Tourism Industry and Study Habits

Exams are the bane of any students existence. Needless to say, they don't make me particularly cheerful or happy. I find myself in a state where I have what I refer to as, 'Pedestrian rage', wherein I internally curse anyone and everyone who even vaguely gets in my way to the exam.

'Fuck you. Fuck off. Move. Dammit cow! Move! Shut up. Fuck you.'

It's like a parade of obscenities in my head.

I'm sure it comes across on my face, people have been moving faster lately.

So, after a little over a week away from the art world, I've been tipped back into it - headlong. It's been museums and study sessions all last week and weekend. While the exams themselves are worth nothing in comparison to future projects, it is important to do well. So Cocker Spaniel, Afghan Hound, Golden Retriever and I have been hitting the books hard, paired up with a few other girls from the course to scratch the surface as it were.

There have been multiple visits to the V&A, the Wallace Collection, the National Gallery, the British Museum, and tomorrow it's off to the Tate (Modern...aka Tate Britain's ugly little sister...). Now, anyone who is not a Londoner will cry out, 'But that's not so bad! Going to all those museums, seeing all those lovely things...' To them I say, 'Yes, and you're the reason my life is hell.'

To anyone who lives in a major metropolis, or even a place with an attraction, the first complaint is always 'The tourists'. No exceptions here. We busily tried to nuzzle our way between Aunt Bess's flabby bingo wings and we tip-toed and peered over Little Johnny while he pressed his snotty nose and greasy fingers all over the glass. Not to mention dear old Mom and Dad with cameras at the ready. I bet the four of us made for nice background scenery in several holiday snaps of several families. We just wanted to get a good look at our course material.

After a gruelling week and weekend of study we've come to the exams. They could be worse. They could have tourists swarming the screen and flashing it with high-powered cameras.

But then again, it might just jog my memory enough...

Ah yes, Northern Song Dynasty, Ru Porcelain, Classicware .

Next slide! Someone flash the lights again, I think it's helping!

The Great Plains

Another week gone by, and the art world has not rested.

But I have.

Two reading weeks have been granted, and while I should be busy in every art museum across the whole of the greater London area, I have gone home to visit family.

In the exact middle of nowhere.

But the silver lining would have to be the presence of an art museum that has A Titian, An El Greco, A Pre-Raphaelite work, A Degas, A Renoir, A Calder, A Pollock...you get the idea. In short, a good collection to do a pop quiz from as study for next week's exams.

While congratulating myself on recognising a Holman Hunt work I heard footsteps nearby. Glancing up I heard a brief and perfunctory, 'Hello!' (Americans are so friendly...)

'Hi, err, do you work here?'

'Yea, what can I do for you?'

'Um, no, I don't actually need anything, I just wanted to ask a bit about what you do and programs the museum has on to get membership up, current exhibits and so on...I noticed that it's pretty empty in here for being such a great collection for the local area.'

'Well, it is blizzarding out.'

(I could have smacked myself.)

'Yea, of course. I should have taken that into consideration. But have you thought about programs for young people? Late night openings? Different events aimed at young adults to get membership drives up? Just, a few thoughts...'

'What do you do?'

'Oh, I'm from here, but I live in London now and I'm getting my MA in Fine and Decorative Arts from Christeby's. How did you get here?'

He introduced himself and gave me some background. He was a born and bred. Seems like that's the way to get ahead in America, to be someone that everyone grew up with. Damn my itchy feet.

'Well, it was nice to meet you.' And off he walked.

Fuck. Opportunity lost. Note to self, get business cards.

A little later, I recalled his first name and once again, opted for the nothing ventured mantra.

While leaving notes on ruled paper may be remarkably 1997, it was my only shot, and I took it. Writing what I hoped didn't come across as a desperate 'Write back to me!' note, (As midwesterners are finicky people, I should know, I am one.) I left my information and something that was vaguely funny.

Thank god I got a response yesterday or else I don't think I could have ever held my head up high in my hometown museum ever again.

TeFAF

I’m on the train back to London after quite the gruelling weekend. Not that I didn’t enjoy it, but it was a bit of a marathon when it comes to network building and being tres charmant. With 5 hard-won business cards in tow as well as several open doors it feels worthwhile.

Afghan Hound and I took two different sides of the same coin, she went for Decorative Art (DecArts) and I went straight after the Old Masters. And fittingly, the masters of this realm are quite old. The entrance hall to TeFAF this year consisted of two undulating walls with black and white striped columns and backlit panels with white roses stuck onto them from floor to ceiling in between. My only thought was:

Wow, so THIS is money.

At the fair there were champagne bars, posh brassieres, and the rows weren’t numbered and lettered, rather they were named after posh shopping streets throughout the globe, from New Bond Street to Fifth Avenue. Once again:

Wow, so THIS is money.

