Ed Young's Diary

29.04.10 EASIER TO CALIFORNICATE

2010-04-29T13:12:00.000-07:00

Blackman meets me at the Kimberley for a beer and we head for the airport. We say our goodbyes and we are very happy that we don’t have to see each other for the next few weeks. I board a plain to Dubai having neglected to purchase nicotine patches.

They put me in the wrong terminal of Dubai International and I miss my usual Irish Bar experience. After a full body cavity search I board a plane to LaLaLand. I struggle to sleep and end up watching endless romantic comedies. After a few hours our captain announces that we are now flying across the North Pole. He drops down low and provides us with a guided aerial tour of the local happenings.

“If you look to your left you will see a neon sign for Ho Ho Ho’s, the local pub and strip joint where Santa spends most of his down time of the year, preparing and conceptualising production which will should in full swing by September. Mrs. Clause is off course, taking time out at their Malibu estate, researching contemporary cosmetic procedures. To the right…”

I stare blankly at the tiny screen in front me and conceptualise work of my own. It does not work. We head back South.

I try to sleep. I pop one of the sleeping pills, which That Fucking Whore had bestowed upon me at the time of my departure. I stare blankly at the tiny screen. I watch a movie called Couples Retreat, and am sure this marks the end of Vince Vaughn’s staggering career.

After 34 hours I arrive at LALA X. We get onto the freeway and it looks like the movies. I spend the next few days recovering, eating gourmet hot dogs and staring at palm trees.

13.04.10 BARKER WORSE THAN THE BITE

2010-04-17T00:01:00.000-07:00

It starts on a Tuesday. I arrive back from a small holiday with That Fucking Whore. I have a small lunch at La Perla and a fairly productive time at the workshop. I arrive home and unpack my belongings, now and a Shoprite bag and call Zen Marie for a meeting. He explains that he is almost at his auntie’s place. I tell him to turn around and meet Blackman and me at the bar. He says ok.

I arrive at the bar and Marie phones to say that he is not coming, as he does not drink and that all the Coca-Cola is making him fat. Blackman arrives and we are all very happy. A few beers later Wayne Barker enters said bar. I have not seen him since his SMAC show. I don’t think he has either.

Barker brings his UCA Monkey and demands a drink. I buy him one. I am sitting with Blackman and Jonathon Garnham going through some useful diagrams for his show. Barker and UCA Monkey demand another drink. I buy them one. Garnham’s drawings become more useful. Barker’s UCA Monkey calls me a cunt and demands another drink. I buy them one. Garnham’s drawings become more useful.

Barker scribbles over Garnham’s drawings and we all get a bit upset. UCA Monkey calls me a cunt. Barker tears up Garnham’s Drawing and politely acknowledges it as shit. I take Barker’s hand and tell him that it is rude and reminded him of the time when Brendon Bell-Roberts threw orange paint on his painting. UCA Monkey calls me a cunt. Dan Halter tries to beat up Barker. Barker says he is not gay. Dan Backs off. Barker tries a donkey punch and lands on a dirty floor. Barker screams: “ Kick me! Kick me! Kick a great artist when he is down!"

I do. Barker gets up and vomits on himself. UCA Monkey calls me a cunt and takes Wayne outside and somewhere else.

Dan tries to beat up everybody else. No one really cares.

12.04.10 BETTER THAN A STAB IN THE FACE

2010-04-12T05:32:00.000-07:00

Once again, I have not really been writing too much. That is because I was not feeling particularly funny. Or maybe I was. But the festive season, as always, brought with it its usual plethora of troubled emotions and tears and blood and poo and tiny shrews.

But it all starts one starry night at the Kimberley Hotel after the Dada South? exhibition. Kim had just arrived from LA. Lisa Brice was in town and we all went out for a small drink. That Fucking Whore is also with us. We are all very happy. Upon arrival the mood is disrupted by a fairly not so elegant bitch fight. Fun to watch but hard to stomach. An overseas visitor decides that this was not cool and leaves for Camps Bay instead where it is less African.

We lost a bit of interest and carried on with our conversation. Moments later, one of the troublemakers heralds herself back in said bar. Screaming a bit loud she clutches a Black Label bottle, smashes it on the counter and the bottle explodes. Our hero girl grabs a wine glass smashes it on the counter and runs out. I sort of get the feeling that something is not right and run after her.

I enter the passage and our barman Dion is restraining the poor lass with half his face hanging off and some blood gushing from where it used to be. I politely put his face back and hold it up for him while he and Welly restrains the girl. She gets sent to prison for a few days. We call emergency services and Dion is being tended to at the back.

Emergency services arrive and I ask them where the medics are.

Emergency Service Guy: Dey arr not herre.

Ed Young: I know. Where are they. Please call them.

ESG: Ah can’t. Ah haves to sees de victim firrst.

EY: Well go see him. He is in the back. His face is on the floor and he is possibly bleeding to death.

ESG: Firrst yoo haves to tells me what happeneds. Whah did you stabs him in de face.

EY: I didn’t. Can you please call the medics.

ESG: Ah can’t. Ah haves to sees de victim firrst.

