"I should do an update. I should. I know it's totally droll and of little interest despite the topical nature of the post, but the fact is that it's relevant and. I should do an update."

I plug all my shit into to twitter all day long. I love it, but I love it guiltily. "it's not SO bad, but it's fun"

Like cocaine. Or cupcakes. Select as applicable.

Anyway, the point (and I know I've mentioned it before) is that twitter sucks up all my bullshit. The little runaway thought that would sometimes lead to a rambling blog post is now exorcised in 140 characters or less.

What that means is I'll suddenly realise that I have "an update" but most of the time I take a step back to regard it as too boring to write about, let alone read.

However, since *something is better than nothing: I moved studio. Or office. Whatever. that's the update. I moved. Last November. I moved from "my room" in the house (turquoise wooden floors) to Ideal Brown's office in town (just regular wooden floors).

What used to be the "crap room" is now my office. I have to put on a bra and leave the house. I Say "hello" and "goodbye" to humans with faces.

I used to get frustrated when people thought that my job was something I was just doing until I went full time with art. I never wanted to do it full time. "I'd go fucking insane" I used to say. I wanted to protect what I had. And I never wanted to turn into such an isolated mental stew pot that I stopped enjoying painting. I didn't want the two to go hand in hand as they inevitably would.

It was fine at first and then it wasn't.

I felt listless and anxious all the time and there was no packing up and going home for the night. It was becoming a problem.

So I moved in and I thought "I should do an update" but I had to get straight on with work and then time passed and I was still working and it looked like a bomb scare and while I know some people think that the level of mess an artist creates is directly proportional to how good they are, I like to keep my mess and its details (size, shape, contents) to myself.

So if you would, picture a bright room with minimalist shelving made from salvaged wood; several lush pot plants, a glowing MacBook without any apparent power supply and some typical alternative collectibles; tin toys, anatomical models, taxidermy, vintage crap - whatever- all purposefully cluttered. I mean that's not my studio, but if you could picture it that way, go right ahead. I've seen enough photos of studios to know that mine isn't remarkable. There are no windows, but there is a heater and wooden floors. And some plants which visit the main room's window on a rota.

So there. There's a post containing nothing. The thing about shit blog posts is this: most blog posts are shit. Most of them happen, just to happen. They're like the conversations you have at a wedding around a table with people you don't know. They happen because someone thinks they must and they're mostly shit. Mostly.

Sometimes you get a good one, but really, anything above this selection of social media waste is a win:


Thank you for visiting the abyss. Be sure to check in, photo-document, complain about it on twitter, approve of it on twitter or Like it on facebook. We're all dying.

*that's a complete and utter lie. I wish most people would just shut the fuck up. Myself included

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