The Worst show

“The worst show I’ve ever fucking seen”

By Kelly White

We waited outside in anticipation and excitement for the moment we had all been waiting for. 18 years old. In New York for the First time. On second year A level Art Trip. The windy November weather nipped at our face and hands. We were about to see all the pieces we had only ever read about or seen in books. The atmosphere was electric.

We queued in single file. The register had to be taken. We were 18 but still being kept under the thumb in a country that was foreign to ours.

What needed to be done was then done. We entered.

The Whitney museum of American Art.

The light was stark on entry, which was not complimented by the urban look of the slate tiles and wooden slatted walls. The atmosphere that we had created outside was quickly brought down as we merged into a group of Spanish/Japanese/ French tourists. We’d only just entered but already I was lost.

We walked through to the first room that greeted us.

Placed in the middle of a space that was no bigger than 4 x 5 metres was Andy Warhol’s famous Brillo boxes. My heart skipped a beat. Unfortunately for the boxes, other momentous pop art works encapsulated it on the surrounding walls. People took a glance at the cubes and then turned to look at the 2d work that faced it. The irony was immense. Almost as if everyone had seen Warhol’s boxes so much …that the effect was no longer gratified. One woman trying to look at a Jasper johns on the walls almost stepped straight back onto them.

There was just no respect… they weren’t even cordoned off.

I couldn’t even begin to tell you what works were on the walls... as not only would I of had to of fought 5 dense rows of tourist to get there but due to my height I could see the works themselves.. Were simply crammed together. Much like the tourists that stretched before them.

I then went with the tourist current and got dragged around the rest of the building. I remember being particularly confused/ lost on one of the stairwells. To say the lifts at the Whitney were communal would be an understand statement. I’d say at least 40 people were able to get in, equalling an awkward barrage of “excuse me” if you were to get off at a specific floor.

It was a vast contrast to the Dia: Beacon in upstate New York that we had been to the day before. That was an amazing industrial space, allowing enough space for each of its works.

No crowds, no haste, just art.

I spent the remainder of my time browsing in the shop, along with the majority of my fellow classmates. In the rest of the rooms all the works on the wall were so crammed together, it wasn’t a pleasurable experience, the only word to possibly describe it, would be claustrophobic, and almost disrespectful to the artists and their works. It was almost ironic that all these infamous/famous pop art pieces were not only playing with the mass produced but the mass populated, a barrage of colourful images that were so familiar, you didn’t/ couldn’t have the time to take them in.

I feel the space in which a work is displayed is crucial it can almost make it or break it. The space around a piece should be complimentary to the piece, the space and lighting. I feel that the curators at the Whitney are slightly misinformed on this. Either that or they are trying too hard to be “different”

The highlight of this visit was the weird alternative modern jazz set that was going on in the museums restaurant. Nothing to do with the art.

Over populated, works over crowded not enough appreciated for the masters they held.

All in all, easily the worst fucking show I’ve ever seen.

The Stalkers ramblings

Things weren’t always like this not all along.

We hadn’t always been so … apart.

We met two years ago now, at one of her gigs. She didn’t have a live backing band then. She played alone with just her guitar and backing track, even then she sounded amazing. The first time I saw her perform I knew we had to be friends.

The more gigs she played the more I went to. She’s such a lovely approachable person aware of her fans we became friends. She was impressed with my big camera. So every gig I would take photos and send them to her . She really appreciated this I could tell.

After a while we were friends I was allowed backstage before and after gigs. Sometimes I was even on guestlist.

As I got to know her better… She let me have a photo shoot with her. It was very special. Every time her eyes met mine through the lens..my heart skipped a beat.

Then we fell out. She found my collection of her things I had collected.. her lipsticks and stuff. She called me a freak. This hurt me a lot. I knew she didn’t mean it really. She was trying to fight the feelings that she had for me. Which is why I continue to watch her she hasn’t spoken to me (apart from telling me to leave her alone) for a whole year now. But I don’t care I still have faith her love for me. No one can stop the feelings that we have for each other they are too strong .

Things have got nasty.

I ring her just to hear her speak . Her voice. Her hello. I think she’s changed her number because of some nuisance caller or something. I know I ring her a lot and don’t speak but … I just need to hear her.

