The 24 yearly hours marking the date when I was born are a torment to me. I get an uncontrollable sorrow, a desire to be away from everything and everyone. I do not answer phones, and whatever attempts a smiling are clearly seen as an effort. It is not ridiculous to say that I am slightly moody. I have my tempers but what happens on the 31 March defies any kind of rationality. I have been lectured, analysed, tried to be talked out of it. Yet, anxiety soars. The worst is the cake and the song. They are triggers in my eyes, giving me a loud GO for sobbing.

Ritual image, a few years ago. Photo courtesy of Neil Scott

Yet, I do try to exorcise this feeling as much as possible. In January/February, I make my master students organise a birthday party for me a their project management training brief. A surprise party is my biggest fear. I have had gatherings, of course, but these were safely outside of the dreaded date and controlled to the last detail. I do tell myself, towards the end of March, that this year will be different, that things are better than ever, that it is only a day like any other. Yet, the repressed, in the form of a compulsion to repeat, returns.

The best description of what overcomes is grief, mourning. What I feel is peculiarly similar to loosing someone, to arriving at the understanding that we are not going to see them ever, ever, ever again, no matter how much we try or want. Let us see where this takes me by looking at the source of mourning.

Photo courtesy of Neil Scott

The first point of call could be a lost year, another one. But this does not ring true. I look much younger than I am, pathetically so. I still get asked for ID regularly (and not only in the US) and my facial features have caused me some troubles in terms of authority at work. I have never considered getting old. It is a thought that rarely occurs to me consciously and in relation to myself.

Is it a trauma, then? A childhood trauma related to a birthday? Admittedly, I never liked the damned day. my mother was horrified of inviting many children home for a party so I had to put up with the next door neighbour, who was born the same date as me, and her 3 brothers. They were neighbours, not friends, or crushes, or cool people. Every year we would rotate the place of the party: our house, their house. The same building. And then there was the year when we were going to celebrate with Gran and everybody departed, inadvertently leaving me locked at home. A party without me. These trifles, however, are like those in any child’s history, I presume. They are not hidden, or repressed. I vividly remember and the provoke the same amount of cringing as of laughter.

Again, I am not getting anywhere, although this may be the key. Fréderic Declercq’s paper at the 2007 APCS conference, argued that the difference between anxiety and fear is the fact that fear has a known cause whereas anxiety does not. He made us look at examples within Freud’s Little Hans and it was quite humourous to see that his Lacanian approach provoked both anxiety and fear in the audience. Fear is understandable, anxiety is irrational, as the cause is not known. It always takes one by surprise and attempts at dealing with it are easily overcome by the overwhelming feeling. It is not impossible to find a cause for it, though, ir to construct it in order to work though the feeling but it will require many hours on the couch, as the knot is tangled. Very tangled. Today, more than ever, I miss Dr Sh—.

Now that I managed to catch up and feel sort of back on track (my job does not take it well when I am away from my desk), I have a little time to reflect and write about my trip to the US.

I came back from the APCS energized and full of thoughts. Our panel on Almodovar had the right level of engagement and controversy and showing the film beforehand meant everyone was engaged and had something to contribute to. I took notes and had many thoughts, which will hopefully inform a developed paper, with the issue of cryptophores (bearers of secrets, Vita) fully explored. My remarks for the panel, though, can be found here.

The whole conference was congenial. I was particularly encouraged by the level of discussion between academics and clinicians, and between people from different disciplines but with a common interest in psychoanalysis. The visual definitely has a place in the conference, one that I hope will be explored more and more. As Martin Gliserman said, after all, we talk about a primal scene.

There are many things I learned and could talk about, but one, in particular, has stayed with me since and plays around in my head. It is a visual thought verbalised by Elio Frattaroli, in a panel on psychoanalytic wars entitled Pax Psychoanalytica: Analysis is like the Titanic and all the analyst can do is arrange deck chairs to get a better view of the iceberg. A beautiful twist on a deja-vu metaphor.

