Right Space. Wrong Space.
I don't know if it's the time of year, phase of the moon, Mercury in the House of Jupiter or whatever, but I have the strongest feeling that I'm in the wrong place at the moment. I feel a little like the motorbike in the car park of my building (pictured). I can fit in the space provided, but it doesn't mean that I have to.
At the risk of sounding like a slack-jawed, window-licking, new-aged pollen sucker - there's something missing in my life at the moment. I am not on the point of taking up God or learning French - I'm not given to extremities and besides, I haven't got enough spare time for either past time. But since the landscape of my friendships and work has changed pretty radically over the last couple of years, I have begun to feel an annoying dislocation between how my life is organised and how I want to live it.
This feeling will no doubt be obliterated by the discovery of a really cool new pair of trousers, or an especially good episode of either Nighty Night, The Mighty Boosh or Early Doors, however.
Besides all this dullness, thanks again to DCist for bringing this to my attention:
Details can be found here, but the crux is that Mary Coble, a Washington-based artist, spend 24 hours having the names of victims of homophobic hate crimes 'written' on her body with an inkless tattoo needle.
I sometimes feel the urge to throw myself under a passing racing cycle when contemplating media coverage of contemporary art, but I found the idea of this piece incredibly moving. Apart from the wince factor (and the slight concern that she will spend the rest of her life with feint, colourless tattoos all over her body and become a human palimpsest), the act is both touchingly brave and futile at the same time - perhaps this is the case with all engaged art. I have no idea whether it will change anything or not, but I salute Mary Coble.