minima whatever

Living the bohèmian cliché. London, Berlin. Content warnings: art, capitalism, feminism, (kinky) sex, abuse, misogyny, drawing.

empty full head

I don’t know what to to write about today. My head is full with practical art making issues & relationship frustrations. The world keeps behaving strangely & interestingly, but I have no resources left to pay attention.2015-09-16 19.07.09



I agreed to meet friends of a friend who want to buy property in Berlin, about whether I know someone who might be able to help them do so. They are being priced out of London, so now they are going to price others out of Berlin. Yesterday I felt neutral about it. Today I am keenly aware that the others they are pricing out of Berlin are me and my friends. That there is not much of a place for the me’s from Berlin or London to go to anymore. Despair hit me. A sudden feeling of guilt, of being complicit in a crime. I know, ‘hate the game not the players,’ and I also know that I cannot actually keep any of those things from happening. And helping these people might have made a bit of money for me or one of my friends. But I also could not go to that meeting.


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how cecily brown does not fulfill my wishes

This morning I woke up with thoughts about her. I very much want to see her paintings in person. Like maybe they are too pretty, to pleasingly titillating, too flat somehow. That cheerful palette. There is sex, yes, sometimes baconesquely distorted, but i don’t see any of the pain (yet). Not sure if there is any intimacy or vulnerability at all. Looking at her male nudes is refreshing to me, because I do get a strong sense of a woman’s desire from them – but they don’t feel that intimate to me either. A reversal of the usual roles, but no added depth. And the reversal does not feel like enough to me. That alone is not what I want. I find Dumas‘ erotic imagery almost more interesting, even if mostly women. Should read more of her writings. Find myself suddenly very interested in Emin. Especially her collaboration with Bourgeois.

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Try to find a painting with an intimate feeling (not necessarily erotic, just intimate – and erotic does not necessarily mean intimate) from, say, before 1950, focusing on a man. Self-portraits excluded.

Follow up: Find them in one of the big museums. If the paintings exist, but not in there, why would that be?2015-09-09 12.18.20

looking for books on erotic art

After putting down the Taschen survey of erotic art in the 20th century because it seems to consist to 90% of naked women painted by men, and bored the hell out of me, I find a discounted monograph of Cecily Brown.

2015-09-09 12.16.52

note to self

As soon as you’ve found another way to draw things that reliably ‘works’, do something different. Maybe the exact opposite in some way. Find as many ‘opposite’ ways of drawing as possible.

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I want a room full of women making art about sex, and a room full of men making art about romantic relationships.

2015-09-13 08.51.07


Walking from Selfridges to Picadilly Circus yesterday I was struck by how boring fashion seems to be right now. So many high-end boutiques, so many high-end trendy people, but only one and a half that were even remotely interestingly dressed. The rest entirely forgettable. The only interesting shop windows those of Miyake, and even those could have looked exactly the same 10 or 20 years ago. I feel the same walking down Brick Lane, at least about the white people. Everything seems absurdly boring. Not silly or outrageous or weird in a “Oh, I am getting too old for this” kinda way, just lame. I am not grown-up enough for the things people 10 years my junior are wearing nowadays.

Suddenly the urge to dress up as outrageously as I can, me, who hasn’t paid much attention to her wardrobe in years, basically wearing the same set of 2 pants, 2 sweaters and 5 shirts over and over again.

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The only way sex comes up in the presentations of my 20 women fellow students about their work, is when A. mentions sketching her boyfriend a lot, and shows a sketch of him shaving. It comes with a self-conscious laugh.

Sex shows up in several of the men’s works, always in a pornographic context. Sometimes met with an appreciative smirk from other men.

I feel weird when it happens. Suddenly excluded, as if showing my dislike would would cast me out, mark me as a prude, close-minded, conservative. Art is free etc. And this while the women outnumber the men 2 to 1.

But the thing is, all of this is utterly boring. Suddenly I want to plaster the walls with Tracey Emin (and I don’t even like her work that much).



2015-09-18 17.08.08

talking to

The person I imagine myself writing to is a man, and trying to remember a woman I could even imagine in that place has not been fruitful so far. I also feel like it is at least possible to tell my father everything – he might not get it, he may not agree, but at least he would be able to listen, to take it in, consider it. Talking to my mother on the other hand more often than not feels constricting. Like every word has to be weighed, the edges to be considered carefully, most of what I am saying is likely to get lost, and at least some of the rest turned into a weapon against me. What I say to her will never be just ok. Or so it seems to me right now.

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