Lovelitter

... a beautiful act to litter? From the start its the wrong thing to do, apparently. A mess for others to clean. A luxurious act, no? Relieving oneself of the responsibility of an object. It's somebody else's problem now. Buying, purchasing. The purchaser is cleaning the object away, putting it elsewhere. Safely so. And stealing? The promiscuous act, must occupy a corner within this zone? To clean to remove the object, the thief is queen. And the idea thief, slippery? In Skyrim the act of thievery is personified by the character crouching,  knees bent low, hiding face, delicate and agile. In Assassins Creed clinking coins, metal-on-metal, jutting in the pocket, a nudge in the small of a pedestrians back and they’re at a loss. But then who steals rubbish? The unwanted thus discarded. The magpie, the scavenger, the opportunist, the idiot. To rid oneself of an undesired object, a bowel movement, get rid of the slimy packaging in your hand and slide onto the next moment of consumption. I drift, thinking about what it would look like if I were presented with all the objects that were once mine: etc, etc, etc, etc. A vulgar image. A piggy life. Littering may just be an object passing through me, for my stomach to filter and profit the best minerals. Transfer. Something endearing about a crushed carton that looks new sitting on the floor waiting to be swept up? The pavement it's stage, the audience in flux. I've noticed a particular cigarette packet design. A glaucoma veils an eye, watching out, a miniature lighthouse warning of the dangers of smoking, it is removed from its body, separated, cut. Printed on a box that is then left on the street to surveil, watch. It is the active litter, that lives, that has a body, that acts back at you. A pedestrian mirador. Branding lives on after the product has expired, advertising still, without damaging the corporate reputations, I dare mention the brand of the notorious red can, it’s said to be dorment in darkest corners of the ocean. The carcass continues to work for the machine, zombified. Out the car window, packaging flies seventy-one-miles-per-hour then rests in a zone too dangerous for humans to collect, it absorbs the vibrations loyally, the cars putter along until they too become litter. Footwells act as nets for the unwanted, convenient to use whilst driving as items can be disposed of quickly without pulling over. A dashboard, landing site for workers discarded lunch packaging, catalogues, papers, receipts, empty bottles, tools, dirt, waste. A shelf for the unwanted that presents itself to the curious pedestrians walking past. There's litter in pockets, deconstructed litter in the cleaned pockets of freshly washed clothes. Litter doesn't answer back it is ambivalent. Content with staining surfaces, spilling, oozing.

A name for an exhibition

 It seems most names for an exhibition are bad. Perhaps naming an exhibition is a bad thing to do. The language that surrounds it, dross. The word exhibition sounds like an exercise, worked. Something that must be done, arduous. But it is a pleasure to name something. To think of words that stand in front of the 'thing' A friends party is called switch rising which I think is a great name. It prevails and subverts simultaneously. I thought the group show im naming should have the word Oozing in it yet it points to an excess as if spilling over the top or from the edges of abundance. Perhaps that's fitting actually. Exhibitions are about excess. They require surplus time. The tea is hot and must be drunken! 

September begins

 It's 10 PM on a southern rail train. I've just received an email from a theorist saying his seven-month course in Lisbon will cost £5000. A cyber security course I also recently researched cost £3500. My open return train ticket cost £20.05. Are the courses going to take me somewhere? I know the train will. "Not one for heels really" - a passenger in front via video to her lover, through a mouthful of crisps. I need to wash my bag and socks. And change the battery in my laptop. And apply for an exhibition. "That's me". It's raining heavily outside and today was the first day I'd felt cold whilst walking to get a takeaway. The English summer has raced away. Still three weeks left. Officially. "You've got one". The lower back throbs a little. I need a bath. I watched Anthony Bourdains Roadrunner last night never paid any attention to him before. All seems a bit old hat to me. Still. It was enjoyable. Today's celebrities seem humble in comparison. Cheaper. Theres less luxury despite there being more(?). Maybe it seems like his stardom offered him more value. I'm glad to sleep at home tonight as a series of  Mori's Bed, studio floor, Toms bed, Chloes Sofa, Nicks Coach, Judes bed, Pikes bed has been a good run but confusing. I suppose you need some regularity, some structure.  

The Collector

 Last night (2 years ago as I didn't upload this) I watched The Collector (2002) a Pelin Esmer documentary as I am susceptible to watching what mubi tells me to watch. I suppose that's why you pay for these services, now I have to think less about whether I will be good or not. I know it has gone through an establishment that says these are good films. I oblige and watch as, after all, that's what I pay for. 

The film follows a man around Istanbul as he shops for various curiosities for his collection; a sprawling mass of objects he's collected throughout his life that he now lives inside of as it has spilled into all corners of his apartment. There is a particular section in the center when he describes a different way he may have liked to spend his life, inventing things and coming up with theories. He describes this other version of his life in such a way that sounds like he might like to have been an artist. His evenings are spent rifling through newspapers and deftly slicing sections out that he finds of interest. Shuffling the edges, adjusting the complex logic of his perturbations. 

I suppose my interest in the film, comes with a sense of frustration. All the stuff in his collection seemed to have stretched his loved ones to the point of divorce, there seemed to be no room for other people in his life, literally. And whilst watching you think for what? For a horde of stuff that he can't even get around. About halfway through the film I changed my position and started routing for him. I think this collector is a testament to a ridiculous life well spent. Indeed it is pointless and ridiculous, as he holds up a package of soap explaining that he leaves it out to dry it before he puts it in a bag and then into the collection, it seems obtuse. An array of these rituals are found; buying two or three of the same item, one to use, one to cut, and one to put in the collection. Of course, they all end up in the collection that is his apartment and his life.

His voice is the only one that is heard other than the occasional voice of a shopkeeper, or a man who discusses a coin outside of a restaurant. The person holding the camera is silent as if silenced by the breadth of the collection. The collector approaches the camera when they see fit 'let's go here I I need a torch' or a comment about the nature of the collection 'there is no pattern to what I collect'. The filmmaker seems to give him space to truly perform his banal consumer eccentricities. The camera is let inside a life which is bifurcated between the street-level visibility of buying these objects and the crammed psychology behind the door of the apartment.

Time is of the essence in this film. As a double-faced watch catches the collector's eye, a novelty that is too expansive. He on his own mortality and that of the collection. Negotiating the next step for the mountains of newspapers that tickle the ceiling up to the moment they topple. The instability of the Turkish economy at this time is somewhat a prop as a merchant explains the raising of his prices, during the tumultuous time that follows a financial crash. Today, Turkey is experiencing a free-falling Lira and is the worst emerging market currency of today. Our collector recounts intricate coins of the past whilst the future of Turkey is still to be decided.