Saturday, 17 October 2009

How did we get here?

Captains log. Star date 17.10.2009. We are currently in orbit around the sun, the bin men have passed and all animals in the house are asleep, due to sudden onset of winter temperatures.

How did we get here? Are we post-materialists?
What is post-materialism? (I'm not quite sure, but I'll look into it) This is a 'note book' working towards another bigger project, secret at the moment, but we can assure, does not involve world domination or tupperware.

This is our house. An angular cream construction built in 1975 that Mark detested on sight. Its not pretty, and not what an English family would aspire to, but we ended up here by a series of fate episodes. We might have been living in Marseille now, but the realization that we would have been in a flat the size of a bathroom with dogs, cat, boy piano and 20,000 books etc, meant we ended up moving about 300 meters down the road.
Good job. Its very practical. we can make lots of musical noise, lovely voisinage, great garden with lots of scope for growing food things and a short walk into town.
I think I might have always been someone who practices this, not in an intentional way, partly up-bringing, partly as a revolt against the world I used to work in.
I was for many years, a stylist in London (Thatcher 'grabbing' era) and later other cities in the U.K. This mainly involved stress, driving a lot and far too fast in order to put together beautiful photos of food, bathrooms, incontinence pads, or whatever the photographer was working on at the time. Good money, many unpleasant people, impossibly lengthy meetings about...?
A few lovely down to earth photographers made it all bearable, thank you Chris in particular, but I was glad to stop move onto other things. Here is a song I made up while driving around in my Morris traveller on the Acton flyover one particularly horrible day. I used to sing it while in interminable traffic jams, on the way to see art directors.

Sing in manic Gilbert and Sullivan style...

I sat in a meeting this morning, talking for hours about something,
I don't know what, probably not a lot..... the futility and banality of styling.

I drove from Derby to London, after the meeting to get one,
That elusive little thing, a gold plated Prada thong...the futility and banality of styling

The client said I've changed my mind, there's something else for you to find,
A purple three legged giraffe, and a fur covered black corner bath...the futility and banality of styling,
I'm welded to my car, I drive from near to far, I think I'm going insane, I've run out of cheques again.....

The stylist, what fate does await her, when I arrived at the studio later,
the prop vans stuck in Gwent and he should have been in Kent...the futility and banality of styling,
I'm welded to my car etc...

When I got home this evening, the answer machine it was bleeping.
There's been a change of plan, take it all back when you can.....the futility and banality of styling,
I'm welded to my car etc

And etc etc, it did help.

So, there is a bit of info on me and why I don't feel the urge to re-vamp the kitchen.
More soon.

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