|Waiting and thinking|
Sunday, 22 September 2013
Wednesday, 18 September 2013
Good for people watching though.
Anyway, as I say, I lost faith and stopped attending openings as, frankly, they were usually full of people who think Damien Hirst is actually a good thing. Idiots. Fast forward some time. Lots of time. Well, maybe not that much but I am dealing with the single biggest upheaval of my life at the same time.
Some months back I gained a new follower on twitter by the name of Matt Forster. From time to time he'd tweet images of watercolours he'd been working on and I liked what I saw, they had a certain something, a simplicity with depth.
Time passed a bit more and I saw that he had an exhibition about to start a little way from my office. Well that had to be a good thing. I at least knew I liked what I'd seen so far and was curious to see how it would measure up in reality. This was helped by the fact that the exhibition wasn't going to be in a white cube, but a coffee shop. In SW1. Crikey.
It was going to be a memorable evening. And not completely in a good way.
My plus one would be my bezzie, oddly this is only the second time I've dragged her kicking and screaming to an evening of art. And last time it was erotica. A bit different.
Tom Cribb on Panton Street so we could cover the important business of the evening, namely love interests, in my case non-existent, obvs. And maybe have a little wine. Before we had more wine. Look, it never does to turn up on time and I never do!
...And then we wobbled off to Charles II Street to the Borough Barista which was to be the host for the evening reception and ensuing month long showing.
The interesting thing about this place was it seems to be downstairs so as you walk down said stairs you actually get a quick chance to view all of the art at once. Which I liked. I also like what I saw, especially one piece lurking in the corner, but more of that later.
As expected the beautiful people were out in force, which is quite tedious, but, unexpectedly, we were warmly greeted by Simon de Pinna of the Town and Country Gallery. Now this was nice, genuinely and does mean you know who to collar if you see something you like. Smart.
|Artist holds head shocker...|
I was getting a little tetchy though. As Matt was explaining his technique and what it was that made his paintings so special the beautiful people were busy fannying about with their iBastards and not showing due interest.
Honestly people, you were being fed and wined. *whines*
After I may have said something quite rude about said beautiful people. We talked a bit more with Matt and worked our way along the wall of images until we reached the corner and the picture that had caught my eye on the way in.
It didn't have an orange dot.
I made my excuses and went to look for Simon with the classic opening line, we need to talk. And we did.
The Lake Side was mine. *cackles*
The funny thing is I know the technique well, it's an approach we took in the 90s to give new effects in videogames, though I strongly suspect this was far more painstaking and will be around long after some dodgy games are thankfully forgotten. I hope.
The pictures really do have a magical character and, which is a delight, the more you look at them the more you notice fabulous little nuances.
I'm starting to sound like an insane art luvvy. I'll stop.
|Northerners. Pub. Naturally.|
Friday, 6 September 2013
After my last posting I finally heard from the agent, though not without me prodding the company on Twitter first. Eventually after much mucking about they gave me a name and number so I reached for my pen to write it down...
Something as small and simple, insignificant even. But just too much. I feel sorry for my poor boss who walked in the room at that point to find me in full sobs and of course I couldn't explain what had happened because I couldn't talk properly and when I could it did sound a little on the stupidly irrational side.
But then I am stupidly irrational so that's alright.
Anway, within minutes of the exchange and just before I was to go and find a telephone to make a call the agent popped up and said I'd have to change the locks at my expense. Which is fair enough. But I haven't got a card at the moment. And no you can't have a contact number as I am without phone. You get the picture. More emails passed and eventually she relented, possibly because I really wanted to be able to actually go home and said a colleague would leave the management keys with the concierge at 2:30.
I found a problem that had just cropped up at work and then made a mad dash for the door and home.
Trouble was when I got there at 2:35... No keys. Instant panic. When I said though that the agent would be dropping them off the concierge realised the connection with the woman outside... So off I went.
Poor woman she had to deal with a very emotional me. Really, this was getting ridiculous. I still didn't have an entry fob, but hey, I don't come and go that often so the concierge got to let me in. I am always grateful and happy to get home but this time it was all a bit much.
