Houses for Homes

Playing with scissors…


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Lucky Cards: creating tarot collage

The last few months have been really busy with work, and although it’s finally started to slow down, it’s also been really great in terms of forcing me to make my own creative pieces as an outlet.

I got a little fixated on the Tarot cards. Niki De St Phalle’s  Tarot Garden in Italy that a good friend’s mother showed me years ago in Switzerland, when I was going through a really rough spot, has been a huge influence on me, and then 4 months ago I started reading Italo Calvino’s The Castle of Crossed Destinies, a kind of modern Cantonbury Tales, with stories illustrated by drawing tarot cards, and told without words. I also read Rachel Pollack’s The Tarot of Perfection, another collection of stories all inspired by the cards, and which talked more about the history of creating stories with tarot, including Calvino’s process when he wrote The Castle of Crossed Destinies. All of which induced these

10 wheel of fortune11.Justice8. strength copy15 the devil9 the hermit 5. hieroplant copy 7 chariot copy 0 The fool6. lovers copy  3 empress copy  1. Magician copy2. the high preistess copy 12the hangman 13 death 14 Temperance 17 the star 19 the sun copy20. Judgement16. the tower   18 Moon 21. the world

For more on Niki De St Phalle’s garden here

For more on Rachel Pollack see here

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For Storms and Hurricanes

“Do the times make the artist or does the artist make the times? Both at different times are correct—I guess. Some times got Shakespeare others got Pope, one period got Lady Murasaki and Sei Shonagon at the same time. What can you say about a period that got stuck with . . . me. I really wanted to be great but the times didn’t need it of me. The times demanded my failure. I wanted a nice apartment to hang my pictures in, a drawing room somewhere above the din, and found the war was going on in my brain. I hitchhiked up Olympus and it turned out to be a volcano. How can I know what’s politically correct? I didn’t have time to stop and think whether what I was doing was right; I had to make my history quick because there would be no future, merely a gossamer world blown about on the zeitgeist, till zeitgeist, the wind of the times, is blasted away by kamikaze, the wind of God.”*

Rene Ricard- Art Forum Nov 1982

Reading a magazine last week, I came across an artist I had never heard of. Probably because he’s most famous as a art critic rather than an artist. Self described as a poet and movie star* Rene Ricard joined Warhol’s factory with small parts in “Chelsea Girls” and “Kitchen”, after pouring over one Warhol’s flower paintings at the ICA in Boston. As he tells it, “To support myself as a kid, I was a model at art schools around Boston. When I stopped working at 2 P.M., I’d walk up Newbury Steet, which is where the art galleries were. One day, I was at a gallery run by a friend and she said, “Rene, there’s something you’ve got to see over at the Institute of Contemporary Art.” I walked in, and there was a painting by Andy Warhol, the flower painting. It was orange, yellow, fuchsia, red, and green, and it looked enormous. Paintings weren’t that big at that time — this was ’64 — and, while looking at it, I evolved a theory about it. Andy had made a painting that was essentially flawless, but it was an actual painting. So he had this green background, and orange, yellow, fuchsia spots which were kind of pushing forward — they looked like they popped. I had never seen anything like it. I was in a trance. The guard tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me, but the gallery’s been closed half an hour.” I completely planned out my life looking at that painting. **

As an art critic and essayist he was instrumental in the starting the careers of Julian Schnabel, Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat.  “As a critic, he only wrote a bare handful of pieces, but they were major events.”****

His life was decadent and self- destructive, happily squandering away a $10,000 gallery advance in a day at the Russian Tea Room and on Jean-Paul Gaultier underwear, which he washed, and left drying in the sun where it was stolen. By nightfall he was penniless and at a homeless shelter. ***

“Just as his life could vacillate between glory and squalor, his poems- which he eventually took to painting over his own or others’ canvases- are all heart-break and defiance, ruined love and declarations of an independence he insisted on even when he sat at the best tables.”****



“I’ve seen beautiful things. I’ve been around so many years; how did I get to be so old. I’m pretty beat, and scarred like a whale from a million harpoons, but I’m still in the swim, y’all, I’m still out there. Oh I’ve seen so many waves. You ride it and when it crests you keep your balance or you get washed up. So I keep in the swim, go with the current, try to keep a sense of where I can land, sometimes swimming against the tide when I feel it’s getting too far out until one day I’ll drown or get stranded on the beach.”*

* from a biography in Art Forum

** From Interview Magazine

*** from the Brooklyn Rail Memoriam by Raymond Foye

**** New York Times Magazine, Dec 28th, by Luc Sante

For more there’s a really great interview/conversation with him here:



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The Battle of New Orleans


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Word Play

I just discovered Kate Tempest. And even though rap isn’t normally my style of, I’m kind of in love with her lyrics. Her bluntess. And frankly the skill of those rhymes.