Love turns to hate.

I vent my anger/love via my fan artwork. I send her copies of all of them. I write to Amy but she returns my letters.. It mustn’t be her returning them … it must be her band making her do it because she loves me.

She’s threatened me saying she’ll phone the police but I know that’s not true she couldn’t do that to me. She loves me.

She’s my life. I live through her. She knows I do. And She relishes in it. I’ve been described as “ A Stalker” a completely ridiciously statement. I love her, you can’t help who you fall for right?

I like to follow her progress… That’s all I do.

A version of the monkeys paw- inpired by Danielle sTeel and Jackie Collins ah ah

A version of the monkeys paw

Inspired by the likes of Danielle Steel and Jackie Collins.

By Kelly White

She’d moved to London. It had taken her two years to get used to it. She loved it on arrival. Going back home to Hampshire, hurts her brain. The mundane rural lifestyle is nothing to the hustle and bustle that greets her on her Hackney doorstep everyday. Silence is painful. The parents miss her. She knows that. But she can’t drag herself away for the life she has now. Wild horses couldn’t.

Her life consisted of going out on the scene, getting completely fucked, coming home and recovering the next day. Using her experiences to aid her artwork, or perhaps hinder it.

One sparkly night in the depths of boreditch (Shoreditch) her and a close friend sat perched on a kerb, and smoked Italian menthol vogues. They’d been drinking for twelve hours. The close friend leant over. “Find a penny pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck, if you give the penny to a find then your luck will never end”.

He passed the penny to her.

“This is yours now; it’s your lucky charm because it was found on a special night filled with music, laughter and delight.”

“Thank you” she replied.

“It’s true it’s a lucky charm. Promise me you’ll keep it it’ll do you no harm. It’s like the Aladdin’s genie, it has wishing powers, make wishes whilst you live life and smell the flowers.”

She took the penny from his hand. She held her gaze as a silent promise to him. He should really drink less she thought to herself.

It was 5am. She slammed her front door open and fell in the threshold. She laughed out loud as she used the wall to help her regain her once vertical state. She was so glad at this point that she lived alone. 21 years old with her own flat her parents rented for her. She was aware she was a brat.

Brat. Noun. a child, esp. an annoying, spoiled, or impolite child (usually used in contempt or irritation).

But like a brat always does. She wanted more. She clambered over the pile of shoes she had left by the door and opened the huge French doors that enter onto her balcony. It was dawn. The birds were singing. She’d had a great night. But wanted more. She checked her voicemail. It was the best friend, asking what she was doing tomorrow.

She placed her hand in her pocket. And felt the circular cold shape of the “special” penny she had been given earlier. Wish time.

“I wish….. I wishhhhhhh” She slurred. “With the penny in my hand, I wish I could be in a band”.

4 months later.

She came off stage … she scanned the audience but couldn’t see that familiar face. The face that should have been supporting her the most .The Best Friend.

She had been in the band for 3 and half months now. Already an established band she had already been on an Italy and English tour. Life was good. But the person she wanted to share it with... couldn’t take it. They had been best friends for three years. Spent every moment together.

Every so often she would have a moment. A moment of gratitude for the musical opportunity.

She’d told her parents she’d wished for this to happen. “Be careful what you wish for “was their only warning.

She had been careful. She’d wished correctly. Although in reflection …She realised she had sacrificed the thing that meant the most to her. The Best Friend. The Best Friend was no longer the best friend. The Best Friend She had been pushed out and neglected by the extremity of commitment that went along with being in the band. This realisation was the worse for her. As she realised part of her world was now missing. The other half of her memories didn’t want to know her. One bitten twice as shy, The Best Friend has isolated herself away from her. This hurt more than anything.

She rang

And rang

And Rang and left messages.

The Best Friend didn’t want to know.

The harm had been done.

She was now best friendless.

The only method of dealing with this for her was to go and get mashed. Lots of alcohol later, Lots of band bonding, she headed back to her flat.

Alone again.

