First Ice

I think I'm getting a little low


Tilting at windmills?

I'm off to London again on Friday to have a look at some of the galleries I spotted at Zoo, I've also had a list of places/people to contact from Gill. Not happy unless I'm anxious, I've started to worry about disappointing her. I've also started a new blog which I will continue on this site when this one finishes on the 20th November. The plan (at the moment) is to use it to flesh out ideas for my residency at BCA Bedford in the new year and to form the basis of a new book. I thought it was about time I showed my face in Bedford so I decided to drive over to see the opening of their latest show. I took a wrong turning on the way and ended up on the A11 to London. When I eventually managed to pull off I stopped to look at the road atlas. Unfortunately the vital page was missing and it was beginning to get too late so I turned around and headed home. After 150 miles of driving I stopped to buy a paper. Sitting in a coffee shop I read a review of the show and wondered if I could claim my petrol as tax deductable. (I think Katie Walton has some compromising photos of the Guardian art critic, they never fail to cover a BCA show)


Frieze + Zoo


‘Did’ the above yesterday with my fellow foundling artists. I have to admit I was sickened by Frieze;not by the blandiose displays, the scary gallerists and rich people, nor by the obligatory neon writing that every gallery seemed to sport. It was motion sickness that afflicted me. The pavilion is built on jenga like piles of wood and it swayed and bounced as we lurched from one stand to the next. As we left I suppressed an urge to ease one of the blocks from its pile.

Zoo was completely different. Like a crazy overstuffed degree show it was full of joy and interesting things. I managed to talk to a few people although I totally failed to hand out any of my cards. I think that each gallery should have a little box for artists’ cards on their stand (possibly attached to a shredder) it would save a lot of awkwardness all round.

I was also asked, rather pointedly I thought, when I would stop writing this blog. I still can’t get over the idea that its not really all in my head.

20th November.


My edition of 5 of Diary of a Foundling Artist with correct spelling arrived today. I think I was more excited than I have been for a long time. I took the opportunity of the delay to expand its contents to a whopping 30 + pages leading up to, but not including, the opening of the show. I now have to sign them with my less than inspiring signature and hope that some collector will be wildly excited by my story.


I remember more about the opening of RSVP now. In her speech Gill said that her work was only just starting and indeed we have had many emails about curators who have visited the show and opportunities we should look into etc. I couldn’t attend the first organised networking event at which I imagine Danielle Arnaud overcame her disappointment at my absence by handing out shows to everyone else (I imagine). Anyway I’m going to go charging around Frieze and Zoo on Friday leavng a scatter of cards in my wake.

I’m also starting to look ahead again. I have a residency coming up with BCA in Bedford in January and something with ‘young’ curators in Milton Keynes (their inverted commas not mine). So I’ve ordered Scott’s Antarctic Diary from amazon.


"It could be alcohol poisoning or post exhibition malaise"


I’m feeling a little tired.

I woke up this morning in the King’s Cross Travelodge and stared at the space on the opposite wall where a painting had once hung.

There follows a none hierarchical list of remembered incidents and learned lessons.

I did my usual private view thing of: drinking, moving around a lot to avoid talking to too many people, and then telling everyone that:

I don’t like private views’


‘I’ve drunk too much’

I need some better conversational gambits.

Lots of people liked the photograph (not so much mention of the films)

A woman with very cold hands (or at least hand, the other one may have been very hot, I didn’t ask)

Speeches briefly interrupted by the honking of my Opera.

Coolly entering a rococo room and tripping over the carpet.

Lawrence talking very cogently about my practice while wearing a suit and a pen. Unfortunately like waking from a dream I’ve forgotten what he said.

Overhearing that David Kefford is "the man of the moment"

Sitting in the cafe watching Rob Smith’s live feed of the private view explaining that I wasn’t Matt Cook.

Being entertained by Cedric and laughing too much at Arthur Ash

Stumbling last out of the pub with a crack unit of Arts Council drinkers

Reading Townley and Bradbury’s leaflet and going for a walk.