Am repulsed and attracted to this layout—hadn’t realised clicking on it would not make it larger but apply it as my online face. Eck. The clothes are appealing, though. Very ten years ago. I’ll let it live another day.
I’m wrestling with what I thought was going to be a new story, but the characters from my abandoned thesis, attracted like moths by some semblance of a plot, have crept in. I dread to think of it as a re-tool, emphasis on the “tool.” Resurrecting the art-school days technique of bricolage, abusing the color printer at work to make dozens of images, my own and famous/non-famous portraits, and glueing them together in my scribble book in half-conscious layers. The trick then is to ignore them for a day or two—making my poor memory work for me—and upon re-seeing, connections jump out and form coherent thoughts.
That’s the goal, at least. Maybe it’s the glue fumes talking.
Should anyone happen on this (which I doubt), your homework for this evening: tell me how you break stories or artwork. And if you give the bricolage version of freewriting above a try, scan in and let me see, seething with jealousy.
I leave you with this charming London moment, atop a bus shelter next to Hyde Park: