Bath School of Art and Design

Great idea, shame it’s been done.

A few weeks ago I finally got started on an idea for a photo-series I’d had about five years Before Art School. I had been (kind-of) already doing it for the past three or four years anyway; using my phone-camera to take pictures of abandoned items of clothing – sunglasses, gloves, shoes and the like – that had been spotted by passers-by and placed on a wall, slotted over the pointed metal spike of an old railing, or perched on top of a bollard. The hope of the picker-upper being that, on realising their loss, the item’s owner would retrace their steps, ending at the location in which the dropping and picking-up and placing had taken place. All of this must surely happen without the owner ever knowing the identity of the item’s saviour; the charitable passer-by that rescued it from being trodden into the dirt, and set it aside for later retrieval.

I wonder about the narrative that such objects contain or, more accurately, with which they become imbued, once I see them there, on their fence-post or, if I happen to be on top of a big hill, at the foot of a cairn. Who dropped it? Was it deliberately discarded because the other one was already lost?Which kind-hearted soul picked it up? And how far behind the dropper was the picker-upper? The item may spend longer on its perch than it ever did on the pavement. Eventually, in the beginning of year three of university, I decided this was a goer, so I hired out a camera from Tall Rob (Short Rob was away for the day), and took a walk into town to begin my long-anticipated project.

A week or so later, meeting with my tutor – one of the ones that doesn’t allow you to discuss what you’re going to do, and is only interested in what you’ve done – I was eager to tell him of my new (old) project, and pulled out the cheap prints of my first half a dozen images (half a dozen in just over a week!). I talked at length (there may have been some babbling) about the stories we attach to these inanimate objects, before, during and after our contact with them. How much the content of this work work related to my previous projects, like the one about the Christmas trees on pavements in January, or the twenty-four stones I returned to Lulworth Cove, in an attempt to assuage my pent-up guilt, four years after taking them.

‘This is great,’ he said, ‘but I’m guessing you’re not familiar with the work of Richard Wentworth?’

My heart sank, as it had often done so in situations such as this, when I realised that my latest great idea was over before I had even conceived it. My tutor went on to describe a number of Wentworth’s works, all of which are great, and I urge everyone to look him up. By the end of our session I had realised that, although my end product was similar to Wentworth’s, and that doubtless someone, in an artschool somewhere in the world, or even someone not interested in art at all, but who feels the same connection with these abandoned bits and pieces and has a camera in their pocket, captures these same images, I still had to go through with my project.

‘But Trevor, it’s been done.’

I know, but the documentation of my encounters with these things, regardless of whatever purpose they serve to anyone else, artist or not, form a crucial part of what it is for me to express myself as an artist.

I was reminded of the words of my first-year tutor, in a similar situation with another ‘been done’ project of mine; ‘It doesn’t matter that it’s been done, what matters is that it hasn’t yet been done by you.’

So my photo-series of abandoned and rescued bits and bobs continues, with a nod to Richard Wentworth, and a wry smile to my tutor.

My practice and the importance of trying new things

I spent the first year of my studio practice making a few different types of work: I made short films of my actions, like Shouting Hello to France; I used photography to document The Repatriation of the Stones; I even made a minor Intervention in the work of a major artist (looking back, I’m not quite so comfortable with that one as I was at the time). Each of these pieces included a textual element: Repatriation of the Stones was supplemented by a quote from Jean Baudrillard; Shouting Hello to France was accompanied by a screenplay-style script (artist approaches shoreline, shouts ‘Hello’). The very first piece I made, 144 Horse Chestnuts, was half text, half image. The most common formal element running through my early degree work was text, and by assessment time in May I had developed the confidence to produce works that consisted entirely of text; usually a single line – a sentence – taken from a conversation or overheard, such as ‘I shall continue to sail this rudderless ship’ and ‘I only fantasize about things I’ve already done’

By the end of year two my so-called practice had stagnated for a whole year and I was using nothing but text to express my thoughts, philosophies and what not. So much so that, on reflection, year two in the studio feels more like a gap year than anything remotely academic. This may be partly down to my university’s insistence on placing second-years across the city, off campus and with barely any facilities (our new Head of Art has already made great leaps in changing this for the better – not least installing a decent wifi connection and regular technical assistance).

Having staked my claim as an ‘ideas’ artist, I had the freedom to create anything I wanted, but such freedom became restricting, as I would come up with a number of ideas for work, only to talk myself out of making them, for fear of them not being worthy of Art. I had always been averse to making objects, which is why I ended up in media in the first place, but now I found myself incapable of even filming simple actions. I had thought, and subsequently written, myself into an ideological corner; from which position all I could do was create lines of text, either in the form of grand ideas, reduced to words, or quoted from conversations and songs. My work became repetitive and boring.

I still feel that text is the right direction for many of my ideas, but now understand that it need not always be a straight line of black vinyl Garamond, and so at the beginning of year three I promised myself that I would explore the presentational possibilities of text-based work. In the first three months I have taken letterpress and embossing workshops, I have ordered a large-scale piece of MDF board to be cut by the cnc router (images to follow), I have chopped up my old dartboard to make Artboard, and I am, this very day, being inducted into metalwork so that I can create a great big (top secret) word that will eventually rust, and maybe form part of my degree show piece.

Finally, after two and a half years, including that second year ‘gap’ year, I feel like I am beginning to develop some studio habits worthy of being described as a practice, and all because I got over my fear of the complication of objects, and allowed myself to try new things.