EY: Well he is in the back. Please go quickly and call the medic.

ESG: Ah needs a statement from yous firrst. Ah fink…

I sort of leave at this point to call an ambulance. Dion goes to surgery and I work the bar for a bit with the Romanian guy who does not speak English. It’s all very Dada.

And Robert Sloon has taken to wearing a Wayne Barker hat.

28.03.10 MY SOUL BEGINS TO DIE AND MY BODY BECOMES ALIVE

2010-04-12T04:57:00.001-07:00

I spent the most beautiful night after my murder under the Grolsch Fluid. But as the Spiritus Mundi slips into my soul and I slowly begin to realise that I had complete access to all of the art world’s thoughts. Blackman: “I realise that an art work’s value is directly relational to the looks of the gallery’s gallerina and that all things considered that made Art South Africa the most valuable work at the fair’. Linda Stupart: ‘I am exactly like Ed Young’. Sloon: ‘ART HEAT, ART HEAT, ART HEAT, EDIT ART HEAT or if I suck my third left molar all week I will have better thoughts’. Justin Rhodes: ‘I hate Art Heat’. Art Heat: ‘We love Justin Rhodes’. Baylon Sandri: ‘I am the gallerist with the hottest wife because Jonathan Garnham is not here.’ Joao: ‘Why, why, why, god oh why’. Wayne Barker: ‘If I got a chin strap for my hat I could actually sleep in it without it falling off.’ It is all super boring and my soul begins to die and my body comes alive.

27.03.10 KILLING EDDY

2010-04-12T04:30:00.000-07:00

I nap on the couch at my hotel and dream that Willem Boshoff is playing fly-half for Western Province. My dream journey ends with Willem kicking and uneven looking playing field into a giant game of Tricky Fingers. I wake up, drink some sparkling water and eat a bowl of freshly ripened homegrown tomatoes I specially brought up from Cape Town. Blackman takes me, Sloon, Leibbrandt, King, Chapman, Kentridge, Stupart and Jacques the Happy Wizard back to the Fair for some canapés. We meet Jan Henry and Sloon informs him that he is the third member of Beatles. Jan becomes sad. The fringe arrives with his plus one Michael Mcgarry. The Fringe offends me and Michael McGarry insults Blackman twice. Blackman becomes sad.

I go outside for a fag and hear what might be two of the car guards arguing. They laugh, perhaps they are being ironic. It all gets super boring. We go to the after party. It is super boring. We go to the Hyatt. It is SP and the beers are R40. And we are all very super sad. We head to the Kitchen and are served drinks at a reasonable price. The Car guards are out in force and the Fringe brushes past Blackman and again Blackman becomes sad. King goes off to play the viola. And Barend de Wet starts talking to me. We start arguing about the biodiversity of the Johannesburg fynbos and its roll in the Avant-garde, the car guards take his side. I am grabbed and wrapped in wool and some fringe. I slowly suffocate and I hear my gravestone being chiseled. I am placed in a cardboard Dada outfit and McGarry cuts me the most beautiful fringe in the world. They dance on my grave and I hear the strains of a preacher.

My spirit hovers over my hapless bunch of minions and I watch Blackman decide to go home alone but he is forced to lift Sloon, Pippa, Stupart, Leibbrandt, Jacques the Happy Wizard, Kentridge, and Chapman. Sloon decides to give Blackman totally the wrong directions and gets them totally lost. Jacques the HW summons a Mandogpig to give them directions and they drop off Stupart and Pipa. But again they lose their way. They end up grabbing a meal at MacDonald’s Rock and Roll Cafe ‘restaurant to the fifteen-year-old miniskirt-wearing girls in several limousines with fat boyfriends’. Leibbrandt calls a halt to the car while they are circling the byroads of Brianstown. He opens the window, extends his body to its maxim point of extension and produces one of Jackson Pollock’s smaller works onto the road - I assume that he must have eaten it at the Fair. They wonder around like a bunch of fools and not even Kentridge knows the way home. Jacques the Happy Wizard’s power reaches 0HP from the Macdonald’s and he can’t summon a Mandogpig. Finally they drop off Kentridge and Leibbrandt and the wizard is eaten by a fifth level purple mage. Sloon and Blackman get totally lost again and are pursued by a plethora of woman who seem to want them. My spirit slowly starts to lose interest and it flies and enters the Art Fair. I finally find some rest under the Grolsch ‘Fluid’.

26.03.10 WILDENBEEST AND OTHER WILD BEASTS

2010-04-12T04:18:00.000-07:00

Blue Tuesday. I go off to the Mandela Rhodes to celebrate with Dan Halter’s Glenfiddich residency. Melvyn Minnaar is there and berates Blackman for going to the capitalist Joburg Art Fair. It means that Blackman will explain, through a Glennfidich induced woolgathering, why the Art Fair is of some use. The point that he seems to be making is that at least the buyers actually fund the Arts unlike some of the institutions that are meant to, but don’t. I don’t buy it. Blackman and Halter try to take two bottles of fifteen-year-old. They are reprimanded. Halter descends the stairs on Blackman’s back and produces a small work of art into a pot plant on exiting the building.