Speaking of fantasies, mine got realised tonight. I like very much meeting Sue for tea, as my meetings with her always have that air of relax and care for self. We usually get out of the artschool and the Cosmo Cafe at Glasgow Film Theatre is a favourite one of ours. It reminds me of a watered down version of the Mies van der Rohe modernist masterclass that is the cafe at the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin, but that may be my imagination… When she was ordering a couple of hot chocolates, I sat at a table and browsed the theatre’s events brochure. What? David Lynch is coming to Glasgow! Well indeed. And there were 9 tickets left as somebody had just returned them that afternoon. There you go. How lucky can one be sometimes?

So I got to see the great man and it was even better than I could have expected. He is touring with Donovan, promoting consciousness-based education and Transcendental Meditation, both of which may interest me in a peripheral manner but much much less than his films. Still, it’s David Lynch, so got tickets. The evening had two parts, the first of which consisted in Lynch taking on any questions from the audience. Any, at all. How generous is that? Anyway, being in Glasgow meant that politics had to come in pretty soon (after all, we are the city that banjoes) and his first question, asked by a lover of world conflicts –he had a thick Scottish accent and was sporting a top with the Basque flag– turned around Lynch’s recent visit to Israel. What good is TM for people like Palestinians? This question, like many others throughout the night did not, of course, get fully answered. The great director managed to answer, while fluttering his hand, by saying the words he needed to say in order to spread his message.

Apar from that, the Glasgow audience did not have particularly groundbreaking questions (myself included). I should have asked how he kept his hair so healthy. Thank God my friend Sarah went to the BFI, where the audience might have been more metrosexual and informs me that (a) he is currently using a L’Oreal product he bought in Iraq (??!) and (b) he is not overly happy with his current hairdo. the only interesting question came from a lady concerned with the world of dreams and reality. Again, he gave a beautiful, hand-fluttering non-answer. but the best, without a doubt, was when he was quizzed about the meaning of his films, especially Inland Empire. His fluttering got ever more magnificent, reaching ballet-like heights, his words were mesmerising, utterly unconnected to the task at hand.

The best example of his impeccable way of dealing with questions was when someone in the back row attempted to address him with an accent but without a microphone. Lynch closed his eyes and tried to listen intently to the speech, after which he said to his associates: “Is this something about research?” They answered that she was asking him to do a film –she was, but a specific one. Lynch, however, did not need any more information: he committed, of course, films are his thing! The highlight of his good humour came when he got asked about his opinion bout quakers. He opened his unconscious to a joke: “What is the difference between a quaker and a shaker?”, the answer to which he enacted. Genius. I was in awe, and even begun to be convinced about his low commitment attitude to TM (2 sessions of 20 minutes a day for infinite creativity; a bargain).

Donovan came afterwards and his ending the evening was just perfect. Nice songs, a nice man. Glaswegians love their own, so they gave Donovan, from Maryhill, their best singing voices and clapping. I joined in with Mellow Yellow, of course. Why not? Happiness was contagious! I did not even feel sad about not going to the after party shenanigans. The only answer I want from David Lynch are his films, his imagery, his immortal, infinite, incredibly beautiful universe. Besides, Neil invited me to a 10-year Laphroaig shot in the best of our 4 equidistant locals. And nothing, absolutely nothing, can be better than that.

So, New York was amazing. Despite the cold, the snow, the blizzard, the College Art Association conference was full to the brim and our paper went very well. I judge the outcome of papers by the questions asked at the end: there were tricky ones, there were engaging ones and there were ones which showed that what Naren and I wanted to talked about was very new indeed.

