Friday, November 18, 2005
For some ridiculous reason, I put my name down in the book of the newly squatted Brixton Arts centre, to have a bit of wall space. Well, they phoned two days ago to say my turn had come.
Why? why? Why have I unleashed such inner torment upon myself?
I've searched the house for images, covered the walls with dodgy snapshots of squatted spaces, realised after all these years, that they're all crap, useless.
Well, perhaps not useless for reminding me of stuff, but as for showing them to other people...in an arts setting...
I feel ashamed for all those years I actually called myself a photographer.
I wonder if I've done myself a disservice by excluding all the protest and festival pictures. They're all much brighter and up lifting, and perhaps better, although I suspect, if they were on the wall right now, I'd be just as dissatisfied.
I've got to put something up, if only to save myself from utter dispair, and private humiliation, but what?
All I've done so far is thoroughly untidied the flat and depressed my fragile sense of well being.
Why? why? Why have I unleashed such inner torment upon myself?
I've searched the house for images, covered the walls with dodgy snapshots of squatted spaces, realised after all these years, that they're all crap, useless.
Well, perhaps not useless for reminding me of stuff, but as for showing them to other people...in an arts setting...
I feel ashamed for all those years I actually called myself a photographer.
I wonder if I've done myself a disservice by excluding all the protest and festival pictures. They're all much brighter and up lifting, and perhaps better, although I suspect, if they were on the wall right now, I'd be just as dissatisfied.
I've got to put something up, if only to save myself from utter dispair, and private humiliation, but what?
All I've done so far is thoroughly untidied the flat and depressed my fragile sense of well being.
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