We head off to Christian Nerf’s \:(/=WTF. Dan meets up with his two Romanticist friends Philip and Rodin via Skype and produces another work of art on the glass window protecting the computer from just such ejaculations. He borrows Lynette Bester’s eyeliner and, in backward writing, produces a work called ‘Masturbation Can Come in Handy’. The work, one of the better in the show, is quickly removed by Kathryn Smith with her handy supply of wet ones. Wildenbeest arrives and demands information from Blackman. Blackman is reticent. Wildenbeest is incandescent. It starts getting unpleasant. I go for a fag in the passageway and see Blackman piggybacking Halter out of the show. We leave and head to the Kimberly. Halter meets an old friend and Blackman, David Scadden and I go off to install Scadden’s show that opens the next day.

Black Wednesday. All is good for the show. Blackman’s Vinyl is the best he has ever produced and I get off work early and the DVD player breaks half an hour before the opening. A swift search, we discover a Macbook and we are all very happy. Some people come to the show, they drink our booze. Wildenbeest arrives and asks Blackman for words. He doesn’t have any. She demands to know why he can’t find them but he can’t find them. I go for a fag at the Kimberley and find Our Uncle berating Crazee. ‘You must get a boyfriend who can drive a car.’ Our Uncle does not seem to realize that this would discount 90% of the art world of Cape Town. We close up the gallery and I go home alone.

We wake up early and go to the airport to get to the Joburg Art Fair. We arrive and sit in a press conference. Ross Douglas tells us that the less money for the Art Fair this year means that it has produced better work and everybody has been worked harder because of it. The man from FNB tells us that art is a good way to invest money. The woman from Grolsch is hot. Blackman seems to think that Art Fair could have been even better without the money from the sponsors. I don’t buy it. We meet many of our friends and we are all very happy. That is we are all very happy except for Blackman. He realizes, on seeing Baylon Sandri, that he does not have the shirt Baylon gave him at Wayne Barker’s recent Super Boring with the caveat that he wear it at the Art Fair. Blackman lies to Baylon telling him that he has it. In actual fact he has given it to Robert Sloon. Blackman asks Sloon for it back. Sloon is reticent. Blackman is incandescent. It is all super boring. I go off to my supper and boarding.

14.10.09 Barker up the wrong tree

2009-10-14T13:29:00.000-07:00

This is an apology song. First I have to apologise for not writing too much. Second, for the belated response to the Spring Art Tour… and lastly for reusing the Wayne Barker image (there is only one image on the internet).

But I have been working really hard because I thought I had a trustfund but was mislead. So my five dayjobs and new gallery will have to do… for now.

It all started when M Blackman and I decided to open a gallery, which is a stupid idea. But it wasn’t our fault. It was Jonathan Garnham’s. And Jonathan Garnham’s wife is hot.

Blackman had some money that was meant to go to the arts. He asked for advice and when he finally decided to put it toward an East city project room for Blank Projects, I agreed. Garnham wanted the space next to The Book Lounge which was up for leasing. Blackman offerered start up cash and a few months rental. Garnham realised he did not want to put time into another space with no turnover. I got roped in as a consultant and Blackman and I ended up opening our own space called YOUNGBLACKMAN. And Andrew Lamprecht claims that we stole his idea.

But we needed a show and learnt that Sue Williamson’s long anticipated book – South African Art Now – was being launched in two weeks. I called Sue and she was happy to help us out with our opening act - Better Lives - which is currently on display. We built a few walls and bought a couple of projectors and opened with a bit of a bang.

But a few days prior to the launch artist Wayne Barker sent a text to Sue which I imagine read something like: “You old hag! Why am I not in the book! I am such a great artist! Respect my authority or fear my binge drinking wrath!”

On that same night, Barker stumbled into the Kimberley and rudely interrupted a pre-show meeting with Blackman:

Barker: Why are you showing that old bitch for your opening!

Young: Because she wrote a book and we like the work.

Barker: Well you don’t know what you are doing!

Young/Blackman: I think we sort of do.

Barker: Why am I not in the book!

Young: Ask Sue.

Barker: I should be in the book!

Young: No you shouldn’t.

Barker: Why are YOU in the book!

Young: Because my work is relevant.

Barker: You should have opened your space with me!

Young: No. We are happy with Sue.

Barker: My work is better!

Young: No. It’s not. It’s absolute shite.

Barker: Do you know how much money I make?

Young: I don’t care.

Barker: Do you know who I am?

Young: Yes. Do You?

Barker: Do You…

Young: Fuck off.

Blackman: Um, who is he?

The kind of desperation that lingers from a failed career could be troublesome for most. The next night the same happened:

Barker: Do you…

Young: Fuck off.

Blackman: Um, who is he? He has a nice hat.

But a few days later the Spring Art Tour opened and we were all very happy. The Cape Town leg was fun… until we got thrown out of Michael Stevenson as we arrived.

Stevenson: Party is over boys.

Young: It’s fine. We’re off to Blank Projects across the road.

Stevenson: Yeah. That’s more your kind of beer drinking gallery.

Young: Bye.

Blackman: Um, who is he? He has nice little flags outside in the quad.