Once I was wandering the stalls I could feel the gaze of the glitterati on me, not so nice when you’re wandering around in cheap shoes. It was a day where footwear demanded function over form. Though other people may have led you to believe form over function was par for course especially as women teetered perilously on their heels.

Wow, so THIS is money.

In each stand there was a need to create a delicate balance between being approachable but aloof. It’s as much about demeanour as it is about knowledge in the art world. Meeting gallerists with enough clout to come to Maastricht was, for me, nerve-wracking. Everyone is trying to suss out everyone else, and in seconds. I could see the wives looking me over with great distrust. In the corner of my mind, I realised this was prime Sugar Daddy territory and the wives knew it. How sad that they felt threatened at what was clearly a’ Wives-Only-Mistresses-Need-Not-Attend’ event.

And the fair was a visual feast. Everything from ceramics, furniture, modern & contemporary art, art on paper and antiquities were there in addition to the old masters section. Pressing on I toured the booths, looking for the art that interests me most, British painting.

‘Hmm, let’s see, Virgin Mary…no. Bleeding Jesus…nope, not so much. Ut-oh, Dead Jesus, definitely not…Ah-ha! A Whistler and Millais, that’ll do!’

After a few tense moments of being observed I went up to the man doing the most aggressive surveillance and asked about his English works. I failed the test, he did not ask my name, did not give me a card.

Fuck.

Then again, nothing ventured nothing gained. Even though I was already head down, I looked back up and rallied, ‘Do you do any Scottish art?’

‘Why yes, we have a gallery in Edinburgh.’

‘Oh excellent, I’ll be there in a few weeks. May I stop by?’

‘Well, yes, of course. Here have my card, and your name is?’

As I introduced myself, I looked at the card and caught the name of the gallery, XXXXX XXXXXX Galleries.

‘And you are?’

The name of the man and the gallery matched. With my most gracious smile I offered my hand and a sincere, ‘It was nice meeting you and I’m looking forward to visiting both your London gallery and your Edinburgh gallery.’

Hello little platinum card of potential you’ll be going straight into my wallet.

Life as a Panto...

Like a theatrical stage production or teen drama, things are always darkest before the dawn and the hero (or heroine) must overcome both outer obstacles as well as inner obstacles.

Yesterday was decision day on who got the interviews for the Christeby's Auction House internship. They arrived via e-mail around noon. Everyone waited with bated breath for the art equivalent of the golden ticket from a Wonka bar. Afghan Hound got one, Cocker Spaniel got one, and as my friends, this pleased me to no end.

I checked my inbox - nothing.

I felt my spirits sink. It felt like someone had punched me in the stomach and I could feel tears welling up behind my eyes. Professional Plan A: Fucked. But I had to keep a brave and happy face on for my friends, I don't want them to feel obliged to hide their joy. But being good friends, they could see through the mask I was presenting. They buoyed me with ideas that maybe mine would come later, or that maybe the office was just disorganised and mine was merely lost.

They were too kind and indulgent, and as the day painfully wore on, it seemed that things were only going to get worse. The Voice walked in looking like the cat that got the cream. I leaned over the Cocker Spaniel, 'Did The Voice get an e-mail?'

'Oh, I didn't want to be the person to tell you, but she asked me if I did and when I told her that I had, she told me that she had gotten one too.'

'Great. Evil reigns supreme.'

As more classmates asked who got an e-mail or who hadn't heard anything, I was forced to truthfully say it had not come, and I was officially rejected, just as The Voice walked up, let a smug look of self-satisfaction flicker over her face and then quickly fade into 'concern' and a coo, 'Ooh, I'm sure that there's like, totally other things you could do. I mean, like, I don't even know if I can afford to do this unpaid. Like, I'm not sure if I could accept it.'

In a panto someone would have already pulled out the 'Boo!' and 'Hiss!' signs for her, but in life there are no guarantees that she will be thwarted and I will manage to get ahead somehow. Therefore, this is not a panto. Dammit.

Instead of focusing on what I didn't get, it's time to get creative. I'm off to TEFAF today to meet the most influential dealers in Old Masters for the whole of Europe. Christeby's will have to wait until I'm a lady of 40 or so, in the hierarchical auction house world I didn't make the cut, now it's time to drop into this world the old fashioned way, networking.

Outer obstacle: Job and Visa, Inner obstacle: Feelings of rejection and career worthlessness.

Let's see if this character can overcome these situations, because if not, this is going to get depressing fast. Ha.

English as a Second Language

I used to live in Spain. A silly romantic idea that Velazquez paintings were all needed to truly survive fueled that debacle.

No. They fed my soul, but the chorizo and tortilla de patata day in and day out were not up there on my list of amazing culinary delights to start, after 7 months it was wearing thin. Whatever happened to the odd Chinese takeaway or curry, Spain?