The band was going so well. Whilst her personal life was dying. She was so hurt that The Best Friend didn’t want to know her anymore. She wished she could just delete her. She could remove her from her life from her memory then the pain wouldn’t be so harsh. She then wouldn’t be reminded of what she had lost. It was al her fault.

She opened the doors to her balcony once more. Something glinted on the floor. The penny sparkled up at her. She stumbled sideways as she picked it up. The last bottle of red was kicking in. she lay on her bed close to passing out…

“I wish…I wish …. I wish … cos the best friend has come to an end. Our friendship we cannot mend. I wish she would disappear. So I wouldn’t have her face in my mind and the memory of her voice in my ear.”

She said it out loud and laughed throwing the penny into the oblivion of clothes that encapsulated her room.

A week later.

What’s that noise? She thought to herself. What the fuck is that noise? She opened her bleary eyes. The free alcohol last night had been a mistake. Cheap champagne and Prozac don’t go.

WHAT IS THAT NOISE?!

Her brain kicked in.

It was her phone.

“Hello???????” she croaked.

The voice on the other end spoke.

As the words entered her ears, and travelled through her nerves to her brain. The phone dropped to the floor and she vomited all over herself.

5 days later.

She couldn’t believe she was dead. The Best Friend was dead. She was found in her bathtub. In a bath of freezing water. She’d come home drunk... and passed out in the bath. The Sister of the Best Friend. Told her at the funeral that The Best Friend had been getting drunk with her the afternoon of her death. The Sister of the Best Friend couldn’t stop telling her through outbreaks of tears that The Best Friend had spent the whole day explaining how bad she felt that the friendship was over and that she was going to make it up the next day.

The water that smothered and suffocated her lungs hadn’t allowed for this.

A month later.

She returned home. After the funeral she had given in and said yes to drugs. It started off with pills and ketamin and now had moved onto the more serious. Her band mates were going down the same slippery drug induced slop as her. She had no one to reach out to. All her friends couldn’t handle her. She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her hair thinning and her face gaunt. She shuddered.

She fell over and lay face first on her bedroom floor. She woke up. And opened her eyes and looked at the wooden floor. There before her, was The Penny. The penny. It was her only way she had left to purity it was her only way.

I picked it up. Her fingers tingling and feeling numb. I wish there was something to make me happy. I need more.

“I wish there was something that could make me happy. I wish to be happy”

She waited. No sense of euphoria came to her. She clambered into her bed. The searched her pockets for her phone. Uh Oh! She had lost yet another phone. In her left hand pocket she found something else. A tiny little rectangle...a lottery ticket... two wraps. Her eyes lit with excitement. She’d wondered where it had gone. She knew she had bought two grams last week but in her fucked state never been able to find where she put them. So much so that she couldn’t even remember what it was she’d bought grams of. She wanted to knock out hard core for a few days... She made her way to the table. Got out her platinum credit card and started to set up the lines. As she did with her precision. Three drops of blood fell from her nose. Splashing in between the line she had just set up on her mirrored table top. She snorted all of the lines. Whilst she did. She thought... nothing... her mind was numb. Perhaps this is happiness.

Her head it the table, as she passed out.

She never woke up ever again.

Critique

“Cannibalism” Victoria Van Dyke

This photo is not Van Dyke herself but a model that is known as “Kat”. In this photo the composition of her overlaps the edges what with the combination of the blurred effect creates a concept of urgency in the image. Behind her glasses, her eyes look directly at the camera… with an obvious rage. Perhaps this mage is made to be seen by the men. The men that have put girls through criminal experiences, experiences that made them a victim. A victim in their own right, sparking nothing but self hatred towards themselves and there own body. Giving them the idea fro ma young age that they are victim to their own form and sexuality. Cannibalism is used to express angst about her own situation.

This series of photos in entitled Cannibalism, for its obvious visual references. Her work spans through a vast reference of titles and series. E.g. Blowjob, foursome, fat , breasts, mirror and nipples.

I feel this piece conveys a shocking innocence. Not only does it touch upon the self destruction One could argue it touches upon a sexual reference “ blow job” springs to mind as her mouth envelopes her fist. Her fear in the models eyes creates a shocking reaction. You fear for her. Without her glasses, she seems less studious or decisive than before. It conveys a feeling of sacrifice.