CRIT-ETIQUETTE

The group critique offers an opportunity to show completed work in a friendly environment, mediated by a tutor who’s main objective is to steer the discussion away from unfair criticism. The crit provides essential rehearsal at that performance which all artists must eventually face up to: WE MUST TALK ABOUT OUR WORK!

Why then, does the group critique seem to strike fear and self-loathing into the hearts of even the most committed of art-students? You know the ones: always busy; exhibiting SINCE FIRST YEAR; done a bit of curating on the side, ‘just to keep their hand in’. Even those guys, the super-students, are a little intimidated by the thought of standing up in front of the group and justifying their work. They, like the rest of us, understand that when we make a thing and call it art, it represents the maker of the thing; the artist. Even if you bodged it together last night, after you got that text from your pal, asking if you were looking forward to the crit in the morning, you’re going to have to really think about why you did it, or you’re going to have to make something up on the spot, and not have it look like you made it up on the spot.

Your work

Preparation, the topic of my first post, may be the key. All crits at BathSpa ask students to present a piece of work as if it were in a gallery. So dig out the old pot of studio paint, chip off the skin from where the last person to use it forgot how to put lids on things, and give your studio space a lick of the white stuff. Remove all superfluous materials – even if it means piling them up in someone else’s space for a couple of hours. Don’t show your new film on your laptop; hire a projector, book the dark-space.

To avoid misleading the viewer you must pay attention to detail. I once presented three vinyl text-pieces for a crit, the fact I’d used different fonts and stuck them on different walls was rendered meaningless by my placing them all at the same height, which encouraged my fellow students to read them as one piece. The first fifteen minutes of the session was wasted discussing the narrative that ran through the ‘entire piece’. Not wasted though, as I learned from my mistake.

Other student’s work

I was struck dumb when invited to initiate the crit proceedings just a few months ago. Yet when someone else is asked to begin, I find my mind overflowing with crucial insights into the nature of the work being discussed. The best and easiest way to approach the opening gambit is to go for the tried and trusted formal breakdown of the work; what are its basic elements? Is it situated on the wall or on a plinth, or is it hanging from the ceiling?Why is it framed/not framed? If it’s a film, why is it on a portable tv set and not projected? ‘That’s all very well,’ I hear you thinking, ‘but what do you analyse if the artist fancies himself as one of them minimalists?’ (my own work is quite minimal, and people usually end up talking about what isn’t there).

If you’re floundering and no-one comes to your rescue, you must avoid the ‘it could have been’ angle – the artist wants to hear your thoughts on what they did, not what they didn’t.

Finally, be honest and tactful. If you find the work unfathomable, admit it. If it looks lazy or pretentious, don’t mention it – investigate the process. The old saw, ‘if you can’t say anything positive, don’t say anything at all.’ might not be such a bad idea, after all, nobody wants to hear yourant about ‘this type of work’ (again) do they? Especially not when the artist is standing right beside you. Sobbing. No, brutal criticism is best reserved for those student-only occasions, when you’re all agreed that frankness is the order of the day. After all, a comprehensive dressing-down can be a sobering way of telling you just how un-extraordinary your new direction is.

MOST IMPORTANTLY: Never take anything personally, remain objective, and thank people for their comments.

Good luck, Critters!

P.S. Regarding nerves, I am utterly advice-less. I’ve got butterflies even now, and all I’m doing is thinking about clicking on ‘publish post’.

HOW TO PLAN YOUR PLANNING

I expect there are many students that think the final run-up to the degree show begins in March, or April – around Easter – but the truth is that the sooner you get your head around the idea that time is of the essence here; the more likely you will be to get off your umm-ing and ah-ing behind and do some work. We all have studio days that don’t quite go as planned – closed workshops, forgot to bring cash for materials (some campus shops still don’t accept cards), waiting on a print/frame/smoke-machine to be delivered – anything and everything can put you off your stride when you’re an art student. Not least of which is your fellow students, making you come over to their laptop to see some great piece of work by their favourite artist, asking you read their latest dissertation draft, or – and by far more likely – inviting you over to their space to watch Ultimate Dog Tease on YouTube. AGAIN.

Now I’m not about to suggest that you snub all of these invitations – that Dog Tease clip is, after all, pretty funny/cute/cruel/whatever – but it’s best to avoid being drawn into anything that takes too long and adds nothing to your day/week/life.

Ok, in first year we all took lunch breaks that lasted the entire afternoon, into the evening and ended up in accident and emergency two weeks later, but, with what amounts to around fifteen weeks to go (depending on how much work you plan on doing over Easter) until your degree show, the time for such narcissistic navel-gazing has passed.

So PLAN YOUR DAY, plan your week, even. The key to making the most of your day in the studio is GO INTO IT KNOWING WHAT YOU WANT OUT OF IT.

You may be the kind of tunnel-visioned, driven individual that can handle this task effortlessly. Personally, I prefer to compile a to-do list. A good to-do list includes several different types of task, from catching up with a tutor to phoning around for prices on bulldog clips. The point is to ensure that, should one or more of the items on the list fall through, you will always have something else to do;somewhere else to go; someone else to badger. That way you will never fall into the trap of ‘going for a wander’ (although, including the odd studio wander on your to-do list is essential), or ‘going to work from home’, which is usually code for ‘going to watch television and eat in bed’.

I’m not saying such things are inherently bad, but when you’ve only got four or five months until the end of your degree, you kind of have to let them go for a while.

So ends my first post, if you’ve read it and have more to add on the subject of planning, feel free to comment, and share this post with others.