And Blank was great. Probably the only kick-ass show of the night. We spent a few days to recover and stupidly headed out to Stellenbosch after attending a talk on art publishing at Clarke’s Bookshop. The combined effort of the speaker and constant glares from former ‘Ronald’ ‘Suresh’ ‘Roberts’ didn’t sit comfy with a white wine hangover. Afterwards I went to sit at Lolar’s with Matthew Partridge. Blackman arrived and Partridge informed us that colour was under house arrest. We went to Stellenbosch.

Colour had in fact gone to Stellenbosch to retire and avoid the crime. Partridge was blind to it because he was asleep on the back seat. We searched for SMAC Gallery, we were inconvenienced by a Saturday ‘Sunday Market’. We entered SMAC. Baylon Sandri demanded to know why ‘I left the most powerful artists in South Africa’ out of Sue Williamson’s book. We go to Die Wijn Huis. Barker enters said Wijn Huis.

Barker: Don’t ever say fuck off to me again!

Young: Fuck Off.

Blackman slips away to speak to Partridge about the monochromatic localised imaginary. Thembinkosi Goniwe regains my attention.

Barker: Cunt.

Barker raises his hat in agitation.

Barker: I'll drop you.

Young: If you ever say that to me again I’ll drop you.

Barker: I’ll take you.

Young: Do you want to take this outside?

Barker: I’ll fuck you up.

Young: I’ll meet you outside in five. Eduardo Villa Sculpture.

Wayne leaves said Wijnhuis and Partridge departs the imaginary to enter the real.

Blackman: Um, who was he?

Young: That was Wayne Barker you fucking idiot.

Blackman: He has a nice hat.

Lamprecht arrives in tears and orders us to the Karl Andre Exhibition with antique shop motif. Baylon Sandri demands to why I ‘left the most powerful artists in South Africa’ out of Sue Williamson’s book.

Young: Which ones would those be?

Sundry: Why are my artists not in the book?

Young: Maybe you should reconsider your stable.

Sundry: Lets not talk about the book.

Sundry (to Blackman): I haven’t seen the book but it is unbelievable to me that Ed left out some of the most powerful artists in South Africa.

We leave.

Blackman: Um, who is he?

Young: Fuck off.

Blackman: Does he have nice stables?

A week, six days, 3 hours and forty-three minutes later Barend De Wet calls during my revision lecture on contemporary revision. I call him back.

Young: Hello

Barend De Wet: Hello

Young: Hello

De Wet: Why wasn’t I in Sue Williamson’s book?

White wine hang over, I hang up.

19.08.09 - I'm Too Sad To Tell You

2009-08-19T14:34:00.000-07:00

Been feeling too sad to write...

11.07.09 - Russian Bear

2009-07-26T00:32:00.000-07:00

For most part Saturdays are usually fun, unless you’re the ill-fated one who ends up with the stalker from the Friday night spill over. Tip: Always leave the party while your favourite song is playing. Failing in doing so may result in solo footing around on the Evol dance floor at 4am. The lights are switched on, only to reveal your fellow desperados fucked off their tits. You take your pick and go home. This is not one of those evenings.

I spend greater Saturday in bed with my Friend, drinking Katembas, watching romantic comedies and catching up on some research. A preferred weekend activity. But the sun sets and it’s that time of the day when we meet M Blackman at the Bar for a daily update. He explains that, after I left him at Evol the previous night he must have been very drunk. He managed to scare off a stalker sending her bolting for the exit.

We have a few laughs and a few pints. My Friend is also there. The Russian arrives. She appears to be in good spirits and we all have a great time. The rest of the crowd is nice and pleasant. I few guys enter said bar, hitting on my Friend and the Russian. They appear to enjoy it. The boys introduce themselves to me. The one says his name is Romeo. I giggle. He says I can call him Rom though. I say my name is Juliette but he can call me Jules. He says he hasn’t heard that one before.

The night runs pretty smoothly and we are all very happy. But by home time one of the Romeos persist on hitting on the hot Russian. She says: Dude, leave me alone. He tries again. And tries again. And so on. I sense the Russian’s irritability and politely ask the pom to leave her alone. He says something original like: ‘Fuck off mate’. I ask him to leave.

The pom explodes into a tirade of gigantic pom proportions and attacks me. M Blackman turns on his barstool and politely asks the boy to leave.

At this point it is he who grabs Blackman by the throat, squeezes and whispers: ‘I’ll kill you in one second mate. I’ll rip your eyes out mate. Do you know who I am mate?’ Blackman, miraculously cured of his thumb injuries from the previous eve grabs the guy by the throat in response. I suppose it’s a standard response. The pom grasps Blackman’s chain and rips it off his neck. I step in and remove the guy off of Blackman.

But read Blackman’s version here.

And read the rest of his stuff here.

The whole thing gets a bit messy and The Russian steps in.

I am not in the mood and call the cops. While waiting I a tell the mad person to sit down and chat with me. He tells me not to touch him. I say sorry. He says: ‘I’ll kill you in one second mate. I’ll rip your eyes out mate. Do you know who I am mate?’ I explain that I don’t but that he should reconsider touching girls when they ask him not to. He responds: ‘I’ll kill you in one second mate. I’ll rip your eyes out mate. Do you know who I am mate?’