I also discovered the video for Give from her band The Sound of Rum,  and I love the text… so here you are. You’re welcome.

More you ask?

Well, start here-

with The Brand New Ancients, performed at Battersea Art Center, which won the Ted Hughes Innovation in Poetry Award, and then you’re on your own.

Videos from:

Foe more info on Kate Tempest



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And then there was nothing

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On Language

A little while ago I came across an interview with Rosalee Goldberg, queen of performance art, she was talking about text and poetry, and the audience that witness both, “some love language in itself, and some the written word. Theres’ a language that is read aloud and there’s a language that’s listened to. There’s language in the mouth. Language that’ is tasted. language on a wall, language in space […]”.

For some reason I’ve been having problems articulating what I what to say lately and so I thought it might be interesting to write about language. This quote alone made me want to add to the lists of types of languages there might be.
Firstly, it made me think of Tim Etchells, from the performance group Forced Entertainment, who wrote about his process, in the essay, On Performance Writing. * He too, has a list of texts (which in this context could be interchangeable with language). His list starts with,
” 1. A text to be whispered by the bedside of a sleeping child
2. A text to be yelled aloud by a single performer in a car park at dawn
3. A text to be left on the ansaphone of strangers.
4. A text to be spoken while fucking secretly the partner of a good friend
5. A text for a megaphone
6. A text to be used as a weapon “
The list of texts continues, each in a way, a recipe for a new performance, a new way of creating, through language.
 Forced Entertinment’s performance work in general uses language to confuse or make the audience define their own context for what they are experiencing- and it is often very contradictory. For example, in Emmanuel Enchanted every performer has multiple signs announcing their characters, such as A DRUNK MAN SHOUTING AT THE MOON, QUEEN OF NOTHING, LINDA ( OUT OF LUCK), or simply LIAR. Part of the performance was “the act of arranging and rearranging units of infomation, be they textual, visual or spatial so that new patterns, implied narratives and meanings [could] emerge,”* the signs clashing, or having nothing to do with the language the performers were saying. Language that is slippery, Language which contradicts itself. 
Their work has a quality of secret diary entries that are said aloud, particularly in Club of No Regrets, in which one performer is lost in the woods, talking to herself- language not meant to be heard by another human being- there’s a confessional quality to it . Another two performers are bound and gagged, while interrogated, and a series of telegrams. Language that only emerges under duress.
It also made me think of Mel Boucher, still currently at the Jewish Museum in New York. His paintings are thesaurus entries, language that’s in pieces and needs to be put together to be fully understood. 2014-08-02 16.38.45
He also has a series of ‘portraits’ made of compositions of text- visual text.
His one of Eva Hesse takes the structure of one of her words and uses it to create a visual framework for the language.  Language that is defined as a composition, Language in a visual cage.
Unknown    12
This in turn lead me to look at the Ruth and Martin Sack near archive for visual and concrete poetry.
How do you define visual and concrete poetry? 
Wikipedia, says ” Visual poetry is poetry or art in which the visual arrangement of text, images and symbols is important in conveying the intended effect of the work. Confusingly, it is sometimes referred to as concrete poetry, a term that predates visual poetry.”** Often it’s referred to as text- based art.
In this archive, I came across Jeremy Adler, whose words are truly Language as painting, language as another layer, another varnish, another wash of colour, that adds texture, but not necessarily understanding.
Language torn, damaged. Language as a fragment. Language to be whispered in the wind.
I realzised that is something I’m quite interested in my own work, language as a clueLanguage as a series of dots waiting to be connected. Language that is mutable depending on the audience-  that means something to one person and completely something else to another.
Language that you follow like marked trees up a mountain.
Language where the signifier might not create the sign, undependable language.
This idea reminds me of a book, The Raw Shark Texts by Stephan Hall, a novel in which the protagonist is forced to somehow turn a bottle filled with scraps of paper, on which the word ‘water’ is written on each, into water to be able to swim in it.
Language that you have to believe in with every ounce of your being for it to become true. Language you can swim in.
Isn’t that Salmon Rushdie’s Sea of stories? It was one of my favorite books as a child. Salty tales, morals, fables, myths, fairytales, old wives stories, all muddling in the vastness of the ocean of the stream of stories,
“… it was made up of a thousand thousand thousand and one … currents, each one a different colour, weaving in and out of one another like a liquid tapestry of breathtaking complexity. [Each] coloured strand … contained a single tale. [The Ocean held] all the stories that had ever been told and many that were still in the process of being invented. The Ocean of the Stream of Stories was in fact the biggest library in the universe.”***
 Language that drips through your fingers, language to swim in, language that nourishes.
And then there’s always those words that colour everything around them, or those words so ripe they burst into flavour and contaminate everything around them. Language as a pigment, a soothing elixir. The greats- Shakespeare, T.S Elliot surely are elixirs, Roselee Goldberg’s Language to be tasted.
I think I’m fascinated because I sometimes lack the ability to create meaning out of the string of words that foams at my mouth.  Language like a pinned butterfly, that never really wanted to be caught in the first place.  We dubbed them ‘word days’ in college. If people knew me well, they could figure out the dots, connect the thoughts. Because sometimes it was a more painful process than not. They still occur when I’m stressed, tired, or just feeling nervous. I just live with them. And my sign? THE GIRL WHO COULDN’T SAY WHAT SHE WAS FEELING.
See Language as a confession. Language that paralyzes.
* From Certain Fragments by Tim Etchells
*** pg. 71. Haroun and The Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie
for more on Rosalee Goldberg see
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Things to make when it’s raining.

