These snippets are the wreckage of post exhibition aftermath. Assumed to be a time of feelings of great achievement, I find these times to be when one comes, smack, face to face with all the things which have previously been propelled into the works they have been making. At this point, tragedy ,initially which was applied into paper, has no secondary outlet, and becomes ready and waiting to emerge into the real world.


Gagged, fed words that aren’t mine, face twisted into shape of acceptable smile, pushed into an arena with hedonistic revelers who won’t accept anything else. Pigeon holed for merely trying to save my mind from incorporation into an impersonal body, paranoid from being forced-fed the views of 1000 people at once. Trying to find a place the background from which to project such words, not to prove that I am not just one other social networking attention seeking sprite, but to prove that all others aren’t merely attention seekers and are also internally screaming at the simultaneous demolition of the mind, the social, and the environment. Spin on that.

Sat in Chain cafe (do you want me to lie? i am sucker also)in Sheffield, 24,8,10

 Will there become a point when all of us are anti-capitalist thinkers, writing books about the destructions the system is causing? All of us doing this whilst still getting our weekly shop from Tesco/Asda, loading up our cars at BP/Shell, watching the news/sport on SKY TV and occasionally treating ourselves to a Macdonalds/KFC?

It is a system which allows all of us to openly hate it. It can do this because as much as we believe we are anti-capitalist, our actions are very pro-capitalist.

This is why most, perhaps not in a conscious attempt, don’t even attempt to hate it, leaving the others to become as much self-loathing of themselves as it.

 On train to Barnsley, 24,8,10

 The works I create, the entirety (paintings right through to the rantings), is all that makes me a human adult, and I am deluded when I try to do, or even become, other, more socially relaxed and cooperatively festive things. Once an heavy and climatic phase of my work is done and dusted: trying to immerse myself in a part of me which has been massively under-invested in, to the extent that it is impossible to locate within, is always going to lead to depression and behaviour which is massively anti what I regard as good behaviour – as my good intentions turn in on themselves in despairing confusion about why they were even there in the first place.

The reason why these crashes are more likely after a big exhibition is because the energy intensive, money absorbing requirements of intense labour put into ones work, force you to temporarily take up a less broader and less deeper perspective on life, making one prone to be convinced by all that signals relaxation, enjoyment and pleasure in the veil that calls itself truth, which drapes itself over everything: “I really need these things after a spell of (socially acceptable) hard work!”. However, to be tempted in to mental arenas in which I have made no ‘proper’ investment in, no matter whether they are acknowledged through fabricated truth or not, makes me feel lost and massively unsure of myself.

I tried this last year after a very intensive spell of making work and it resulted in some of the most tragic nights out, (seemingly unavoidable social occasions for anyone looking for a quick fix of hope) where all that I hold as qualities came crashing in on itself.

With this in mind, seen as the right just to discover oneself (something which society owes all compulsive, genuinely hard working, artists) is denied, coming up with new ideas and rantings, promptly, isnt just an important self made request; it makes up the only path which doesnt veer into a swamp of wayward and wasted chunks of the year.

In Cafe in Sheffield

 You can’t look out of the window without feeling the cynical presence of the eyes of others seeing you as “somebody trying to be seen as a thinker” rather than somebody who is actually thinking!

But there again, maybe I am sat in a café with a book because I have come to associate cafés with intellectualism, as I am certain that my ‘reading sessions’ in cafés all appear as ‘constructive sessions’ in comparison with reading the very same thing in a pub or in my bedroom. Maybe I have bought into the coffee culture also? Which is why when a mother brings her screaming child into the café the noise it makes somehow doesn’t seem as nauseating as it would do on a bus or in a queue in a downmarket shop.

This is why I always have to put my own life in the centre of a critique on capitalist culture, because I know with certainty that I have just as many fetishes within the system as all those business men, running for the trains in Leeds train station and all those ‘jeggings’ wearing teens climbing the steps towards the Meadowhall shopping centre.

 In gallery – at work

 I feel more in control of my wits and my senses when I am by myself. This has never ceased to be a concern – that I cannot truly be who I am around others, and that all self dislike re-emerges in these situations only – but maybe it is only a concern under a system which tells us to be sociable whilst increasingly capitalising the social – profiteering on human contact (if you find socialising hard, in this dictatorship of individualism, where we are all forced to compete with each other, you can give out your money and do it ‘safely’ in cyber-space).

Under a system where socialising is less about ‘proving yourself’ all the time and more about the enjoyment of being around other people – which, although this ruling system proclaims it endorses and enhances, through it’s purchasable items, actually delivers the opposite – I feel that socialising wouldn’t be such a problem and such a fright as to feel an urge to lock my self in my comfort-box (a room filled with ways to forget everything) if this was the case. Communism would not have to mean being forced to be an easy-going socialite! And socialising under Capitalism is schizophrenic.

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