Musings On Art Of The Movement Kind

I like to consider myself fairly open-minded about most things 'artsy'. I like films which might be a bit freaky or 'out there', or make other people wonder what the hell was the point in it.... For instance, when I was at uni I went through a brief spell of watching the weirdest and slightly disturbing films the library had to offer. For no other reason than to say I'd seen them, I s'pose. As a result, I have seen three more Todd Solondsz movies than anyone should see (that'd be three then), Greg Araki's Mysterious Skin (in which poor Joseph Gordon 500 Days of Summer Levitt turns tricks for gross old men with skin conditions and gets nonced within an inch of his life) and of course, the film student staple, Darren Aronofsky's Requiem for A Dream.

Now, any normal ('sane') person would watch any of these films and wonder what the hell was the matter with me. Maybe I'm a bit disturbed, I dunno. But even I, with my warped sense of humour and bizarre choice in movies, could not fathom the reasoning behind what I have witnessed in the last 4 days. Yes, we've been hearing all about it for weeks, but it's finally over and done with.... the annual [performance] love-fest known as [graduation production].

I've defended my love of artists other people don't seem to get, like Tracey Emin and her manky bed. But even I couldn't see the point in half of the performances we witnessed over the last week. We'd been given a false sense of security when we arrived for our tour of the building to take the kit, as the course lecturers introduced themselves and told us how excited they were for us to be there. Over the course of the next few days, it appeared the 'artists' didn't share any of this excitement. In fact, some of them were downright arseholes.

OK, I might be being unfair. But still, the way some of them spoke to us like we were silly kids with camera getting in the way really ripped my knittin'. My crew turned up for our first performance on Thursday afternoon for the performer to tell us she had no idea we were coming. Considering there had been 2 crews there the night before, AND she had performed when last year when members of our course had also been present. With cameras. Recording. She also complained that us standing at the back, with two cameras, out of the way, would ruin the 'intimacy' of the performance. Which included stripping off, donning a gorilla mask and then rubbing herself in glitter and fairy lights. They only needed one operator per camera, and me and Harry drew the short straw. It was totally pointless anyway, the lighting was so low we could barely see a thing, and some guy's head kept getting in the way of whatever shot I could make out. Afterwards, whilst de-rigging, we were pretty much ignored, so we packed up and got the hell out of there.

The same happened with another two performances on Friday- something involving a bridle, in which we were told to "get the equipment bags out of the way", and another which included a guy talking about family, rolling on the floor and then cutting himself. This was especially traumatising for me; again they only needed two camera ops and so I was asked if I wanted to sit in on the performance. Every voice in my head told me to run for the hills... it's difficult though, when someone's right in your face, to tell them that you'd rather put broken glass in your eyeballs. I was also heavy feart that if I told them this, they'd ask me to do it. They love that shit. Mostly I sat frozen to the spot, terrified of being asked to participate in any way. Afterwards, I kind of just wanted a hug. And maybe a space blanket, and a cup of tea.

The final day was voluntary, and I figured since I'd taken a week off work I may as well get the most out of it. I immediately regretted it when I found out we had to film a 2-and-a-half-hour symposium... Honest to God, these people could talk the arse-end off a donkey. They kept throwing in needlessly long words like 'esoteric', and trying to explain the meanings of eco-feminism ya-de-ya-de-yaaawwwnnn.... By the end of it, everyone in the room was a giant talking cigarette to me and the red mist was beginning to descend. I've honestly never packed up so quickly in my entire life. I only wish Ray had been there; it'd totally have made up for my running 13 minutes over time when we were getting assessed. Maybe next time we're up for assessment, I'll starve myself of nicotine for a couple of hours beforehand... I'll be packed up so fast you won't see me for dust. Still, a couple of free glasses of sparkly wine and blackcurrant juice went down nicely after having to watch videos of hairy naked women jumping around, screeching "START YOUR OWN MOVEMENT!".... they already did this in the 1970s, luvvies. It was called the Second Wave of Feminism.

So yeah.... advantages, hmmm..... Well, I'm almost fairly confident that I can handle myself behind a camera (as long as I have someone else to change the tape). Despite them clearly not wanting us there, I did feel all professional carrying equipment about and standing there with the camera setting up in a 'real' venue. I just wish the subject matter had been a little more fitting... Sorry, but I just don't see what's art about stuffing sand up your chuff, cutting yourself and smearing audience's hands in mud (all I could think was "I DON'T WANT TO GET AIDS!!!"). Obviously I'm too stupid to understand the subtle nuances behind rubbing your naked self in glitter, or pouring wine over yourself, or wrapping wire around your head. Like everything else, art and performances are personal to their creators. I know I'd be ragin' if anyone told me something I'd done was rubbish. But honestly, there's being 'out there' and then there's being 'trying so hard to be out there that really, you've lost all point'.

At the end of the day, we were there because we were told to be, to record performances for them to edit and really, to do them a favour. We didn't go there to be treated like stupid schoolkids by a bunch of effete arseholes who are too busy fawning over each other to notice anyone else. There was nothing shocking or provocative about these performances, in my opinion... however personal, there's no need to be so up yourself about it that you feel like you can talk down to everyone else, because they don't 'get' it. I'm soooo relieved this is a chore afforded to first years only... next year I plan on staying well away. Unless someone offers to buy me a Scrummy Yummy pizza and keep me liquered up with free fizzy wine, that is. Or I could get these myself, stay in, and watch Palindromes instead.