The cops arrive and try to arrest Blackman and me. I sort of glare at them a bit. They say: ‘Aar yoo responsitive four de disturbance’. I say no. They still want us to get into their van. I explain the situation to the cops but they clarify that they need to hear both sides. I politely explain that they should ask the fucking barman. They do and reply: ‘Sorry sirrr’.

But, while negotiating the Boere, Blackman is spading this Dutch bird. But the rest of the boys think this is good timing to make their move on the Russian. She kicks all of their asses and pours a beer over the Dutch bird’s head. The bird runs away.

I grab the Russian and pull her into the gambling room as the cops are still arbing about. The whole thing clears up eventually. The pom leaves screaming: ‘I am the Lion of Sheeba’. I am not sure about the Lion King reference and let it slide.

But the sweet boy Carlos, a Milli Vanilli lookalike was sort of involved. He asks if he could apologise to The Russian, in obvious fear of a beating. I explain that it’s OK. He approaches. The Russian knees him in the sack. He goes down. She responds with a fantastic uppercut. Carlos escapes by jumping the yellow couch. The Russian gets a last kick in and projects Carlos even higher. He dashes for the exit.

Blackman turns and asks: ‘But why did she pour the drink on the Dutch bird’s head. She was perfect for me. She is leaving in three days…’

10.07.09 - Dan the Wild

2009-07-15T03:32:00.001-07:00

So it’s the usual Friday stretch, broke… bored. I choose to stay in as usual. I pop down to the Kimberley for a quick pint. M Blackman is sitting at the bar with artist Dan Halter who looks extremely depressed. I ask why and he grunts and turns away. I sort of leave and head home to make some Katembas for a quiet night in with my Friend and settle for crap Friday night entertainment.

But around 10pm I get bored and Blackman invites me to the Kimbo for our weekly emo watching session. The Emos usually arrive at exactly 10 and leave at exactly 12 for their Friday Night Assembly / Evol trawl. But tonight there are not too many of them. There is an Emo magazine launch at The Assembly – Vice Magazine South Africa.

Upon my arrival at the bar, Halter grabs me round the neck in a fairly useless attempt to reach the 4.5m high ceiling using only his feet. He lands and injures my foot and I feel a hint of pain. Gravity is a bitch when drunk. I am a bit irritated and consider a homeward mission. I grab a beer instead. The evening is fairly pleasant and there are a few nice art people there.

Blackman and I do our usual Backstreet Boys dance for the ladies but soon enough Halter transforms the centre stage into a Roxette mosh pit. I feel perfectly sober but realise that the Katemba inebriation will soon rear its silly little head. Halter busts a few moves and a few glasses in the process. He proceeds to bash my hip in against the bar counter. I fall and catch my breath.

In a foiled attempt to neutralise the situation Blackman sadly loses the use of his right thumb while c-fibres fire across a crowded bar. Halter snake spits beer at us, a fairly mindless ability I have had the pleasure of seeing only him perform. We get slightly drenched. A beautiful young couple walks into the bar, politely dressed and freshly showered for a night on the town. Halter approaches the lady, presents her with a mouth-aided squirt of beer to the face. The couple seems flabbergasted and gawk with mild surprise, stunned for response.

Blackman is spotted at the jukebox in line for a Winehouse tune. Halter hits the runway and launches himself onto Blackman demanding a piggyback, in turn spilling Blackman’s beverage onto the lady in front of him. He gets wrestled off and I get similar treatment. I pull into reverse gear and deposit Dan onto the bar counter. He sits on the bar for about five minutes, looking confused and leaps back onto the dance floor.

But his latest dance, the one sort of looking for his beanie on the floor involves smacking patrons with the metal part of his jacket zipper. Young artist Ian Grose loosely escapes a blow to the face. I step in and perform a close-dance with Dan, constricting him of movement. It’s all a bit sexy.

But we realise that we can’t keep it up for much longer and call for a cab. In an attempt to get Danny into the taxi he manages to break Blackman’s other thumb. So much for Blackman’s PlayStation days.

But everyone seems in good spirits and we head for Evol. It is extremely boring and I head home.

06.07.09 - Other Works Bother

2009-07-14T04:18:00.001-07:00

Barend De Wet and Christian Nerf - But Not

On the rare occasion, I sometimes frequent exhibitions at the AVA, but not that often. I am a fan of the AVA and in particular the artreach fund, which aims to support young deserving artists with financial aid, material bursaries and the like. But sometimes the shows are a bit on the weak side. And sometimes they are just really bad. But tonight, I am informed of a new opening by conceptualists Christian Nerf and Barend de Wet. I am very excited.

I invite my American friend Kim along, as she has not had too much time to indulge in the contemporary art scene. Braving the cold, we arrive at the space and grab a Glass of Spier wine, bless their souls. We stroll around the space, only to find three dreadful exhibitions. The first room showcases an installation by newcomer Wessel Snyman. The Birds is a piece made up of used ATM slips. The statements are folded into origami birds and suspended from the ceiling. It is an apparent commentary on the current financial climate of South Africa. I feel that it speaks more about the exorbitant bank charges we normal folk face with our debit cards. Anyone remember Bridget Baker? But the show is not that bad.

