in Edinburgh and Jennie being in Amsterdam. However - as much as the project is about notions of communication and distribution to muster an overall idea of what the final shows will be (and to define the content of them) - snail mail has failed us: an original drawing and set of photographs have now been lost somewhere between Scotland and The Netherlands via Airmail.

Perhaps I wrote the wrong address down - or perhaps Jennie's mail box is not big enough for a square package to fit through: but the result is we are now looking at alternative methods of sharing these ideas via email. And we are looking at the material of email and the possibilities of this in order to develop a language that progresses the project without giving too much away.

So we now progress with the project using Skype to catch up with one another and to discuss developments. We are also waiting for certain 'terms and conditions' to not be 'embargoed' - so we can distribute ourselves freely. For now, our project and its whereabouts - somewhere in between here and there above the sea - remains deliberately embargoed too...

# 87 [14 November 2011]

"I plan to re-visit the work made during these excursions - make them in to episodes the commemorate their existence. We have plenty of footage between us. What do you say?"


The failed system?

Last year has past and this year has, almost, gone through the same trajectory - as we reach Winter it is cold enough to remember the approach of new year. Back to last year, 2010. A culmination of mustering thoughts on moving away from Glasgow  joined with a fellow artist and friend buying her soft top yellow car. We both worked together in another capacity, drank together with too much capacity and ate together with lack of capacity on her behalf. This, strangely, developed in to a mutual understanding of creative isolation - both a longing for it geographically and a feeling of it within a wider city and a consolidated art scene.

To deal with this notion of isolation we crafted an idea from within fictional desire. After watching the enough science-fiction and talking about it enough we jumped in to her car and headed northwards toward Loch Lomond and its surrounding areas. We went in search of that which Glasgow did not give us: space. Space in the sense of a designated area for us to make work comfortably and head-space beyond and above the city.

On the north-western tip of the loch we came across a mire - a pebbled and wooden enclosed stretch of water that acted as an over flow for a river that ran its course eventually hitting the loch itself. From the mire, in the distance and set in to the hills was a waterfall. In one place we had immediate privacy and time to experiment and record happenings, we also had perspective, as the waterfall in the distance - connected by the flow and idea of water - gave us a destination.

We made three visits in all.

One to re-arrange the water's path and to make film works next to the mire under the beating sun.

The next to talk to the deer and its family under the pylon, beyond the fence in the field next to the mire.

And the last to climb barefoot through the bracken in the rain, to hit the mist of the waterfall itself and whiteness its scale and its affect upon us

In all these visits and our talking about them became something of a method for working through and on to ideas. The system of working became fictional in our ability to re-visit it in our heads. We named the system 'Dagobah', after the swamp moon of Jedi teachings featured in George Lucas's Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi.

# 86 [7 October 2011]

The sun is shining and I hope it holds for tomorrow before all the leaves fall of the trees that back my top floor tenement. I haven't sat here for a while, just as I have not really blogged properly for a while. I thought this point, on the kitchen table next to the herbs that match the leaves on the other side of the window, was a good point to list some of the projects I have been working on and other current projects. Perhaps these explain the absence of direct commentary on my work in the past months.

A bulletin of sorts

First up is a two-person show called IPSO FACTO with fellow artist Ross Hamilton Frew at SUPERCLUB in Edinburgh, this opens on the 28th of October. Ross and myself have been working on the project loosely headed as "this is meditative" since around January 2011. IPSO FACTO is the culmination of new works in a space using drawing as a model for collaborative exchange: each work in some way will support the work of the other in a matter of fact (or indirect) manner. We have been keeping a separate Project blog for this on Artists talking called Drawing as a forum for collaborative exchange…

Running up to the IPSO FACTO show Ross and myself also have an image that it exemplary of our curatorial approach printed in Drawing Paper 4, a drawing/exhibition/newspaper produced in Liverpool and distributed nationally - http://www.issuu.com/mikecarney/docs/drawingpaper4...

'Abandoned house' is also a result of 'this is meditative', the collection of work by Ross and myself in one room in a derelict house near Lumsden in Aberdeenshire (I posted two separate works up to Ross there) comments on the dialogue we explore in the blog and also sets curatorial makers for IPSO FACTO - http://www.rich-taylor.co.uk/archive/abandoned-hou...

On a more Individual level I am to get two pieces of my creative writing published in two art journals. The text 'One moving but still the other still but moving', is to be published in Gnommero: Exactitude, the third publication in a series produced by Sarah Tripp and Eona McCallum that respond to Italo Calvino's 'Six Memos for a New Millennium'. This publication will be launched at an event at the Centre for Contemporary Arts, Glasgow that maps the art journal activity in Glasgow today (other journals will include 2HNB and Victor & Hester).

Another text '-Repeated act, Concentricity-' is to be published in Critical Writing Collective's upcoming journal COPY // Unfold - http://www.rich-taylor.co.uk/textworks/repeatact

A recently concluded project with writer (and now PHD student at University of Aberdeen) Sophie Frost records the wandering conversations and stories that are 'The Sea (the artist) the writer (The Sea'. This text and artwork were printed with the support of The Mutual Glasgow and Vault Art Glasgow - http://www.rich-taylor.co.uk/textworks/seaartistwr...

A fast approaching collaborative work will surface come mid-November 2011. Artist Kimbal Bumstead and myself have been working collaboratively for the past four years now and our recent project 'two men one room' reaches Edinburgh with a week long residency that maps alternative space within the city and then culminates with a series of events and exhibition at The Old Ambulance Depot off Leith Walk in the north of the City (November 26th - 28th).

Another working project is with fellow artist and friend Jennifer Picken. Proposed title: "embargoed" Read Jennifer's blog

# 85 [6 October 2011]

Navigating Bempton Cliffs: "plan this step and each new move as you would equate one word upon the next."

Both Ross Hamilton Frew and myself are drawing in the same place - as we draw the rain hits the tin roof of the studio and the wind shakes the corrugated shelter above our heads. For me these sounds re-surface the memory of joint, even familial, activity - caravan holidays and towed activity routed in walks along the East Coast of Yorkshire. Activities jammed between the sea and the North York Moors. 

I then get to thinking about the language of this coast line. I should, by anyone's reckoning of a taught or learnt process of acquiring a language, be fluent with these edges of the land by now - yet it is so long since I was there. Whenever we were there as a family our path's were clouded by the sea-mists and we never saw but a puffin in the sky. If only this treaded language, this colloquialism of navigating the land, was the same as getting your ass round a gallery and understanding the walls and the floors and the ceilings. With written or spoken language you learn that one word means the following word should make sense - as should one step lead perfectly to the next along the path in front of you.

Landmass has no grammatical structure, yet if the steps you made all those years ago on those caravan holidays amongst the mist are copied and pasted in to a white-cube, is the language then translatable?

Back to the collective drawing exercise and the conversation in the studio under the rain. I finish one line like I finish a sentence and start another line with another word as I walk from one end of the room to the other.

# 84 [6 October 2011]

FOUR F E A T H E R S
AN   OPEN  WINDOW

Of late I have been collecting the feathers that float through the window at the Eastern end of my open plan living space. The feathers seem to be from pigeons that habituate their movements in flight by dipping under the bridge across from my window frame and landing reversely within the suspensions and metal constructions that hold it together. Its as it the pigeons sacrifice one part of their wing span in order to be given permission to ‘land’ or to ‘rest’. I often watch from the interior side of the window as the birds, encased in silhouette against a background of light, grace the last inches of sky and then join the black mass of the bridge and its hinges - then, slowly but surely, a feather falls and gains drifting momentum towards the vacuum that is my open plan flat. The feathers enter and fall lightly to the floor - from there I pick them up and take them to the stair case.

The stair case, as I am sure you will know by now, makes up the centre and dividing space of my studio-cum-living arrangement. Apart from the occasional obvious spell of a line between where I work and where I sleep, the flat is currently in disarray - and the feathers add nothing to what should be a goal in clarity for me to define what is work and what is not. My old sofa now exists on the studio side as a sculpture, a broken function that folds in orange display with wooden feet jutting out from the top rather than the bottom. The coffee table also now exists on the brink of my studio space, on its side. It just needs one last push over on to its back and it will be ready for painterly affect.

I have four feathers in my hand and as I approach the stair case I trip over the cable for a light fitting, a four meter line of black wire affixed to the ceiling. The fitting comes loose as a result of my momentum, and the energy from my forward steps transfers like a pendulum making my body top heavy. As I fall head first to the ground my hands involuntarily follow my arms and spread out in a wing-like fashion, the four feathers again reach the air. My nose hits the ground with a  tremendous force. The feathers float with a slight sweat taken from my hand, which affects their gravitational balance. The interior conditioning of dust momentarily contorts their time in the middle of the room directly above the stair case. I turn over on to my back and watch them above - they create a perfect circle in slow motion, a perfect mobile with no attachments and no armatures. A new art work by mistake?

