The Rat Race
Art exhibitions at work and MFA applications at home. That's why I've not been updating.
Mostly, I've been locking entries due to that sudden tingle of paranoia I think everyone who creates an online diary must feel from time to time. It's probably not wise to discuss the lives of those outsiders who could potentially access this blog.
So here we are in the new year. My resolution is to not make a resolution and so far, I'm doing pretty well (or failing miserably depending on how you want to look at it).
I continue to work at Central St Martins and will be heading up to Glasgow for the coming weekend.
My contract expires on 31 January--mixed blessing because I won't have the stability or the February paycheck or the benefits or the paid vaca/holiday.
On the other hand, I won't have to work.
My work visa expires in February anyway and I might just take a vacation during that month. It's supposed to be a piss-awful time to be in Britain anyway, the days tumbling with clouds and the rain flushing down, the city lights on, by necessity, at three.
A good time for traveling, a good time for museums too, which I've been neglecting to visit despite there being some seriously good (or at least interesting) stuff to see. Or there was.
The Saatchi had Damien Hirst whose contribution to modern art, if you fail to recollect, is a shark in a tank.
Also, the Chapman brothers are producing family-oriented sculptures such as this one:
...which is one of their tamer pieces. Another one is titled Fuckface. I suppose it's more intersting than the ubiquitous Escher print you see in the American college dorm room.
All this information I'm getting from our current lodger, who is a lot better than our previous one. For instance, his hair is blonde so it's harder to see if he's actually sprinkling his crotch hairs around our toilet.
There has been, I have to admit, an uncomfortable hair motif running throughout the duration of my stay in London. Between finding a hard knot of pubes in a fresh bag of sugar or a tandoori chicken wing bristling with follicles, things have gotten sort of uncomfortable.
Mostly, I've been locking entries due to that sudden tingle of paranoia I think everyone who creates an online diary must feel from time to time. It's probably not wise to discuss the lives of those outsiders who could potentially access this blog.
So here we are in the new year. My resolution is to not make a resolution and so far, I'm doing pretty well (or failing miserably depending on how you want to look at it).
I continue to work at Central St Martins and will be heading up to Glasgow for the coming weekend.
My contract expires on 31 January--mixed blessing because I won't have the stability or the February paycheck or the benefits or the paid vaca/holiday.
On the other hand, I won't have to work.
My work visa expires in February anyway and I might just take a vacation during that month. It's supposed to be a piss-awful time to be in Britain anyway, the days tumbling with clouds and the rain flushing down, the city lights on, by necessity, at three.
A good time for traveling, a good time for museums too, which I've been neglecting to visit despite there being some seriously good (or at least interesting) stuff to see. Or there was.
The Saatchi had Damien Hirst whose contribution to modern art, if you fail to recollect, is a shark in a tank.
Also, the Chapman brothers are producing family-oriented sculptures such as this one:
...which is one of their tamer pieces. Another one is titled Fuckface. I suppose it's more intersting than the ubiquitous Escher print you see in the American college dorm room.
All this information I'm getting from our current lodger, who is a lot better than our previous one. For instance, his hair is blonde so it's harder to see if he's actually sprinkling his crotch hairs around our toilet.
There has been, I have to admit, an uncomfortable hair motif running throughout the duration of my stay in London. Between finding a hard knot of pubes in a fresh bag of sugar or a tandoori chicken wing bristling with follicles, things have gotten sort of uncomfortable.
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