We move around the rest of the space art-kissing everyone and ignoring the dodgy paintings on display. I whisper in my friend’s ear that I think we came to the wrong show, smiling and waving politely across the semi-crowded room. We leave the space and I bump into Stellenbosch lecturer Katherine Bull. I tell her that I mistakenly thought it was Nerf / de Wet exhibition. She explains that it is and that their contribution is in the tiny multimedia room. I embarrassingly admit that I did not even go upstairs as I had a good view of the crap on the mezzanine level from downstairs.

The media room is small and crowded but we eventually catch a glimpse of the work. But luckily it does not demand a lot of attention and the room is cleared very quickly. It is another contract work in which de Wet and Nerf, signed over their signature to each other for a given period. There had been some interesting manifestations of the piece in the past but this is not one of them. There are some objects in vitrines, the physical contracts and post card works. There is also a small projection portraying de Wet and Nerf brushing each other’s plaque infested cavities. But it is all over in a pan of the space.

We go for a drink and I wonder why these conceptualists don’t have stronger concepts. And fellow trouble man Douglas Gimpberg curates the exhibition.

24.07.09 - An Occasionally Compelling Polemic

2009-07-05T03:32:00.000-07:00

For most part I haven’t been feeling like writing too much. I’ve been dealing with trouble regarding love. The sort of thing that keeps it going is that chapter in ‘Portnoy’s Complaint’ called ‘Whacking Off’. A lot has happened since. I lost my virginity to Rowan Smith’s girlfriend and Matthew Partridge lost an eyebrow. A friend accidentally, and occasionally unplugs the external to make Marmite toast.

But it is only when one stumbles into the great white cube that the old phrase ‘ Art, what is it good for?’ loops it’s dead beat subsistence from within a throbbing and well hung forehead. Artists, those good for very little creatures placed on this earth as the Almighty’s foiled attempt at a practical joke, must in turn take responsibility for the vommie against the gallery wall.

This being said, I happened to stumble into the WHATIFTHEWORLD space the other night. It was the opening of the long anticipated Sloon / Maggs show. I didn’t like it very much. It was, I mean, a show of Contemporary Art with all the concomitant complexities that the term evokes. It felt very Contemporary. It even made me feel very Contemporary as well, but only for a little while.

The content somewhat seemed to be lacking some backbone.

In the case on Sloon it is the kind of paranoid self-doubt that first grabs me, utilising the Web 2.0 form or whatever rubbish it is. It’s all very Contemporary. But is this good enough? We deserve better. Once all the clues and links are uncovered, the work appears fairly static and in dire need of a bit of a kick-start. That being said, I still don’t really get it.

There were more irritable moments in the show, of course one of these being Sloon’s performance. Sloon set up a chair, a table with chilled bubbly, a book and a contract. The latter stated that the viewer / participant was to finish the entire bottle, on their own. Not communicate or interact with anyone. And go home alone unaccompanied.

I volunteered for the job but was soon refused. Sloon explained that it was not fair as it is a gesture I perform every day. I felt a bit insulted. Writer M. Blackman stepped up to the challenge, which is also not entirely fair as it is an act that he too sometimes perform. I spotted a flaw in the contract, poured myself a glass halfway through the performance. Blackman was unable to stop me, as he was not allowed to interact. Blackman was unable to complete the task and I got a lift home, as Matthew was now free of the going home alone clause. In any case, Blackman said that he would go home alone and then come straight back to pick me up.

But read all about it in the SA Art Times here.

It is not that I was deliberately trying to make a mockery of silly performances, but I am just a bit tired of ‘contract’ performance art. It’s very Contemporary. Remember Christian Nerf and Douglas Gimberg did this a few weeks ago? The viewer signed a contract to view images of their trip to Robben Island and was not allowed to tell anyone… yawn. But when one produces this sort of ‘contract’ work it might beneficial if one is a bit more clever and a bit more funny and a lot more edgy.

I would like to speak about Maggs’ work but unfortunately all the video pieces were inaudible. But maybe this was intentional. I will have a closer look at the show when there are less people around. As I am sure I will mess up his dialogue if I don’t get to see the show as a whole.

For now I will stick with one thought: A witty show without the wit.
It wasn’t that bad. I do like Sloon’s sad and pathetic approach. He appears miserable and exhausted by the hand of his surrounds – physical and virtual – and seems constantly driven by the desire to start again, or lack thereof. And I liked the invitation image.

But better luck next time.

28.05.09 - The Travels of Sad

2009-05-29T05:57:00.001-07:00

So I finally decide to join Vleisboek and find myself immediately distracted. I watch the screen for hours and no one wants to be my friend. Not even Marco Filby. But, still I find myself without hours to write my diary. I feel sad and lonely. And I am broke and cannot buy more skyrove credits, yet I wait for friends whom I do not know. A close friend explains that he is also broke and that he had to withdraw money from his Swiss bank account. Sad.