It was also a fruitful trip for my research. I attended an Art and Psychoanalysis panel with a mixed outcome. I am weary of the “let’s look at this artist in the context of this psychoanalytic concept”. The shoehorn approach, as I call it, a real problem in my field. One of the papers, discussing trauma and Pollock, was very dubious. It claimed that the event that marked Pollock’s life and art was the fact that he was born with he umbilical cord around his neck. That, apparently explained his self-destructive behaviour. Although I am conscious that I am simplifying matters by just writing a quick run through, this kind of approach to interpretation is sign of a general malaise in the field of Art History. I am a practitioner and a reasonably practical person, so I went to test it. The Museum of Modern Art is probably one of the best-designed spaces to show art I have ever seen. It is full of people, but the building’s crowd management through architecture is remarkably successful. It’s most interesting feature for me, though, is the fact that one is allowed to take flash-less photographs. What fun I had! Even Pollock seamed positive to me.

Pity I couldn’t test the comic guy’s paper, which was very good, even though it also followed the approach of object+concept, in this case the “gutter” in comics and Lacan’s phallic jouissance. It may have been my sense of brotherhood everytime I hear Lacan mentioned but I found him more reasonable, at least.

My research did not stop there, though. On my last day, I found that, all along, I had been living near this:

Guess what it is? The answer, together with a few more pictures of the trip (including some amazing displays of Faberg?© eggs), is here. Lucky me, I am returning in June for more. I was totally seduced by it. Encore, encore, encore. That was what New York was, for me.

Some of my thoughts on Melanie Carvalho’s book Expedition have been published on
ART & RESEARCH, Volume 1. No. 1. Winter 2006/07, a new e-journal looking at research in contemporary art practice. Something much needed, in my opinion…

I am getting really excited about going to New York. The College Art Association conference looks busy and interesting and, in a similar fashion than in the Biennale’s press days, lots extra seems to be going on. I think I will go to see the MFA show at Hunter College and perhaps I can even convince my boss to get us tickets for the gala dinner. That would be nice. I am also strangely looking forward to the paper, even though I shouldn’t be, as I haven’t seen a finished version yet. I like speaking in public (says the Thespian in me). But the city is what interests me the most about the whole thing. Lucky me, I am going there twice this year! Pics and post on return.

Email received today at 14:38:

www.sheffieldart.blogspot.com
www.objectsinwaiting.co.uk

My recent 2-week holiday in Spain was mainly taken up by two activities: resting and thinking about shoes. Since talking about the former would probably make me tired again, I will concentrate on the latter. The train of thought started during a day-trip to San Sebastian, where N‚Äî and I witnessed a wonderfully professional street tango. If a few years ago I created a piece of work entitled “My life is like an Argentinean tango” is because it is in tango -with its melodramatic music; its sensual dance; its black, white and red colour scheme; and its shoes- where most of my fantasies reside.

Needless to say, the female tango dancer in San Sebastian had exquisit shoes, just battered enough from dancing:

That got me going. When I returned somewhere linked to the world wide web, I felt the need to get properly initiated into the propocols of Tango. I discovered that Glasgow is very good for courses and practicas. Information about where to get suitable footwear to spin and lift was also provided. I found heaven: heaven is where you can buy, amongst many other pairs of specially fitted shoes, the Yanella model. Recognize them? However, it is always dangerous to get what you desire.

One’s desires are not configured out of thin air. My mother firmly believes that, if she hasn’t bought me something, she hasn’t loved me enough. The shopping usually involves shoes as, given that my feet are a prudent size one, I get them when and where I can. My mother has the patience of a saint and the determination of a physics nobel price winner when it comes to small size, shoe-buying perseverance and, winter being round the corner and Scotland too far away from her, she bought me my first 2007 winter boots. Cold colour, round toe and elegant details is the talk of next season.

My new boots make me consider the role of shoes in contemporary arts practice and, of course, Naia del Castillo’s work had to feature. Stimulating photographs, beautiful boots:

Naia del Castillo, Cortejo

Adam Chodzko, in his usual witty, tragic way, thinks through the more conceptual aspects of shoes. Could we be Carrie if we bought some Manolos?

