There's a chill in the air. A nip. I was out for dinner with three mates last night (not six) at the pub and we sat outside because, and Katy had brought not one but two blankets with her and was wearing a woolly jumper and had a jacket and I was envious. The ride home was cold, for the first time.
I remember proudly watching James Bridle on stage somewhere talking about his work and Q&A came and someone in the audience asked something like What is your media diet? I think and James and most of the room and I thought what a question and then James said I don't have a plan and that dawned on me today because I have been doing nothing voraciously. I'm busy with it.
It may be that I am already infected by the book I borrowed last night and which caused the dinner.
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| How to Do Nothing by Jenny Odell |
I mean, I'm already doing a bit much writing this down, and I was unable to balance my bluetooth keyboard comfortably on my lotus so am sitting upright, and, I've been unable to read past page xi so far thanks to my indefatigable continuous partial attention, but I'm the choir, scoffing the sermon. I feel like I should get one of those text tattoos that's impossible to read and quite long on (perhaps) a thigh or ribs saying something Odell quotes early on, from early 20th Century artist, Giorgio di Chirico:
In the face of the increasingly materialist and pragmatic orientation of our age… it would not be eccentric in the future to contemplate a society in which those who live for the pleasures of the mind will no longer have the right to demand their place in the sun. The writer, the thinker, the dreamer, the poet, the metaphysician, the observer… s(he) who tries to solve the riddle or to pass judgement will become an anachronistic figure, destined to disappear from the face of the earth like the icthyosaur and the mammoth.
Well, fuck that.
I've been to two live conferences today, Sónar+D in Barcelona - thanks Rhizomatiks - and Pictoplasma in Berlin - thanks Rebekah. I'm watching Pictoplasma at this very moment. It's very sophisticated and sharp; illustrators talking about their work. I've tried to read The Book. I've talked to a client. I've got an arty to-do list lined up. There's a newsagent on Chiltern St I need to visit. Got my (*&£% period. That's not ever planned, but is anticipated. I embody it. I observe it. I called it a bitch when it turned up.
I tried more than once clashing two audio things today. (I recorded the sound as videos with my finger in front of the camera but that didn't work.) First it was Women's Hour with a session on brutal domestic violence clashing with a mathematician designer talking about exploring infinity, and then a chap playing piano clashed with two consultants talking about organisational cultural resilience in the face of COVID. Later, there was a man perhaps somewhere in Barcelona playing a piano in a giant room and was possibly connected to the giant projected animations in the giant room and I thought as he turned to play his theremin (out of tune!?) that men make models and women are models.
I'm super excited about putting on socks and a jumper to visit with Lis & Lou this evening.