But after my first Facebook sex experience I pluck up the courage to endure Zander Blom’s new show: ‘The Travels of Sad’. I am scared to see art people. There is no one there. Only Linda Stupart, who is following Zander around with big eyes. No doubt she will be writing a flattering review for ArtHeat.net. It’s a bit like the time when Stupart was stalking him at the Joburg Art Fair and stole his catalogues. Zander looks a bit sad and a bit pale. The show is overwhelmingly boring with pretty bright colours; drum kits, and smashed guitars, and Linda Stupart.

I am over it. Dan Halter steals a crate of Vitamin water and we head for the Kimberley Hotel where I meet Autumn Winters for a drink. I feel sad for Zander Blom and phone up Julia Rosa Clark, as I don’t have Zander’s number. I want to invite him for post-exhibition drinks, as I was not sure that he has any friends. Clark informs me that the gallery has invited her for dinner to congratulate her on the previous show. She says that Zander was tagging along.

We head for a burger and an empty night at ‘The Waiting Room’. We wait. Nothing happens. Back at the Kimberley it is nice and dark and gloomy, but we are asked to leave almost immediately. I suggest a retreat to my hotel room for a nightcap, only to find that it had been flooded by the storm. Ignoring it, we grab the beer and move it to Matthew Blackman’s house. I make a fire, burn the place to ashes, watch Monty Python and crash on the couch. I dream of Asian children with hearing disorders.

24.05.09

2009-05-26T04:22:00.000-07:00

I am invited to a braai at Melodie Abad’s new abode. It’s a very nice big house and Melo is interested in building a project space for young artists. She is an old friend that used to look after me in Paris. I arrive at the party with Matthew Blackman and find that Ronald Suresh Roberts is there. He eats all the food again and is wearing the blue jacket.

My friend says that she does not like that man. I spend the better part of the night in the lounge whipping French ass in Tekken.

23.05.09

2009-05-26T03:35:00.001-07:00

Today is the last day to view Julia Rosa Clark’s curated exhibition ‘Sing into my moth’. It’s a fairly nice show and well put together. A lot of information with a lot of space around it. And my work is the best on the show. I catch a ride with Teboho Edkins and we arrive late and only have to endure the last 30 mins of the talk.

Someone asks a question about my installation methodology and why I decided to place my equipment directly onto the floor. I explain that the gallery owners carried in the equipment, put it down and I plugged it in.

Teboho is asked a question and he says something stupid like ‘the meaning came after the work’. We both feel pretty stupid. Dan Halter sneaks in from the back and steals Vitamin water from the fridge and disappears again.

But I suppose the bravest part of the show is Pieter Hugo’s enormous print of Julia’s boobs. I keep feeling distracted, finding myself staring and realising her boyfriend and dad is glaring at me.

02.05.09

2009-05-26T02:44:00.000-07:00

Wake and enjoy a Saturday lunch with Jake Aikman. We have a summer show in mind. Aikman invites me for a steak, egg and chips from the Percy, which is always good. And we are both very happy to miss the Cape 09 opening at Lookout Hill. Yawn. More limited cultural funding ploughed into the high arts. And the only attendees are most probably the participants, like last time. Scratch scratch… eyeball… scratch... It comes as little surprise that the arts and culture money is always so limited. We support shit with a big name, in other words, a big shit. I have a wank and a vommie.

Aikman and I finish up the meeting and head for a drink at the Kimbo down the road. The whole of Cape is there. All twenty of them. I spot Ronald Suresh Roberts inside. I am not in the mood. I suggest we go to my hotel room for balcony sundowners with pretty sunset. Dan Halter storms out and informs us that we had been spotted from the inside. I hold Kiluanji Kia Henda responsible for making the windows see through. Suresh is wearing a remarkably unfortunate blue jacket… expectable in ‘93. And is hitting on the ladies. The ladies leave.

I am invited to a dinner party tonight. I bought a bottle of wine labelled The Dark Side. I am positive that it tastes like shit but I like the name. Thespian Myer Taub informs me that Suresh has invited himself. I say I am not coming.

I stay with Dan Halter and Jake Aikman and finish the rugby. Halter punches me on the shoulder. I hit back, forgetting that I am very frail and break my wrist. Zayd Minty texts and tells me to come to the dinner. I attend and Suresh is still there.

Apparently he had eaten all the food, insulted myself as well as some of the guests and was just being his usual unflattering self. The hostess reminds Suresh that I am not there and that I was the invited guest and he was not. Suresh stays. I have a nap upstairs. Suresh leaves and we all have a pleasant evening. I wake in a lot of pain and seek professional advice about my arm.

01.05.09

2009-05-20T06:01:00.000-07:00

It’s Friday. Marc Barben glares at me. I leave and end up with a number of people in my bed (watching Telly...). I get bored of sleeping in a 10cm space (which I do fit in). Kick them out at 3am. Get whiskey thrown in my face. Sleep in.

