Paris

In February I went to Paris with my Dad. Yes, it was for Valentines Day, and yes, I did not have a real Valentines, and yes, this is because I am one of those people who pretends not to like Valentines Day because they are single. Anyway, the reason I am writing about Paris isn't because I'm cultured and exciting, but because nothing else including pictures happened to me this year. So I shall begin with an extract from my diary.

'Paris was lovely- although my choice of shoe was a huge mistake, couldn't physically walk and had to sit down in the Dorsay for three hours. But the art was amazing, did lots of mincing around pretending to understand it but secretly having to read all the little plaques to find the hidden meaning/ importance/ what the hell it actually was - oh, a giant vagina.'  Re-reading this again I'm not actually sure if I saw said 'giant vagina', or if this was written for comic purposes.

On first impressions, this piece of art may conjour up ideas of fairgrounds and/ or playgrounds. However, much to my disturbance it is meant to symbolise the human body. (Still looks like a tent though.) Apparently the maze-like structure and I quote 'fleshy tones' have something to do with it. I will leave the rest to your imagination. 

The picture on the left was one of my favourites, which probably has something to do with the fact that I still have no idea what it is. The fan at the top kept the tape moving in a constant circle which never flew away, and was strangely hypnotic. It probably has something to do with the space time continuum.

Barcelona

A couple of weeks ago I was lucky enough to take a trip to Barcelona, a city I had always imagined to be full of art and culture. Unfortunately for me, my parents had decided that visiting on the one day all museums were shut would save them from wandering after me as I pretended to know the significance of various contemporary sculptures, and so we succumbed to the tour bus. I had never before been on a tour bus (having had visions of suspiciously used looking earphones and being looked at disgustedly by those cultured enough to know where the bohemian cafes where) but now I understand why people do.  You can actually see things. Yes, lamp posts frequently get in the way and the voice of the English tour guide sounds more Kazakhstan than RP, but you would never be able to insist on walking and see as much as we did. 

Although the graffiti above didn't quite make up for not getting into the 'Museu d'Art Contemporani' (for those of you not versed in Catalan this means Museum of Contemporary Art), I still found it quite interesting. By that I mean I think it looks nice. Gaudi was incredible though, had an espresso outside and discovered that most of the pillars are based on bones, making it a bit spooky. I prefer to think of them as trees, or maybe lamp posts. 

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Nearly two years have passed since I completed my first Unit of Art at sixth form college, and I feel I am now mentally prepared enough to revisit it. The last time it was out of its folio it was greeted by the titters of fourteen year old school children who insisted on repeatedly asking if my nudes of the middle aged life model were full bodied self portraits. Needless to say they were not, but at the time resisting was futile. Anyway, despite the fact that I was convinced I had a photographic gifting, which I later discovered to be a phase which most adolescent girls go through at some point, shots ranging from the highly skilful mirror pose (flash is optional) to macro shots of garden plants, my work was fairly photo-based. I was also terrified of using paint and any colour that wasn't grey, black, or white. Having said all of that, I really do like it, and as my parents continue to veil their dislike for it with apathy and confusion ('what is it?') it never seems to make its way onto a wall. Now you, reader (I actually doubt this is being read) can have the arguably pleasure of seeing some pieces from my highly esteemed Unit 1, titled 'Traces'.

 

Before I begin I should probably mention that my levels of sewing skills match those of a six year old boy, and therefore set me up for a loss before I had even begun. 

I'll set the scene. For a few weeks now I've been keeping a beady eye on the A/W trends, (by which  I mean purchasing one copy of Elle's Runway Edition and laughing at the recommended make up looks- expect a sudden surge of women punching their own eyes in order to attain the highly desirable 'natural' smoky eye) and noticed eclectic vibes manifested in an array of mad hatter-esque top hats and detachable collars. 

This spurred me to imagine my life with the addition of said detachable collar. I pictured the following,  me with a detachable collar over a plain jumper, perhaps black. Yes, on second thoughts it would have to be black as this is the only non-knitted jumper I own. This one collar would hold in it the potential to transform my entire wardrobe – or at least this black jumper. Visions of gliding down Uni Halls and sitting on park benches complete with sketchbook and my shining beacon of a collar deluded me into erasing all memories of my last sewing project (a bag to put my milk teeth in for the tooth fairy which ended up looking like a used tissue) and out came the scissors. 

I soon found an old shirt and hacked off the collar, reassuring myself that accuracy and skill isn't a necessity when it comes to this sort of thing. So far so good, minus the fraying, but I would sort that out later...with the aid of scissors. After hand stitching on some ribbon which I had bought in a Catalonian flea market (admittedly unwashed and slightly odd smelling) and adding a couple of buttons for decoration, it was time for the popper. Nothing says 'classy' more than a popper instead of a button. After unstitching this due to making the very common mistake of sewing it on backwards, my creation was complete, and it was nearly midnight. The following morning I unfortunately discovered that I look ridiculous with said collar on. Even when teamed with the black jumper there was the unsolvable problem of 'The Gap'. By this I mean a rather large section of neck which was showing between the collar and the start of the jumper. I was unwillingly reminded of playboy like outfits which usually include a collar plus 'The Gap', the only difference being there is usually a large amount of cleavage which accompanies this. 

It dawned upon me that as good as Miuccia Prada for Miu Miu made them look in Spring 2010 (despite the cats), there is not much you can wear with a detachable collar. The lack of any option other than my black jumper may have been to blame, but I am far more certain that they look ridiculous when worn with anything, especially when 'The Gap' is taken into account. However, this will not stop me from imagining myself gliding down Uni Halls wearing one, and certainly didn't stop me from making another one the next day.