There is a gust of wind and its as if the vacuum of my interior habitation flicks a switch, the pressure in the room reverses and in one fell swoop the air is sucked out of the window - the feathers follow this gulf stream and rush for the outside. I lose them in one blink on an eye.

# 83 [12 September 2011]

     Whistle blower
your table shine is mine

In my mind's eye I saw from below the coffee table again, its underside constructed for ultimate-fold and transportability. Atop this table, opposite from where I hid, stood a woman wrapped in a scarf and covered from breast to toe in a black jump suit. She whistled a tune that, by way of my open-plan apartment's acoustics, rang true through the room. The women held her arms aloft balancing core-weight against one table leg that appeared shorter than the others - she swayed from one foot to the other on the balls of her feet, and the table followed suit in time with her song. 

I was sat amongst my objects on the half of the open plan space that housed my studio endeavors - ever since I invited the women in I had begun to construct a hide out for myself amongst paintings: by now she was so coveted by her song her eyes were blind against her senses, and I could move unseen and unheard gradually gaining on her - closer and closer still and then upon her.

I needed the coffee table, I had inspected its underbelly and had planned a painting using its alterior surface as a ground for decided incisions, cuttings, and pastings - I had the oils mixed and ready, emulsified with turpentine and bees wax.

I would only get so close before interrupting her flow. I had to carefully plan my moves, one after the other, to increment this sound and build upon her display. She had to fall in the opposite direction towards the window for the table, pushed by her dexterous mishap, to carefully roll on to my side of the space. One foot wrong on my part and she would fall the wrong way.

I got as far as the staircase in the middle of the room and had to stop. She stared right in to my eyes as her whistle reached a higher tone, as if to pierce right through me...   

# 82 [9 September 2011]

Vault Art Fair and the brand of Glasgow (here I am stating - there I am showing).

Under one guise and then another - and then another. I journeyed West yesterday over to Glasgow to meet a friend, first of all, for coffee and then we took a walk through Kelvingrove park, over the hill passed Park Circus in the sunshine - the chime of Glasgow University tower donning against the odd cloud hanging in the sky. My friend then left and I journeyed with another old pal down to King St. - venturing in to Transmission Gallery I caught up with the resource room in the basement, got to grips with its goings on. I then took a step out of the glass door and headed further south towards the river Clyde. I arrived early at my final destination - the Briggait and found myself cut off from the vault inside. I stood waiting at the door for tickets that I needed to get in - but then a member of the filming crew passed by (he was head camera man, and happened to be friends with the other person I was with at the time). He soon returned to the door where we stood and gave us both a film crew pass.

Inside there was stall upon stall of art for sale or art for commissioned value or art for oysters. Commercial standing stood next to not-for-profit artist groups - and together they stood pretty well.

All in all I am happy with the submission I made to The Mutual - a story-cum-interview with fellow artist and writer Sophie Frost, attached to the back of an A3 page - folded to perfection in to a 'pamphlet for sale'. Together with the pamphlet and the backing design we were asked to put together a flag: this flag then performed as a title for the work enclosed in the pamphlet and was also screen printed to bespoke canvas bags, scarfs and bunting - all of which are too for sale in an increment of prices.

For the speeches, I was asked to make the most of my film crew pass - for this I climbed the stairs to the surrounding mezzanine and 'spied' on the goings on from above! Then back to the train, back east again and now rain - yet more rain. Its as if I had dragged the representative weather with me and now I sit underneath the cloud.

footnote
"She would always, without fail, wear a scarf - but on my arrival her neck was bare. At the back of the stall there was a neatly folded yellow screen printed scarf, left for someone to wear - why she did not have it wrapped around her neck I did not give any time to know: I said she had to put it on - and from that point onwards she became to me who she always was. It all felt complete and its as if I had never left!"

# 81 [31 August 2011]

It has been a while since I last posted on here. This is because I have moved to a larger and grander living arrangement where one half of a open plan space exists alongside another, one side being my studio, the other my living space:

             Bounce and haul-ass

         ----

Sitting on the bright orange plush sofa in my open plan loft apartment I relax, having just listened to a rendition of some other song or other on Jazz FM. I turn my head to the corner of the room looking passed the spiral staircase in front of me. There, in this corner, I see my desk. I stand up from the sofa and step back on to its cushioned surface - giving my vision more panoramic height I survey the rest of my apartment and its contents. To the left of the desk and heading back in to the centre of the space there are several pieces of cut wood ordained with oil paint and beeswax varnish. At the foot of these 'props' sit several counted objects of similar colours, shapes and sizes.

