ARTISTS TALKING

# 6 [8 July 2011]

As 2011 BYAM SHAW alumna Eliza Self's totebag boldly states:

"CSM FUCKED MY ART SCHOOL

(NOT IN A GOOD WAY)"

Last year, Byam Shaw celebrated its Centinary.

It was an independent art school until 2003, when it was subsumed by the University of the Arts London as part of Central St Martins.

I don't know what kind of financial necessities led to the two schools Central & St Martins becoming one, or when the now conjoined CSM got taken over by UAL, along with Chelsea, Wimbledon and Camberwell Schools of Art, London College of Fashion, London College of Communication (formerly London College of Printing) and Drama Centre London. But for whatever reasons, Byam was brought under the banner of CSM and UAL.

In 2008/9 we Byam-ites were told that UAL was selling off all its disparate, but centrally located, prime real estate, historical buildings to developers, and having an UBER-UNIVERSITY building built in their stead, on some site in Kings Cross. We were ASSURED by tutors that Byam Shaw would NOT be affected by this further merge/move and 'we' would still exist semi-independently with the school's own identity (ethos, purpose, function and location) remaining in tact.

As a historically independent school, off the UAL main map (quite literally), we had a bit of a struggle to get any worthwhile recognition from UAL for inclusion in their activities and events listings (show announcements, for example), and we were rather under-represented within the university on the whole. Hardly anyone'd heard of us. But everybody's heard of Central Saint Martins. Still, ours was a very different experience to the "mainland" CSM students and the feedback when an artistic exchange took place on our little 'island of isolation' in Archway was always expressed with awe, wonder, admiration and slight envy for our jammily intimate set up.

Then when UAL did take any notice of us, it seemed to be with restrictive intent and brought negative consequences with regard to making/showing work and socialising within the buildings. Cutting access times and areas down, forbidding our bars and parties to be held on site. Even disallowing kettles in the studios on health and safety grounds. The usual increase in beaurocractic b.s. and corresponding decrease in quality of user experience...

So for the Centenary celebrations, famous and not so famous artistic alumni were invited to speak and to show work. There was a mighty fundraising appeal and monies were raised. (I don't know how much. I had already left by then and had childcare issues on the night of the big shebang). What these funds were used for is anybody's guess. They certainly don't appear to have gone towards Byam Shaw! If I had donated then, I would be demanding my money back at this point.

The library was threatened with closure, and managed to stay open only through the collective passion and enterprising spirit of members of 'our' unique Byam Shaw community. (Two years after graduating, and I still feel a right to claim my part ownership of the Byam experience! Says something about the place as it once was. Imperfect, but brewing with infinite potential for amazingness around every corner, in every crack and seam.)

Then in 2011, its hundred-and-first year, Byam Shaw held its LAST DEGREE SHOW EVER and closes its doors as an art school in its own right. Teachers have either been made redundnant or 'encouraged' to find jobs elsewhere, as (i've been made to understand) no more undergrad classes will be held at the Byam Shaw School of Art. The building will now be used for workshops and studios, mainly for post-graduate students. Good for them, but crap for the future undergraduates who could have really thrived in such a unique experimental incubator the place provided.

Talk about bitter-sweet!

http://blogs.csm.arts.ac.uk/byamshaw100/

(Slight Disclaimer: I am obviously not a journo, I am merely an ex-art student of a once dear place which is facing mightily extreme changes. If I have got any facts wrong, I welcome corrections. I would also appreciate comments and/or debate on this topic)

# 5 [29 July 2010]

I took a photo of the ruined painting and went to my boyfriend's house to mope.

I didn't want to go back to my place to mope. His place was better for moping. Smaller and slightly more depressing, because it is centrally located and surrounded by people having a such an obviously great time, so it really makes a moper like me feel even more sorry for herself.

Boyfriend didn't like the 'new-improved' version of the painting I showed him when he got in from work. I had been working on it for days on end and he had been noting its progression with interest.

"I liked your original efforts," he said. (see photo of original efforts)

"So did I." (Rub it in why don't you?)

I really f*cking HATE painting.

# 4 [28 July 2010]

W A R N I N G

COMPULSIVE CONFESSIONAL "OVER-SHARE" ALERT!

I got so frustrated with a painting yesterday that I completely trashed it in a fit of pique.

I was having problems with a particular part of a particular painting and was so angry with my limitations as a painter that I had a full-on Jackson Pollock temper tantrum.

At first I quite liked the violent magenta and bright red streaks across the figures I had been struggling to render.

Do you ever do something you regret? Go too far? Not know when to stop? Pull back? Rest? Reevaluate?