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Text Home.

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Once upon a time- 12 years ago- I lived in San Francisco. It was just for a year, fresh out of college, interning at a theatre, broke as all hell, living on fumes and alcohol, but it was one of my favourite years ever.

Because I loved that city. I loved how the people in San Francisco interacted with their city. London has great graffiti, edgy, unique. But San Franciscans talked back. They didn’t just paint murals but they used text. More than I’d ever seen before.

One of my favourite artists there is Rigo 23*- I used to pass this sign in Potrero Hill on the way to my wardrobe job everyday.

Screen Shot 2014-06-03 at 11.20.23 PM


Stencils on the pavement, giant billboards with  random signs and witty come-backs to the city bustling below them, the entire diary of this one girl who lived in my neighborhood who would add 3 or for lines to a lament running along the sidewalk in chalk, that would start to be erased as more and more was added, but ultimately left traces of her thoughts a full block long. And I loved that sense of talking back. Marking the streets up. Not down alleys, hidden from view, or in the tube tunnels, but arguing with the city in broad daylight, full force.

And the more I live in New York, I realize there’s also also a conversation going on.

So far I’ve discovered the Toynbee tiles in the pavement all across Midtown, tiny plaques that read “Toynbee Idea In Movie ‘2001’ Resurrect Dead on Planet Jupiter”. These tiles apparently exist in cities all over the States and South America, and appeared from the mid 80’s, as a possible reference to James Morasco concept of resurrection on Jupiter while calling a in to Larry King’s radio show in 1980. That’s explained better here,** if you’re interested.

Stencils of  “Protect your Magic”***, a project started by Fadia Kader started popping up in April. They’ve appeared with images, against Frida Kahlo, a jumping off point for the project, and with other full size murals. But I love the simplicity and truth of the slogan. Keep a little for yourself of what makes you magic, not everyone deserves it, or all of you. As a creative person it’s a lesson I’ve learnt the hard way, to keep a little of my creative fire for me, my personal projects, and my sanity. Anyway, there’s a great interview with her here.


Another piece I just saw today at the New York Times Building Lobby, was not on the street, but a different use of media and text, from artists Ben Rubin and Mark Hansen. It’s a wall of tiny monitors, which, as people are reading the news online, steals clippets from their news and broadcasts them on these screens, adding sound, and also showing the text as a single strand that weaves it way across the multiple screens, messily, intersecting with others read text, criss-crossing over it and muddying it, much as the text graffiti  above does with city streets. It’s the first time I had heard of either of these artists, but Ben Rubin, in particular seems very invested in the art using text in public spaces.