Food aside, the language was a huge barrier. I remember getting deathly sick with Spanish Influenza a couple of times and stumbling into the odd farmacia barely able to talk in English, let alone in Spanish. Read: 'Hola...estoy muy, uh, um, err...sick? Yo...um, hurt.'

What does this have to do with art?

Nothing.

However, it does make me sympathetic to people who live outside of their language comfort zones. Point in case: My friend, Afghan Hound.

Afghan Hound is Swiss and she struggles with the finer points of writing in English. I know she's done all the work, so why shouldn't she get the marks? God knows I wish someone would have helped me in Spain, and I wasn't even writing 3,000 word papers.

So, I'm her proof-reader.

While it's an ideal situation for getting a head start on other assignments or even nicking research, I've always written on different subjects. I'd get too bored writing about something I've already proofed.

And even the proofing bores us.

Instead we begin coming up with alternative study methods over copious amounts of tea. Tonight is was drawing rude sketches of ceramics designs with banter, something along the lines of 'Would someone pass me a fig leaf already?'

Last paper I proofed turned out to be a classic in goofing off moments.

As MA Fine & Decorative Art students, we're expected to have the ability to recognise different woods on sight. We started naming off the characteristics of woods. 'Pine is a soft, light-coloured wood with lots of knots in it...' etc. 5 minutes later I've managed to contort myself into a pretzel on my seat and I'm saying in some strange horror-flick voice, 'I've been poorly all my life, I didn't grow up normally, I have inky black rings when I'm cut and used in a veneer. I'm highly prized by English and Dutch cabinetmakers. Who am I?'

'You're Diseased Walnut! Do another one!!'

While Afghan Hound laughed and even snorted once or twice I launched into my best old boy accent, 'Rah, rah, rah, yes, I'm quite a prestigious yet humble English timber. My grain is quite broad and noticeable. You could get your fingernails stuck in. Rah rah, someone pass me my pipe.'

'Oak trees don't smoke! That's not normal!'

Going back to my usual voice, 'Well, neither is what we're doing.'

We both started to laugh and then Afghan Hound began to shout, 'Another one! Another one! This time do a cactus!'

For the record I stopped at orange blossom. All of this started because I wanted to help my friend study.

I swear someone put something in that tea.

While the Tutors Are Away the Students Shall Play...

It's early in a new week and The Voice is bragging about her internship yet again. 'Yea, there's like all this beautiful furniture by my desk, and like...'

I zoned her out and looked at the other students who were listening to her, all of them green with envy, save one.

My friend.

I have three close friends here at Christeby's Institute, and each have decided that they have the characteristics of certain dogs. One would be a Cocker Spaniel, another would be an Afghan Hound, and lastly one would be a Golden Retriever.

I don't get a dog because apparently dogs don't have a sense of humour or sarcasm.

So my friend, the Golden Retriever, seems genuinely happy for The Voice while everyone else looks daggers at her.

If looks could kill, The Voice would have keeled over months ago.

Our tutors are away in New York interviewing next years students. A whole new group of thirsty, ambitious and somewhat unguided art world wannabes are being hand-selected while we sit around and listen to guest speakers.

A lot of people can't be bothered to come to the guest lecturer's classes. A lot of people are just hungover or half-asleep.

I wonder if the same thing will happen next year, or it it happened the year before. People this year have certainly become disillusioned with the auction house philosophy. Some want a more creative outlet, other want to get into museums, others, it's all about a gallery or dealership. But almost everyone started off wanting to work for Christeby's.

I bet it's the same with most classes.

'Yea, so, like my boss is like super cosmopolitan. It's like so amazing to watch him work. I'm like, totally in awe. It's like...'

Can't block her out forever. I definitely don't want to work with her later. My ears would start to bleed.

Fuck this shit. Golden Retriever, please, stop encouraging her!

Libraries

It's a Friday and the first beautiful sunny day after what has been declared the worst winter in decades. What am I doing? Where am I? The park? Having a picnic like all lazy students?

No. I'm in the library. Researching 19th c. furniture.

Now, most people would say that it's not all that grim. I'm in a beautiful library researching a topic in a field that I am passionate about and don't forget, evil of all evils, I could be in an office! Ooooo....not an office. To those people I say, yes, I could be in an office. I could be in an office enjoying coworker banter, having a cup of tea and getting overpaid for the 30 minutes of actual work that I do between two hours of looking like I'm working while planning my evening and weekend. I would relish paycheque and a title rather than the shame and sneer that accompany whichever outcome arises from the question, 'Do you do student discounts?'

Believe me, I've been forced to break out a lot of charm to come back from that one.