I kept going. "Shit. I've ruined it. I should have stopped a few splodges ago. Now it's f*cked. There's no going back."

And I thought, "somebody out there would think this is a good painting, but it's really just a total cop-out f*ck-up. Some people are such suckers."

So then, in another fit of pique, I smudged all that new paint with a squeegee a la Gerhard Richter (only Richter had a lot more talent in the first place than I, or indeed Jackson Pollock!)

And I think, "nope, derivative again. Big fucking deal. Smeared paint. Violent colours. Blacks, greys, forest greens, reds, magentas, pinks, whites. ANYBODY can do that- I've just proved it. A collector would walk in right now and say: I LOVE it! And I would think, you FOOL!"

So I did some more c*ntish Pollocking, and then in the manner of a 6 year old having a bigger and better temper tantrum, smearing peanutbutter and jelly on the kitchen cupboards with her hands, I pushed the wretched paint around the canvas.

Disgusted with the process and outcome, I ripped it off the wall, crumpled it up like a piece of discarded paper, threw it to the floor like the valueless object it was, jumped up and down on it for good measure, kicked it around the room a bit and fantasized about how I was going to go downstairs and just throw it into the skip-- "GOOD RIDDANCE."

But then I thought of the WASTE of canvas, the waste of paints, waste of money, waste of time, and the environmental unfriendliness of leaving it to rot (or not) in the landfill... "No."

So I uncrumpled it, still wet, and now looking as if it had been tie-dyed. "Is that a good thing? Let's see."

I put it back up on the wall, looked at it. "Nope. It's SHITE! It's even shittier shite than before."

Scraped what I could of it back with a palette knife-- and even with my very fingernails.

I thought of slashing the painting to bits with a stanley knife, but stopped myself when I thought of how that would wreck the wall that it would then be me who would have to refill it and sand it, and all that WASTAGE...

"SAND!" I tried sandpapering back some of the paint layers, but quickly got sick of that when I realised how futile it was.

The painting was ruined, by my own indolent and impatient hand.

I scrawled all over it with a piece of charcoal (trying to be Cy Twombly)

"You call this art?? You call yourself a f*cking artist? This is what you pay £200 a month to make??!! This shit? You oughta be ashamed of yourself" or something along those lines.

Then I cried. Or rather, I cried some more; I had already been crying for a considerable amount of time by then. I cried til my eyes were stinging with runny mascara.

"Oh poor little misunderstood, misdirected and undertalented me."

I managed to get paint in my hair, and on the clothes that I had changed out of, and my handbag and shoes, which (I thought) were put far enough out of harm's way at the oposite side of the studio. I suppose it's not a very big studio afterall.

It would take 3 days to get that crap out from under my fingernails and from around my cuticles-- all black and green and yucky. Advertising my occupation as an artist. "Not something I want to draw attention to when I am so bad at it," thought I.

The paint went through my tshirt and onto my bra. My bra is now only for wearing while painting (should I choose to continue after this set back, that is.)

The paint went through my jeans and onto my thighs, giving me false bruising and birth marks. It was spotted all over my face in tiny dots of colour, mostly black and green...

The clean-up was a b*tch.

# 3 [28 July 2010]

W A R N I N G:

RANT ALERT! RANT ALERT! RANT ALERT!

(entitled)

"I HATE PAINTING"

I can't believe it's taken me this many years to come to terms with the fact that I actually HATE painting. I only do it because I feel like I SHOULD if I'm an artist.

I hate painting regardless of what type of paint. There is not a single type of paint that I love using.

I hate watercolours because they are lame.

I hate acrylics because they dry too fast, but I like them better than watercolours because the colours are more vivid, and I like them better than oils because they are quicker to dry and produce no fumes.

I hate oils because they are so messy and require chemicals to dissolve and clean them and to thin them out or make them dry faster. I hate the smells of the thinners and I hate the environmental and fire hazards they present and I absolutely HATE the clean up.

I hate that everytime I paint, no matter how careful I am, I always get paint on the clothes that I've changed out of, no matter how well I try to hide them out of the way in the studio.

I hate having to pay so much rent for a studio so that I can make a mess in it, because painting at home is not an option.

I hate getting paint in my hair, on my face, in my eyes, on my arms, all over my hands, under my nails and cuticles. 

As a kid of course I didn't mind and wore my paint like a badge of honour. Now it just makes me feel scuzzy.

I hate that it's such a struggle getting the paint to do what I want it to do. I hate how inadequate and insignificant I feel when I can't make the paint do what I want it to do. I hate the heartache it gives me to realise that I have so many limitations as a painter.