The good news was that as I believed I'd managed to leave pennies in my old purse! I was actually grateful for being a ditz for once... Then I remembered I do have a spare phone which lives at the office so once my SIM arrives I will at least be back in the modern world.
I also had to call the people at Oyster central to get them to transfer the stuff from my stolen card to the new one. This really did show how I had lost all sense of normality, after passing various details he said "that's done for you", err, "don't you want my old card number?"... Of course he didn't. I'd sensibly registered the new card with my Norfolk address (same as the old one) and as there aren't that many people called Victoria Stamps it was an easy connection to make.
I didn't at all feel slightly stupid. Uh-uh, no sirreee.
Anyway. The diamond geezer of a locksmith was fairly helpful and I'll get to see him sometime tomorrow afternoon. Though getting a replacement fob will be a pain and I suspect I will have to call them again on Monday as, well, maybe I wasn't talking with the sharpest tool in the box.
So here I am, sitting looking out over the canal, in my home. I wasn't hurt, other than my pride and the biggest damage other than cost has been to my poor eyes that have been endlessly flowing. So now I just need to sit this out, wait for replacements and look at lessons learned. Whilst I did reach the end of my tether I didn't snap, which I guess is the point behind tears because they give such a release. I think that I can safely say...
I don't want to do this again.
How much do you want it topped up? Minimum is £5
I've only got £3.50, can't I just have it empty?
No, sorry, against the rules.
My bag was stolen last night, not only do I not have my Oyster I don't have a phone, purse, cards, nothing. This is literally all I have on me and I have no way of getting any cash, which means my £1216 travelcard will remain out of my reach until I can get some and even then I'll have to try and get around, I really can't do a ten mile walk every day. Look I have the card number and everything can't you do something?
A couple of years ago some thieving scrote stole my bank card using a Lebanese loop. It was very upsetting, a pain and a massive inconvenience. And then in the gap between my card being list and replaced I met somebody, fell in love and had my heart broken.
A week can be a long time anywhere.
Which isn't why tonight I'm in a strange bed, feeling tearful but also grateful for being saved. As it were.
I'd been out, had a fabulous time with my bezzie and managed to be slightly irresponsible. Which is nice. Unfortunately at the end of the night I found my handbag... Gone.
The bag that held my keys, phone, purse, oyster, everything. Gone.
I mean really. Central London is not a cool place to be when you are suddenly without anything and have literally no place to go. My knight in shining armour was called Roy. A lovely chap who we'd invited to join our table. All I know of him is his email address and that he took £60 out of a cash machine so I could attempt to get somewhere to sleep.
Yep, no Hailo either.
The first taxi driver stopped then pulled off. Then stopped again owing to lights. When challenged he said he wouldn't pick me up because I was drunk. No I was fucking upset. Not the same thing.
The next was better. Lovely actually. Didn't mind that I sobbed for a couple of site miles before listing who I needed to call. Unfortunately I couldn't raise my first option, not totally surprising, but now £30 down. My options were limited, walk the streets or hail another cab and hope I could raise somebody at plan B.
And here I become tearfully grateful. Nobody wants to wake a friend at midnight, but having just been driven past my now inaccessible home I had no choice. Well, other than walking. A lot.
Fortunately I could remember the apartment number. Fortunately they answered the phone and fortunately they understood me through the unending tears.
So here I am. Grateful for being taken in.
I had fun on the phone to my bank (no, I don't have my sort code and account number my bag was stolen) and the phone company (no, my bag won't just turn up in an hour or two). Tomorrow I need to try and sort out some keys as I really am desperate to go home.
I'm also glad my mascara is waterproof.
It also means I have the joy of calling the nearly-ex to say I'm stranded. Again. That'll go well. Ironically their number was the only one I actually know, but pointless to call.
So when I head to W1, without my shiny oyster travelcard, I will look like I'm on a walk of shame. In yesterday's clothes.
History has not so much repeated itself as burped and brought up a little bile.
I am my dears, safe but beyond unhappy.