The other day at art school, my tutor said that I have volatile creativity. Not that it’s a bad thing, I just need to figure out how to work better with my inspirations, motivation, and the geyser of creativity in me . Sometimes it’s silent, other times it just explodes with ideas. I’ve found that the geyser of mine is very temperamental and particularly affected bylow moods or the orangutan that often comes to visit. That’s why at the moment, I’ve been eating up books about procrastination and motivation. So yeah… Procrastinating by reading books on procrastination…
Using nouns as adjectives to describe colour has always seemed bizarre to me (apart from brick red), because there is so much variation in the world. For example, fruits:
apple green, plum purple, and banana yellow.
Apples are not always green, the can be deep red – red brown(washington red), a warmer, more orangey pinky red (pink lades-these apples always remind me of sun-burned cheeks) or even a mix of red and green (cox)
I thought plums were fine, then I discovered yellow plums at my local shop!!
And bananas can be green (unripe) yellow (ripe) red (ripe but hard to get where I live) or brown (past it apart from for baking)
The redeeming quality(?) of these statements is that you can go into more detail, like variety, or stage of ripeness. If you think about the sky though… thats just silly…
on a cloudy day, it can be persian blue to various shades of grey, at dawn and dusk the sky is lit (on a relatively clear night) with pinks and golds and oranges, lilacs, sometimes even red.
But What I find the most confusing is perspective- the way that anything on the horizon seems greyer or dampened in colour compared with being right up close to whatever that anything is. The same thing happens with the sky- closer to the horizon you look, the lighter the sky appears and if you look directly up, the colour is deeper. This is because of tiny particles, dust and water droplets and distance, like how on a foggy or misty day it’s hard to see further away, but we can see things closer to us. Its the same with sky, and there’s a shorter distance upwards than towards the horizon.
And I know that the sky is technically colourless, but I’m pretty sure that the “why is the sky blue?” question has been answered somewhere. I just get confused because in one sky there are many many different kinds of blue (not to mention other colours)
“Where are you from?”
“what?” I ask as i glance askance.
““WHERE ARE YOU FROM?” they repeat.
England. Farnborough, near London” I reply.
Their faces fill with exasperation, unsatified.
“Where are you REALLY from?”
“Are you Chinese perchance?”
as they edge closer I hope they fall off their seats.
“British. I have thee passport and everything?
They find my anwser less than satisfyng.
“Your parents then? Your mum?”
“Phillipines.” They do a little dance.
“Tell us please!!”
Sometimes, I deny my roots for the sake of ease.
“I’m of scottish decent”. It’s not a lie nor do I tease.
“What!?” cats got their tounge.
“Really? That can’t be true- It can’t”
As if I fit into their tick-box sheet.
“What about you grandad, grandmother?”
it irks me, this idea obeing an exotic other.
“Where are you from?”
they don’t even want to know my stance!!
I was born in Sadi in the sweltering heat.
to an English father and Filipino mother both discrete.
but then to the UK we did retreat.
“Where are you REALLY from?”
this demand for details leaves me agast!
from my mother’s side of the tree
from China and Spain did they hail
To the Phillipines, Pearl of the orient, did they sail
Philippines became their home.
A mix of islanders and travelers until at last,
Was my mum, who with my dad, became complete.
My dad has a more complete record of the family
both his parents decended from the Scotts origionally.
Of Viking blood there may be some,
as well as ancestors from France.
Maybe. Or If I choose to be pernickity,
I could trace back to the depths of the African bush.
But the nay sayers and racists say shush.
They don’t want to think it’s where they’re from.
I could say that I come from a very small chance,
and that I’m lucky to be me
that any child in a mother’s womb curled,
Is a child born of the World.
Instead of “Where are you from?”
and focusing soley on diverse inheritence,
and being obtuse, I would rather you greet
me like so; “how are you?”
To which I would reply, “Very well. Thank You.”
So that’s how they do it!!
“We all have the same 24 hours that Beyoncé has” and its various iterations took the web by storm in late 2013 as the megastar became the figurehead of not only having it all, but being able to somehow do it all too.
