Sunday Bloody Sunday

Actually, I love Sundays. I love that the Sunday Times comes with enough supplements to last me the whole week.

Václav Havel wrote a wonderful piece on his moods in Letters to Olga. One of them was the Sunday Melancholy Mood (I think). I need to look it up … the Internet is of no use. I first read that book during Fresher’s Week in my first year as an undergraduate, some seven years ago. Havel was in prison, and I was reading about it in my Halls of Residence. Pretty fucking depressing.

Remember when I used to do the mid-week photo series? Maybe I should start doing that again.

I want to go to the Museum of Everything in Primrose Hill. I have no idea what they display, but it sounds like fun.

And those are just my random thoughts on Sunday.

… Coronet Cinema. So pretty!

When my friends suggested going all the way to Notting Hill to see a movie, I wasn’t too excited. See,  it’s on the wrong Tube line. I do District Line, I do Piccadilly Line, but I don’t do Central Line. Too many bloody changes. But it was Friday night and I decided to stop being a grumpy old woman and just go out.

Now, the first lovely surprise about the Coronet Cinema was the price. We had £3.50 vouchers – for Friday night! I’m used to dishing out £10 at my nearest nondescript Odeons and Vues. 

I was intrigued.
“What’s the story with these vouchers?” I asked my friend G.
“What?”
“Where did you get those vouchers for the cinema?”
“Aaaaaah, the vu-sher?” he replied in his cute accent, “Sorry, I only heard it from French people before. I thought it was vu-sher.”
“It’s voucher,” I  giggled.
“You just go to the Kensington Temple and you tell them you are from the parish and they give you the vouchers.”
“But we’re not from the parish.”
“I know,” he shrugged.
”You lied in the Temple?” I raised my eyebrows half in shock.
“Yes,” he giggled.
“But why does the Temple give out cinema vouchers?”
“They have them for people who help out in the office …”
“WHAT? We don’t help there! We don’t even go … YOU ARE BAAAAD!!!”

 Thou shalt not steal. Hmm … I’ve never been a church-goer and I would never walk into a temple just to abuse their generosity … but hey, it wasn’t me. It was my friends. Their karma.

Now, the second surprise about the Coronet Cinema: so pretty inside! I normally just go to the nearest multiplex without thinking about it, but this was a proper old-fashioned theatre with red velvet and those fancy plaster-work pillars. My camera-phone photos do it no justice. 

The King’s Speech is a good movie, although I found it almost painful to watch the poor King struggle with his speech so much.

And then there were drinks. Good night.

I think the arctic will suit us well … (Ice Sculpture Festival @ Canary Wharf)

This weekend, Canary Wharf hosted a small ice sculpture festival. Of course, I went there with a head full of images of those massive ice sculptures they do in Harbin, only to feel thoroughly underwhelmed … Firstly, the sculptures were, of course, much smaller. Secondly, it was too warm and everything was melting. I was wishing I had brought a pair of wellies; there were puddles everywhere! No, I was wearing my very old Converse trainers which are all falling apart and therefore not really suited for walking in water … (I love them too much to throw them away.) But still, I had a nice afternoon taking pictures and socializing with people from my university’s photographic society.

Wishing you all a nice weekend too …

Also, this is the perfect time to share one of my favourite songs: Ice Hotel by Stacey Kent

Ice Hotel. What other place could serve our needs so well?

Without the daily self-portraits, she thought she might disappear. (Francesca Woodman’s photography at Victoria Miro)

It’s January, I’m back in London after holidays spent with my family in the Czech Republic, and just like everyone else I have New Year’s resolutions and a bag of new-found enthusiasm. Perfect time to get off my bum and start exploring new pastures again.  I must admit I hardly ever got out of my West London bubble in the past few months. So, yesterday I took the Tube down to Angel to visit an exhibition of Francesca Woodman’s photographs  at Victoria Miro.

Wharf Road, where the gallery is, starts off with a massive McDonald’s Drive-Thru sign. It continues with puddles, construction and converted warehouses. Promising, I thought. It looked like the kind of place where one would expect to find up-and-coming things. I have this idea in my head that true art and poverty go together. (Remember that scene in Amadeus where Mozart’s body is chucked out of the coffin into a pauper’s grave? That’s what I’m talking about, that kind of cold and depressing reality.)

The gallery itself was a pleasant surprise – it’s huge! And I heard they even have a garden where they sometimes display artworks.

The exhibition consists of 100 photographs which give an overview of Francesca Woodman’s photographic career. Her work consists mostly of bizarre self-portraits. Woodman twists her body into strange positions, hangs off a door frame, puts herself in a glass cabinet, wraps her legs around with tape or makes wrist bandages for herself out of tree bark. She displays her naked body not in a sexual way, but more in a desperate, “look at me, I’m just a piece of meat” kind of way. Her face and intimate parts are often obscured by movement, mirrors and props. All in all, the photographs have “mental illness” written all over them. The kind of mental illness that makes you question yourself and the point of living … the kind of mental illness that drives you to insane levels of creativity. (Surprise, surprise … Woodman committed suicide at 22.)

The photographs are often shot in decrepit rooms, which gives you an added sense of just how haunted Woodman’s reality was. As a keen photographer who is a bit of an introvert, I could relate. I found her work creative and inspirational. If you like innovative photography, go see it. Just don’t expect pretty landscapes, rainbows or unicorns. 

The exhibition is open until 22 January 2011 and there is no entry fee (thumbs up for that, I am a student now).

Victoria Miro
16 Wharf Road
London
N1 7RW