But aside from the office maybe being not so bad compared to student life, the specific nature of what my cohorts and I study means that in the incestuous and elite art world we are all so keen to break into, we will see each other all too often after this. Today is really an onerous exercise in professional preparation. I'm in an art library, gorgeous, and yet rife with peril. I'm surrounded by my peers.

The competition is here, and not just for the books on the shelves.

And they're everywhere.

Most offensive is 'The Voice'. She speaks a pitch that only dogs can hear and at a volume that could make a deaf man cry out in pain. She's not just at Christeby's Institute, she's on my course, and in my class. I am subjected to her 5 days a week.

As you can imagine, sharing a quiet space with her is hours of entertainment. From across the silence of the library I hear an ear-splitting whisper, 'Yah, so, like, on my internship there's all this like, stuff I have to photograph and archive. It's like, so draining working for nothing.'

She's bragging about her internship by bitching about the (mundane) responsibilities. Somehow The Voice got an internship only available to non-full time students.

How? Anyone's guess. I vote sexual favours in a cloakroom. Whatever it was, I bet the interviewer just hoped she'd shut up.

So, here I am in the library wishing she'd shut up, and what-ho? The clouds part, a ray of hope beams down.

"Yah, so, like, I have to go now, I've got to get to this internship and like, sit there and photograph more furniture. It's like, so boring."

Result!

"Yah, I'll have to come back here tomorrow. It's so annoying having the extra responsibility of an internship."

Fuck. I'm in here researching tomorrow. Saturday.

Next time someone says I could be working in an office, I'm asking if there are any openings.

Modern Art

Once art crosses a certain threshold (time wise) I lose all interest and check-out. Frankly, I don't care about art that looks like it should be illustrating the nightmares of the Mighty Boosh.

Actually, I'd prefer it in there, I'm sure Noel Fielding could make Karl Appel's Questioning Children into something both starkly disturbing and yet remarkably mesmerising. A bit like Old Gregg, or driving past a car wreck.

Don't act so shocked, you know you lean out your window when you go past one.

I've been drifting in and out of the lecture (mentally) and the key words thus far are: 'crude', 'strange', 'roughly', and 'tangled'.

Great. I love shit like this - exactly like I love a case of athlete's foot.

There is always the possibility that someone could get Contemporary Art Bird to effuse passionately about the intrinsic qualities and importance of this movement on 'emergent' art ('contemporary' is so last season, darling). The only problem with that scenario is Contemporary Art Bird is a struggle to silence (in a polite and timely fashion).

Glancing back up at the screen, I just want to shout, 'What the hell is that?! Is that a nematode with a human skeleton as drawn by a 6-year old?'

The slide changes and I am happy. Elburg's The Classy Whore comes up. It almost looks like Dick Cheney meets Titian.

Brilliant. Ab-so-fucking-lutely brilliant. Let's end the lecture on a high note, Professor.

1st March 2010

'Hey, are you going to the student rep meeting?'

'Yea. And you have to be there too you know.'

Hmmm, how best do I respond?
1. 'Yes, you condescending cow, I was just making a polite inquiry.'
2. 'My stomach happens to be turning over as we speak with food poisoning. Fuck off and I'll get there on my own time.'
3. 'Yea, I know. 31C. 10 minutes, I'll see you there.'

No awards for guessing what I said.

You could say we're all a bunch of subversive, fucked off cowards, all vying in a race to get to the top of the intern pile. No one knows who will be a future co-worker, boss or major source of help later. To venture out on the branch of open hostility could be fatal. To be starting off in the art world, one lives with the nervous marriage between frustration and willingness, both of which are in an affair with passion for art (and penniless-ness). It's a special brand of crazy from which I am not exempt.

After answering the painful cries of my stomach (even those consumed by the world of the intellectual are not immune to the needs of the physical), I arrived late to the student rep meeting.

Oh the scrutiny of arriving late.

The 'meeting' as it was lovingly dubbed consisted of 3 characters doing a majority of the representing and one new member of staff, keen to listen, leaning in and enthusiastically nodding. Which people hold sway? Well, not me, instead it was:

Contemporary Art Bird: She's the pinnacle of Geek Chic, everyday. She will look back at photos of herself in ten years and really regret it. Guaranteed. But so goes the fashion of contemporary art, bless.

Failed Artist Type: Tends to steer the discussion toward how best to start, restart or revive a career as an artist. Someone should really lean over and tell her, 'Wrong course, love.'

Art Business/Greek God: So gorgeous he stuns everyone else into silence. Has a 'Jesus-walking-on-water' effect on conversations. Truly amazing. No wonder the girl sat next to him seemed to worship him.

'Well, that's about all we have time for, I promised I'd let you all get back to class. Thank you for your thoughts.'

I am at the back of a crush to get out the door. Stumbling out into the hall I bump into my friend, a beacon of hope in this cutthroat environment, 'Hey! How was your meeting?'

'Don't even get me started.'