I don't normally share the stuff I am forever collecting and hoarding into folders under my desk, but last week I was editing a piece about the rise of the FFFFound generation, which looked at the moral responsibility of publishing content without context. I don't want this to become confused with anything to do with authorship - I am more interested in what happens to an image when it is taken out of it's intended context and isolated.
How does this change our understanding of it? Or our understanding of what we want from it?
So it got me thinking, and I thought I would try posting some of the images I have collected from the WSA library this week. They were selected from books about something I suppose I see as a kind of three-dimensional embroidery. I felt they could all feed into what I am working on at the moment and when I am working on several things simultaneously I think it's more important than ever to have some cohesion between everything; perhaps because I am beginning to view my work as a 'collection' in itself rather than lots and lots of means to ends.
We talked briefly yesterday with the students about the mis-use of the word 'research'; this is something I am really interested in in terms of art education. If sketchbooks are produced for us then is the need for genuine, helpful research bypassed; indeed is it impossible to achieve? How can you simultaneously present something while it is still in use? Which reminds me of a quote David and I once used for a project.
“The wish to seize the present and pin it down – to mount it as it were, like a butterfly in a case –is doomed to failure. Actuality forever changes. In healthy persons the feeling of actuality is steady and continuous but, like the view from a train window, the scenery is always different.”
(In ironic fashion, I've forgotton who this belongs to. Any help?)
In turn this itself brings me to a great Sock Monkey comic which Robert Telegramme showed me last week; in which the sock and crow first fail miserably at nailing squealing insects into glass boxes, then plants, before realising the only thing they can truely be in control of is a collection of stones, none of which express any desire to change or grow, but which bend all their pins...