Another of his projects, “And that’s the way it is”,**** in the Walter Cronkite Courtyard at The University of Texas, projects snippets from the Walter Cronkite archives, with contemporary journalism new feeds from across the country, like text clouds across the building front. It’s both beautiful and thought provoking, in their unreadable clutter.* How much information is too much? And how do we pick about the tangles texts to determine what is important?

Anyway, the point of bringing up San Francisco, was that it was these first written pieces that made me fall in love with text as art and image, and want to explore and dissect everything to do with that, so it’s funny, and also fitting to find a city so embedded 12 years later. And it’s also making me wonder if I can call this city Home.

* for more see here and

and for an awesome map of sf murals and art see this blog

** sourced from

with more pictures here

*** see here for more info

**** see here for more about this project and Ben Rubin

And this fantastic blog about the New York Times Building Exhibition,



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Belief + Doubt = Sanity

“Belief is tricky, because left to it’s own devices it can court a kind of surety, that fears doubt and destroys difference.” Barbara Krugar

I just came back from D.C, the first time I’ve been, and a nice change from NYC for 2 seconds. It didn’t resemble my collagescape from this blog months ago (which I completely forgot I’d made until I decided to write this). Strangely, it looked nothing like it and if I believed in vision boards at all, I’d be suing whomever wrote The Secret right now. It mostly just involved museums, bike rides and beers- which was great- especially seeing Barbara Krugar’s exhibition Belief + Doubt= Sanity at the Hirshhorn.*

It’s been on for a while- 2 years in fact- and will only close in December this year.

She may not show much in L.A, where she’s from (she recently resigned from MOCA’s board over the forced resignation of Paul Schimmel) but she’s honoured in a gigantic room- 6700 sq feet in fact- at the capital, and rightly so. The installation features her infamous slogans in red, white and black, each letter a foot to a foot and a half tall. A room of words so loud they ingulf you, that they are barely readable as you stand upon and amongst them. They demand puzzling over and reading out loud, slowly stringing words into sentences like pearls on a string. Everyone else in the room is doing the same, as you tumble of each other mumbling through phrases like discovering hidden keys.

The power of the words is enormous and intense, a giant brain box of jumbled slogans and questions and tidbits (as always she has a sense of humour), stark and harsh in their contrasting colors, demanding you listen and contemplate.** Too much at points, I left and came back a couple times, enjoying the feeling of being overwhelmed by language.

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“Pictures and words seem to become the rallying points for certain assumptions. There are assumptions of truth and falsity and I guess the narratives of falsity are called fictions. I replicate certain words and watch them stray from or coincide with the notions of fact and fiction.” ***

Especially in this exhibition, where the proximity to the capital, could easily put the slogans into a political context, Barbara Krugar is happy to question us on what do we really believe?  “She was intrigued by the idea of creating an exhibit that questions power in a museum with such proximity to power.” A museum, in D.C ” ‘ she was intrigued by the idea of creating an exhibit that questions power in a museum with such proximity topower. ‘It is a museum, but it is also in D.C.,’ Kruger says. ‘That brings its own information, context and baggage.'”****

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Another artist I was introduced to this weekend also using text as him medium is Christopher Wool. He carried on the tradition of having to step back to understand, but also really played with audience grappling for meaning in his texts, by deliberately adding spaces in odd places, or not- having words join together, so that as the audience read, they have to put in their own spaces and punctuation.

It’s the reading equivalent of trying to draw with your left hand, with a stick.

images Unknown wool_painting_x-2012-771 Chris_wool_the_harder

No amount of staring magically made it make sense, it’s a slow process of figuring it out, which ultimately, when you’ve got the hang of it is quite satisfying.

I don’t think all his works are this way- there are simpeliar ones- but I enjoyed these. Besides, who said it always has to be easy?

** for more images of the installation- and the texts see The Hirshhorn Musuem 


The Wall Street Journal’s review

*** from Bomb Magazine

**** quoted from this great article from The Washington Post

More about Christopher Wool here and here

And The Guggenheim


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