18.04.09

2009-04-20T04:25:00.000-07:00

Off to the studio. I stop at home to see if there is any electricity left, as I am poor. I bump into my ex-neighbour Claudia Ramos, who is back in Cape Town to pack up her stuff. She is moving home to Swaziland and has a job with the museum there. Although resources are fairly limited, she seems determined to push the Swazi scene and establish a sustainable conversation with the art folk round these parts. Doing a project in Swaziland seems like a very nice idea.

I invite Jake Aikman over but he does not want to talk to me. I go home, sleep and dream about developing some crazy virus that infiltrates all art organisations and individual databases. It tracks fraudulent behaviour within art sales and slices all misplaced funds into my offshore account. I possess money in fuck you quantities and am finally happy. I wake. But when I slip back into the dream I am buying property with thespian Myer Taub. We are a couple and we are in the market. We are in bed together when I wake in a cold sweat. I spend remainder of the night shaking.

16.04.09

2009-04-20T04:20:00.001-07:00

I am working in my new studio. It’s fairly cosy but I haven’t really unpacked. I am trying to catch up on some work. I am busy producing a book and exhibition. Kirsty Cockrill and Bianca Baldi are in Studio 3666 conducting an interview with Robert Sloon. I try to be quiet and take a sip of beer. They finish up and walk over to my side.

They are working on a curatorial project for the AVA, in the very near future. The venture is based on the traditional studio visit model. An interesting but exhausting one. By the time they speak to me they seem pretty tired, but I explain to them that I am in a pretty bad mood and might not be that much fun. They say that it is fine. Baldi whips out a microphone and we begin talking. She is doing a ‘Conversations’ component. I show them some new work but it’s al in the messy phase at this stage, as usual.

After a book meeting with Matthew Partridge we head downstairs for drink at the bar. Wayne Barker is there and is refused service due to reputational inebriation status. He joins me and kick-starts the annoyance process. He wants me to order for him. I smile politely. He slurs a line about how he likes me because I am so pathetic. I smile and order him a coke and a cab. A couple of hours later he gets into the cab.

A friend of mine arrives and tells me all about Jo’burg. She was there on a shoot and did not attend the art fair. But she is of strong belief that the artwork Bruce Gordon has found his new home – the Westcliffe Hotel. I am told that he had dyed his eyebrows a chocolate shade of brown and was proudly showing off a silvery moustache. I would imagine that he could also be wandering around in striped undies, hotel issue slippers and robe. But that’s my fantasy.

Dan Halter arrives and I presume he is back from his trip to the Havana Biennale and Scotland or Ireland. I ask him how it was. He says that it was nice and starts lining up his usual crap on the jukebox. He is with assistant Marc Barben who likes him very much. They bob their heads in sync while customers leave. Barben tells me that I am wearing the same shirt as the day before. I explain that I haven’t showered either.

They leave too.

15.04.09

2009-04-20T04:09:00.000-07:00

Andrew Lamprecht and I are doing an interview for some American publication. They want to know about our collective Galerie Puta. Puta has been resting for a bit but it is nice to revisit some older projects such as The International Association For Happy Artists and that time that we beat the all girl collective Doing it for Daddy in an arm wrestling match for a free lunch. They remind me that I was the only member to lose against a really mean lesbian.

We start thinking of future projects. And Cameron Platter seems to be back in the game.

03.04.09: Art Fair

2009-04-06T07:10:00.000-07:00

ART FAIR
DAY THREE

Ron wakes me up with a gin and double tonic. He explains that we need to get to the fair ASASS as he has afternoon tea with the president and a late meeting with the Goethe Institute. I pull on some soiled underwear and we head for Sandton. Everyone is there. I hook up with the fair organiser. He tells me that I can be the next Art Fair featured artist. I don’t believe him. He has something in his teeth. Christian Nerf is there. He offers that if I give him all my information he would publish it.

I think about it.

03.04.09: Art Fair

2009-04-06T06:49:00.000-07:00

ART FAIR
DAY TWO

Ron Beck and myself attend a fancy dinner at Zander Blom’s parents’ house. They say it makes him look more fancy. We nod in politeness. Ron Beck tells Zander that he is no longer the cool kid at the fair and hands him a generous portion of Nivia q-10. Zander runs to WC. His mom offers us some more roast lamb with extra gravy. I tell Beck that this was not cool.

03.04.09: Art Fair

2009-04-06T06:29:00.000-07:00

ART FAIR
DAY ONE

Ron T. Beck and I arrive Joburg. Very tired after our long flight. I spent most of my time on the plane next to Simon Njami, discussing the polemics of art, current trends and a brand new recipe for a brand new Afrika. We are all very excited. Njami slides his shades down: ‘Ed, you’re a good kid.’

But the flight ends and I catch a shuttle to my hotel. The Westcliff. The porter grabs my bag and I grab a Gin. Catch a shuttle to Sandton. The art fair bores me. So does Ron T. Beck. And he is exhausting. The only good work on show is Jan Henri Booyens’ hour long “small woody” performance. The internationals love it. Booyens is hospitalised after the event.

03.04.09

2009-04-03T01:52:00.000-07:00

This is inevitably not a post.

01.04.09

2009-04-01T06:16:00.000-07:00

What Tim Leibbrandt was actually trying to say:
edyoung.mp3