I hate that I think:

I spend HOW MUCH on art supplies to make such TRASH? I pay 200 pounds a month to make THIS RUBBISH???!!! Why don't I just burn my cash in a bonfire?

And then I think: NO. I have to master this. I'm an artist, whether I want to be or not. Whether I'm good at it or not.

# 2 [30 March 2010]

But what Art have I done in the meantime?

Well, I TRIED to develop work I had made, or planned to make, in college, pre-graduation. I made a couple of tentative pieces from home in between childcare duties.

I attempted to use the breakfast room as a part-time painting studio.

When that didn't quite work, I used our closet-sized kitchen. That was more like it: running water, counter space and a rug-free floor, but eventually, and daily, food would need to be prepared for the little one and me.

I experiemented with using the living room to make a few bits of sculpture, but as the name implies, we need to be able to live in there.

There was no place in the flat to make stuff and know that it would be left undisturbed.

I even tried using the bathroom for certain  projects-- big bright white tiles, big frosted windows and plenty of good quality diffused light-- it became a very tiny photography studio for a short while.

My bedroom had, well, too much bedding, (and clothing) that would have been ruined by paint splatter. (made that mistake in the past)

Then there are the fumes to consider.

Hallway? There's a skylight-- but too tight a space to pass without interfering with the work and getting paint on your clothes.

Loft space? Check. But un-insulated, un-lit, un-heated, un-ventilated, un-windowed, un-floored and completely un-converted.

Can't go calling in the builders to convert a flat I don't actually own. Shame really, because it's HUUUUGE and would be perfect otherwise.

If only I'd access to the garden...

My child tried to 'help' with one of my scuptures. I had to throw it out, and I worked on it for a long time too.

(I suppose, in retrospect, I could have salvaged it, but I was just too fed up).

A painting she tried to 'help' with had to get shelved for months; a reworking was attempted when I finally got a big long weekend off mummy-duties. But the momentum was lost.

The art would have to be put on hold, for a bit.

Never-the-less, I dreamt of having a child-free studio of my own... one where wet materials could be left to dry, untouched and unsmudged by curious little fingers. A place where I could make an absolute mess (and not the kind of lived-in mess the place is in on a daily basis, but an arty mess that would not be interfered with, nor interfere with the flow of daily life at home), without having to clean it up to make way for a meal-times, or having to worry about whether the landlord will charge me for accidental (or even deliberate!) splodges squirted on the wall and rugs when the time comes to move home. A place where the light is good and the rent is cheap, and not a prohibitive distance from home or my kid's school and activities. A place that, once I get there, I actually have time to make work between school runs.

Without really looking for such a space, I found one!

I'm thrilled that I will have a place to 'do my thing' again

# 1 [30 March 2010]

A question many college graduates from such a nebulous subject as Art are repeatedly asked and ask themselves: What are you going to do with yourself, now that you've finished Art School?!

My personal response to that question was: Rest!

Doing two full time art courses simultaneously last year was insane.

Sure it showed drive, determination & super-human initiative, but commuting on public transport from S.London to N.London (art school number 1) to E.London (art school number 2) just ripped the enthusiasm straight out of my body.

My enthusiam was also mauled by beaurocratic b.s. and box-ticking mashed in with heart-sinking head-office politics for both places. The morale of my fellows was practically below sea-level on each course. It was a direly uninspiring experience for many of us, and an expensive one at that.

Some lucky sods came out on top, unscathed; they had better armour, better insulation, better resources, and quite frankly, better attitudes than the rest of us!

I am very grateful for my internal and external resources that I DID have at my disposal, because I got through a stupidly (self imposed) crazy year, in which I spread myself far too thinly to achieve a "merit plus" for both courses and a piece of paper each for the privilege of proving it.

After which, I "rested".  And I got to spend more time with my child again (which isn't very restful, I can assure you. If you are a parent you will know what I mean!)

"Resting" doesn't mean I didn't look for work (in addition to the work that motherhood entails). It means that subscribed to and checked all the graduate art job listings every day for jobs and internships, but very few things came up that "fit" my quals or my requirements for a living wage, near my child's school and with flexi-time for school runs and half terms, etc.

SO WHAT DID HAPPEN?

Around that time, while I was factoring in the probability of having to take an unpaid internship somewhere, I was offered an opportunity to take on a producer's role for a small indie company. I deliberated for some months about it, because it felt financially risky.

I'd never considered being a producer before, seeing myself in a more overtly "creative" role. But, I loved the ideas and subject matter for the films I was being asked to work on and my partner believed in my ability to make things happen out of thin air. So I took a wee leap of faith and said, "Yes, ok, I'll give it a go.