The Letter

Easter, time to try the left wing.
I shall write a letter.
to whom, is the question-i fancy a new pen pal.
anyone?
I would love your address and I, myself promise a lurid, poetic manually written letter.
archaic, lost form, lets bring it back!
(correspondence would be most supremely treasured)

Post Netherlands diary. More than a venture.

Diary entry, 15^th February 2011

Today I listened but became almost deaf.

I understood the words, the context and the speaker, yet I couldn’t identify the accumulation of knowledge in which I aspired to interpret.

Today I became a little confused, however, I shall not confess unto you the matters of my psychology.

I repeat, there is nothing wrong with me.

Diary entry, 16^th February

Definitely more than semi aware of my fate today.

My hormones are producing anti socialism, I can’t and won’t  aim to exchange blows with my body.

My body knows best.

Though, the now is improving, as today is unlike any other day.

For, today I am mystic Michelle.

Today I can see into tomorrow, tomorrow has prospects, not only prospects, but post-it-notes and a schedule.

Diary entry, 17^th February

I thrust into today with no sleep just a series of restricted naps.

On schedule.

Bus to Victoria 45minutes

Train to Gatwick 30 minutes

Airplane to Amsterdam 50 minutes

Insufficient energy to complete the day, yet I collapse effortlessly into the laid back temperament of the Netherlands.

Diary entry, 18^th February

Fuelled with a macro dose of caffeine, my vocational bearings and the local tourist map, I begin my expedite to unearth my version of the Netherlands.

(I use the broader term Netherlands, as I hope to appear authentically cultured and archival, opposed to the rapturous stag night imagery conjured by pin pointing the exact, Amsterdam.)

With my head high, I survey the skylines whilst reveling in the architecture, people watch in the local croissant ce les’magnifique and with this midday delight I celebrate my 5day fiesta.

Diary entry, 19^th February

The forecast for today is dull, yet my outlook is seemingly better.

This potent coffee is half drunk, but nonetheless seems half full.

That is a smile.

The body knows best.

Dad called, he may come to visit; yet the ratio of time spent with him per year is less than 14 in 265 days and a quarter.

Austria to Amsterdam, 10 hours X2, that forecast is deemed less than promising.

Time is a great leveler, and now I am emotionally departing from this less than idealistic family situation.

Diary entry, 20^th February

Rembrandt had a gift, he also had assistants like all of the other divas in which we know.

Prep my canvas, mix my paint…

I now know he had a slight cocktail obsession, which led to debt, another diva similarity, though, in those days I’m unsure of the rehab state.

 I question if all of humanity lives merely dormant until introduced to the intoxicating thrills of alcohol and other substances?

Do we rest with pessimistic anticipation of this rich awakening?

I leave tomorrow; I now believe I need a drink.

.

Diary entry, 21^st February

A kaleidoscope of lives, trams, travelers, taxis and tourists all jostling for street space.

By night I am serenaded by bustling horny busy bodies, In which one, without delay directs them towards Amsterdam’s finest, the district in which humanity is stripped, and sober optimism telescopes into nothingness.

 The same venue in which I have not come to view, but in where vanity breeds and where lust and gluttony are listed as the bare daily essentials.

 Consuming the ‘tour de force’ of culture which is upon me, and I hastily realize, real guerilla work is not fast nor reported, and that this last minute venture has succeeded to uproot my London being, and in it’s place this Netherlands city has seeped into my blood.

 

Performativity, a critical observation of self.

Not much has changed, I arrived on this earth as a mere observer and I have only a vague collection of early memories.

Defiantly conditioned by the loss of all male role models.

Having, embracing, loosing and coping with the loss of the lost.

Thus tainting men like a nuclear warhead.

Live OR Evil…

Shall I offer the second chance for redemption?

Nothing has changed, except now I have a time-obscured perception of my teenage years.

The mishap that was my adolescent era- voided by uncertainty and enthralled by angst – somewhat the participant within life’s unscripted, fragmented slapstick routine.

I had, I took for granted, I let myself go, and lost my mind.

I fall to my knees at the entrance of this sparse lacuna- my secrets under lock and key, my fantasies, simpler times, a smaller bra size and the haven where I am disguised without the dull misery one has been conditioned by.

Nothing will change, the past year has been a real life case study of how not to live, what not to do, what not to take.

I was prescribed, I took, I relied, I became tranquilized and I didn’t find.

I was promised the light, yet remained stranded within the depths of my jungle.

“Per aspera ad astra”

 My brain was the impenetrable vegetation, and overactive thoughts posed as fierce inhabitants that compulsively rehearse what has happened, what hadn’t happened, what could of happened, what may happen, what I’m sure was going to happen, and what I wanted to happen.

Dear fierce inhabitants, please divulge your master plan unto your master, the one with the mere human heart.

I am in a Doom OR Mood.

I have explored the emotions that lie underneath my shoes, the ones that you conjure with your claws, and the ones I trample on with the vain hope of their disintegration.

Something’s are changing.

Finally growing up, straddling my current benevolent existence.

  Journeying across the bridge, creating an alliance with sanity to prosper and rise with freedom. Purpose, fiction, opinion, confession.

 One is no longer restricted to the confines of the mind anymore, I do not pout at the circumstances, or at the revolution I am creating within, yet I survey my chances as an emancipated traveler, we come alive in the eyes of fear so I permit my mind to escape onto these walls, onto paper and onto any secondary material.

Something has changed, aged 21 and a half I am a veteran, equipped with all of the substances that convert me into something of a norm.

Inhabiting an illusionary mind space that imprints a state of resonance, I sink into what seems another life, framing the losses and seek solace that I am reimbursed with wisdom.

Now, I have the sunrise in my pocket.

Last construction

Screen prints on canvas and textiles, regarding stitch as a fine, dimension altering detail.
Cut-out 'preview' hole, causing an aesthetic composition and character change.

Close up view of a singular print.
Machine embroidery, one element that plays with altering the state of dimension.

Past workings; textile and lyrical interpretations

Machine embroidered T-shirts
solidifying the notion of 'wearing ones heart on their sleeve'
Divulging and recording personal truisms, poetry and memoirs in a poised, statement medium.


























20 individual 'canvases' 
juxtaposed to emphasise my personal statement, ' don't take it out on yourself?'































Universal, portable therapy...                                                 

A separate example of multi medium techniques;
print, embroidery, malleable metal work.
(circa 2008)