Paint takes an awfully long time to dry, and isnt that fun to watch, so while it does I thought Id take this opportunity to write to you. How are you this autumn morning? I am in good spirits. I woke up this morning and leaped from my bed, to my surprise, with an eagerness I havent felt for a long while and at a shockingly early time. 10 oclock may not sound like a time that would prompt phases such as the early bird catches the worm! from passers by with little else to do but quote useless axioms, but for me, on a Saturday morning it is quite unbelievable that Id be in any state other then slumber. For the past couple of months Ive been finding it very hard to sleep, even more so then usual. Recently the only way Ive manage to break down the barrier of my endless consciousness is to turn to a rather vulgar stereotype. However according to this computer it was 11:02 when I started writing. Normally Im still twisted inside my sweat soaked bed sheets - not up, out of bed, fully dressed, with caffeine pumping through my veins half way through an essay. Ok, thats not entirely true my essay only measures three paragraphs, but three great paragraphs! Sentence after sentence that have an almost poetic beauty, a fine, superb introduction, the reader is instantly hooked, their attention is fixed, you want to find out more. No! You need to find out more (which is quite an amazing feat as the essay is comparing the work of the Italian Expressionist Painter and Sculptor Amedeo Modigliani (who according to microsoft word doesnt exist, seeing as how his name is now adored with a red squiggly line) (1884-1920) and Louis Corinth, who so far I know little of, apart from that hes painted a very nice postcard which has been stuck to my bedroom wall for many years, although I hope by the time I reach the end of the essay that will have changed). Yet still it is only an introduction. It seems that there is only 626 words inside of me that can say about Modigliani and Corinth, that I have already exhausted all possibly avenues of interest within three paragraphs, that I have run out of ideas, out of ink. I hate writing, and yes Im aware of the irony saying that through a letter! I suppose I just hate art history, or contextual studies as my college prefers to call it, dont ask me why. True, it does have its advantages, I once impressed a girl by telling her about the effect Ancient Greek sculpture has had on modern society, that the reason we all strive, some more actively and successfully then others, to this one shape, to this one ideal can be traced directly back to Ancient Greek sculpture. But I dont think it really impressed her all that much, and its far more possible that my art history lecturer was talking a load bollocks and consequently I was to her, and she knew it. But even though I have only managed a few paragraphs I suppose its better then being at collage, where each and every day seems to be a plaster cast of the one before. Or at least it always feels like it in the morning. I arrive in to collage at half eight, stroll through corridors, past the library and down to the cafeteria, where I purchase a disgustingly tasting and priced coffee for half an hour until I climb the cold stone staircase to the studio, where I wait to be patronised and bored till five oclock, the only variety seem to be in which book I pick up from my bedroom floor to gulp down with my coffee. Unfortunately over the past two months there was been an unpleasant addition to this harmless routine. Each morning my bitter coffee is interrupted by the banal chatter of a history student. The girl in question is a greasy Goth that as kind friend pointed out, most likely has a crush on me. But I suspect the only reason she comes up to my table in the morning, interrupting me from my cup of coffee and book, is that she thinks Im cool whatever that is. I think she like the fact that Ive read Russian literature, that Im an art student, that I have long hair (well long for a boy) wear clothes which differ from the almost regulation Reebok and Nike outfits of the collage, listen to bands which she has never heard of, can often appear be having vicious arguments about Marxism, globalisation, and other things which she recognises the words of yet knows little about, and even for my almost constant sarcasm. Maybe its because I cant take a compliment, or that I at least dont know how to react to one, but she really annoys me, especially when I start to think about it. She ambushed me again on Friday, while I was having my lunch, she talked a lot, I didnt, like most of the conversations Im unfortunate enough to have with her, and then she fixed me with a quizzical stare and asked me if I was gay. I havent laughed so long and hard in a very long time. She couldnt see what was so funny though. From what I remember, I dont think I actually answered her, but I think she got my message. Thinking about it