How do creatives – composers, painters, writers, scientists, philosophers – find the time to produce their opus? Mason Currey investigated the rigid Daily Rituals that hundreds of creatives practiced in order to carve out time, every day, to work their craft. Some kept to the same disciplined regimen for decades while others locked in patterns only while working on specific works.
There are enough data to visualize a portion of the hundreds of creative lifestyles. Click the poster to discover:
Ludwig Van Beethoven
Honore de Balzac
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When I was telling a friend about my recent (very first exhibition) they insisted that I should write it down, so hear it is:
I was supposed to leave on Thursday, but I was worried about taking a massive mirror with me on the buss a so I travelled with one of my fellow exhibitors and friends, because she was also bringing delicate things.
Our train was at quarter past five and we woke up late and had five minutes to:
- rescue lunch which exploded in my bag
- get the tickets from the machine
- and run up the stairs with a A1 portfolio with a mirror inside of it.
After a dozy train journey into London and a quick breakfast at Starbucks, we booked overground tickets to Stoke Newington. We got confused and used the underground for part of the journey, and had to pay extra which was annoying. We did find a stranded handbag though, and I joked about it having lots of money in it… and it did (in rupees) and a dummy and passports too :/.
We eventually got to Stoke Newington, but we missed our stop because the platform was really short. At the stop after, we considered getting a taxi but a very nice (and incredibly dressed) man pointed us to the direction of a bus which would take us to the high street near to where we wanted to go!! My friend’s frame smashed on the way there, so I went into the pharmacy with a large shard of glass to recycle (it felt wrong-not to mention dangerous- to dump it on the street like that you see..). Alas, the pharmacy couldn’t recycle it, so I tried to put it (safely with some boxes to be recycled). While we were waiting for the bus, my friend was amazed at seeing so many Orthodox Jews in one place!!
We then got off the bus a bit to early, and asked both a lovely polish lady (i think) and a homeless man and also people at the post office for directions to the church where we were to exhibit. after about forty-five minutes walk, we reached our destination!!!
After stuffing my face with my salvaged pesto pasta lunch, we started setting up our work, and made trips back to the shops for hammers and measuring tape, and such, and the organised person among us (who was a life saver of sorts) got her parents to get another pane of glass for the frame. She also said that it would be a good idea to display some of my development work, so that was another speedy trip to the shops!!
Disaster struck!! The girl who came with me on the train sliced into her leg with a scalpel when finishing her work last minute :O and the first aid kit had eyepatches and no butterfly clips! so I improvised with an eyepatch bandage and a sprain bandage, and she had to direct the rest of us from a chair, an hour before opening the exhibition!!
So when it all kicked off, I got myself a bag of lovely fat chips from the local chinese takeaway/chippy, where they thought I was half Chinese 🙂
If anyone reads this and has an upcoming exhibition, do learn from my mistakes!!
Oh! And we got in contact with the Indian lady and posted her hand bag with everything. She was lucky because she had come over for a couple of weeks with her family to see relatives in London, so she really needed her passports back.
So yesterday I dragged my late self out of bed to catch a train back to my parents’ place for a dental appointment. (no they aren’t dentists by the way)I got into a panic when I couldn’t get through to anyone for a lift -thank goodness for taxis!!! I realised that I would make my appointment by the skin of my teeth thanks to a speedy taxi at noon.
However a very AWKWARD moment arose because of habit… it has been ingrained in me since I was a child to always brush my teeth before going to the dentist, and it makes sense… a kind of courtesy towards the person who could decide to take out your teeth or take out the drill (if your teeth is bad that is..) Anyway! back to the awkwardness!! I thought that it would save time to brush my teeth outside the station (It was a tiny station without toilets you see) and I think it’s nasty to just spit on the ground, so I spit toothpaste froth into an empty bottle I had on me. All off a sudden, a bloke screeches to a halt in front of me and asks if I had semen in my mouth!! I was absolutely flabbergasted!! I don’t know how my face arranged itself, But I just said dental appointment. and he drove off.
Afterwards it made me think of how people with cystic fibrosis feel if they were asked that question.
Personally, I was fuming.