Two movements come to mind as I stand on my sofa in place of sitting still. One is to bounce, just once, as if a trampoline exists beneath my feet. The other is to haul-ass to the other side of the room passed the staircase to join in with the objects.

I make the first move and bounce once on the sofa. The sofa implodes beneath me and I end up on the floor of the living area behind staring at the underside of the coffee table. I then stand and begin to move awkwardly towards the stair in the centre of the room. I turn and look back at the orange sofa - it's more like a deliberated sculpture now. Bright and ornamenting it reminds me of an office-cum-staff room I used to take breaks in, which housed a similar couch for lounging on next to the curator's personal assistant. With her insistent typing she declined every hot cup of tea you offered her, instead you laid back and watched her send email after email and answer the phone with a flash of an arm movement - her face was painted with the colour of the monitor screen she stared at whilst speaking.

I make the second move now. I haul the sofa and my ass from one side of the apartment to the other - there it is to become a colour-way for a new set of paintings or props in the 'studio' area of my open plan habitation. To do this I have to take a half moon trajectory around the central staircase - reaching a quarter of the way I stop pulling, take a peek down the steel steps, half moon around the orange mess itself, and push for the rest of the journey. One half moon tipped with a tangent of another, slightly smaller half moon. After hauling my ass, the sofa transforms and reaches another possibility in its existence.

I bounce, and then I haul ass. I break and then I drag the breakage from one context in to another, as if moving from one continent to next with the flick of a switch.

                                          ----

# 80 [22 July 2011]

The adventures of Kim-bob and me [part 1]

I slid open my phone to access saved contacts; under favourites I find Kimbal’s number and press dial. The phone nears on connection and then fails – I lift the phone away from my ear and press re-dial, this time it connects, but alas to a foreign dial-tone: he is on his travels again but still he answers:

Hi Richard how are you, I am currently in a queue for a bus in Athens having being scolded by the police for attempting to hitch a ride to the shore, I’m not island hopping I am undergoing a performative exercise that will result in an exhibition in Manchester at the end of June. It’ll be more like the end of July at this rate. Hi Kim, is this costing me a bom? No it is me though, I have to pay to accept calls – oh and that reminds me, I have little credit: but how are you? I’m good – I just wanted to touch base on the project we discussed last month forwarding the residency we underwent last year. Oh okay. Well, can we speak when I am back in the UK? Okay. Will call you beginning July. Good luck.

It is now July and I get around to calling again just before my journey to London from Edinburgh with East Coast, after tracking Kim’s location on Facebook I map his current capacity on the road back to London from Manchester. Whether he is on a bus or as passenger in someone’s car I’m not so sure, but I slide open my phone to access saved contacts; under recent conversations I find Kim’s number and press dial – I anticipate a foreign dial tone but it never comes, instead it connects to UK fluidity: it dials, and dials some more. I get to the point of counting the dials as if I am counting the turns in the road as I chase Kim on his bike around South Tottenham. I say to myself only two more rings and then I am done – I don’t like leaving voice messages so instead I draft a text message in my head: a sort of haiku in place of prolonged conversation:

My hotel is near
Greenwich is that too far for
You to come meet me?

Kim answers a few seconds in to the first draft. Hi how are you I am currently on a bus back to London the exhibition went well. Not so bad thanks the weather is shit here in Scotland. I heard the storms will meet me in London on my arrival. Are you hitching? Yes. Okay, can you speak? Erm, not for long don’t have too much battery can you email me instead? Okay.

Email to Kimbal:

Hi Kim,

I am about to walk down to the train station for the 3.30pm East Coast train to London Kings Cross, I arrive I think around 8pm. Are you around this evening to catch up? We could do with talking about this in person and get our ideas together.

I have to find my hotel first, which is in Greenwich – is that near where you are in terms of transport? If it is lets meet up for a beer and get this ball rolling.

Also, I think we should build a schedule to get drawings and written texts sent to one another – start building up a dialogue and a library of one another’s ideas. How about once every two weeks on the Friday we post something to each other. I will take your address down later...

I will be at my emails on the train as I have editorial work to do, so will catch anything you send back.

Cheers

Richard