again, Im tempted to say yes. Im glad I didnt give her a proper answer, that I remained ambiguous. I can see why she might think such a thing; I suppose to certain people I could appear to have an effeminate manner. Im not a lad, and I hope I never become one. I like music, I like poetry, I like art! I can some times come across as condescending - as bitchy. I have long hair, which my college buddy jokes that it makes me look like a girl, and she knows (a mistake on my part, forgetting to think before I open my mouth) Ive just come out of a long relationship that I refuse to talk about, and is complicated, which she will no doubt hear as complicated. I find it offensive though that someones sexuality, someones identity can be determined from a minor list of superficial details. But the reason I dont mind her thinking Im gay, is not because she might now leave me alone (although I cant deny it is an advantage, but I hope I would never do something so vulgar on purpose) or that I am secretly - it is because Im not gay, it is because Im straight. If she believes Im something Im not, if she thinks this, if she knows this then she doesnt know me. She will then, and presumably the rest of the college in a few days time, only know a lie, like or hate a lie, but not me. I will merely turn into a figment of her imagination. Goodness, this is becoming very self-indulgent and absurd. Maybe its the Bob Dylan Im listening to, but I doubt it. Dont you think Just Like A Women, and Sad Eyed Lady OF The Lowlands are just simply beautiful songs? Although I must admit that at 11.20 mins Sad Eyed Lady does get a bit a repetitive, but it is still wonderful. Listening to songs like that makes me want to be able to play the guitar even more, its like this tremendous itch I want to, no, need to scratch but cant. Ive been listening to Blonde on Blonde quite a lot recently; I even slipped a quick sketch of the record sleeve into one of my sketchbooks. Id gambled on the top honcho of the department having good taste, like stereotypical art lovers should, and hed be less harsh to one of his own kind, but if he did recognise it (as my parents both did) he didnt show it (as he didnt make fun of me for it as my parents both did). It was part of a last ditch attempt to bulk up my portfolio for Assessment, if any scrap of paper with the slightest scrawl on it came within my eyesight I stuck it in. Assessment was last week, it last all week long everyone is interviewed, our work is reviewed, were marked, and if it isnt all there, or if it isnt good enough youre out. My interview was at 1.00 p.m. on Friday, it was late in the week as we were in alphabetical order, for the first time in my life Id been truly thankful my surname is Thorpe. All week Ive been working my balls off, trying to get everything done, trying to get it good enough. But Id been working for the past 3 months, since college started, trying to do this, and I knew I couldnt turn everything around in a week, but I kept on trying to. By 1.00 I hadnt finished everything. I had the interview; Im not sure how it went though. I hadnt had time to arrange any of my work in any sort of order, but it seem that must of my drawing and painting work was at the top of my portfolio (there are four sections drawing + painting, ideas, 3D, and another which is sort of like textiles but isnt). They were very complimentary of my drawing and painting, especially my life studies. But I never know who to take compliments, from anyone, I never know who to respond, and I never know how sincere they are being, as they never seem to be sincere at all. I noticed though they, my lecturers, said less the further we got through my portfolio, I hoped it didnt mean anything. They then started to ask me questions, about my work, which is quite easy to comment on (there is only one way to comment on it after all), and well art in general. I have lots of ideas, lots of opinions, but when I speak, especially in situations like this I suddenly have no opinions, and certainly no conviction. Once I got started, it was ok. I was standing up, they were all sitting down, which was quite weird, Im sure all the other students had a chair. I considered sitting on the floor but I thought it wouldnt make the right impression. The only real problem came when Id got have way though my answer and realised Id only heard half the question. I was talking about contemporary artists at one point, only to realise that both artist I had started to talk about were dead. Anyway I got through, everyone got through. Sometimes I wonder why I worry so. Well I reckon the paint will be dry by now. Cheerio _________________________________________________________________ Protect your PC - get McAfee.com VirusScan Online http://clinic.mcafee.com/clinic/ibuy/campaign.asp?cid=3963 +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. 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