Right:Adam Chodzko, M-path. Left: Phoebe’s “impractical” shoes

After all that thinking, I returned home to find a pink envelope. Inside the pink envelope, Phoebe had sent me some impractical shoes. These reminded me that impracticality is, indeed, a desirable characteristic when it comes to seductive shoes.

Finally, one of my favorite paintings has returned home to the Munch Museum in Oslo. I have always loved this Madonna: its nudity and, more than anything, its face, which I regard as a combination of Manet’s Olympia and the abandonement of Bernini’s St Teresa.

But Munch’s virgin is a lot more than a mystic in an ecstatic position towards God. The Madonna is a sexual being, aware of her body and what that may stir in men/women, aware of her desire. She is a seductive challenge. This Madonna and her background torment are more akin to the Eve in the Garden of Eden, the Eve that fell for the Devil’s tricks, the first seducee. A more clever Madonna, if you ask me, aware both of mind and body, cunning enough to strategize, to know what she wants and lose herself in it. A Madonna with a sentient body, with pleasure and with whom, in her womanhood, I am able to identify.

This was brought to my attention by the excellent blogger Momus. Needless to say, it has taken Freud’s case studies out of the top of my wish list…

Pink.
The Exposed Color in Contemporary Art and Culture.
Edited by Barbara Nemitz. Essays by Hideto Fuse, Karl Schawelka and Thomas von Taschitzki. Numerous contributing artists.
Hatje Cantz, Ostfildern, 2006. 283 pp., 200 color illustrations, 6¬æx9¬?”.

Publisher’s Description From the rosy tint of wind-reddened cheeks to the first flush of arousal, from cherry blossoms to Pepto-Bismol, pink is a sweet, intimate, fragile and sickening shade. Few colors trigger more contradictory associations and emotions‚Äîtender, childish, plastic, pornographic‚Äîor are so symbolic of both high and low culture. Pink is sometimes awkward, even embarrassing, but on the other hand it is enjoyed and associated with the idea of beauty. Artists of all hues, from Jean-Honor?© Fragonard to Pablo Picasso, Caspar David Friedrich, Louise Bourgeois, Sylvie Fleury or Pipilotti Rist, have studied it in their works. The examples collected here include those and more, featuring Caspar David Friedrich, the early Joseph Beuys, Willem De Kooning, Andy Warhol and Yves Klein, not to mention contemporaries like Christo, Nan Goldin, Vanessa Beecroft, Wolfgang Tillmans and Takashi Murakami. In addition, Pink gathers work by a group of young talents from the Bauhaus University in Vienna and the Tokyo National University of Fine Arts and Music, where working students cooperated over an interactive web site to investigate the color‚Äôs most current perceptions and uses. Their final selection suggests, among other things, that viewer reactions are determined by cultural factors. For example, the positive perception of pink in Japan seems strikingly masculine to the Western viewer; every year the country pauses to contemplate the pink blossoms of the cherry trees, which, after just a few days, drift like snow to the ground, symbols of the death of the samurai, who falls in the bloom of youth.

I bought this book solely on the relationship between its title¹ and the cover and I know I will buy the above for similar reasons. Pink is the ultimate reversible colour. At least, this is what I found out when deadling with my web and print designer. When gathering material for the new look of the lauragonzalez site and stationery, I told him I wanted something very fleshy. I was more specific with the business cards: I said I wanted people (or their wives) not be able to know the provenance of the cards; they could wither come from a researcher or a call girl. if they managed to follow the links of the cards, the website’s content would clear part of the mystery. Noble Savage did a remarkable job, the basis of which was simple detachment, pink and the interaction of two contradictory fonts: Edwardian script and Helvetica Neue Ultra Light.

1. Subjects of Desire: Hegelian Reflections in Twentieth-century France. At least it turned out to be quite interesting! [back]