Portland Sounds Me Out

Sifting through the archive yesterday, this became clear - if some kind of song can't be made after looking at these orange men then hope does not exist and I'm making everything up, and furthermore, there are songs to be written just so they can be be nailed up on telegraph poles. What are we waiting for?

{Today's Soundtrack: Biffy Clyro - Many of Horror}

Sound

On Saturday I was interviewed for an hour on the radio (which you can read about on NEWS tomorrow), and one of the things that we discussed was the influence of music in our work – a topic close to my (scuffed, sequin) heart. This morning I am, once again, having an explore through some sounds and find myself lingering with Beach House, and inexplicably fighting a big urge to get on a plane to Portland in Oregon, run fast as I can down the wide river, stand in the middle of this fountain, then catch a tram to Ken's Artisan Bakery on 338 NW 21st which is the best place I have found for writing down forests full of ideas and desires.

After that, depending on what comes out, I might get in a car and drive, anywhere - Timberline, Seattle, Hood River, maybe Cannon Beach to look for sand dollars.

Is this just late winter talking, or is this because I'm listening to a compelling track about being shocked into a new thing?

Where would you go?

{track: Real Love}

Altered Sounds

Changing the soundtrack. Massive Attack have got way darker, and I'm not sure how this is helping. It's good to acknowledge the darkness so you can move through it, but I'm getting that 'walking around Saatchi's Gallery' feeling again.

{Today's NEW Soundtrack: Beach House - Teen Dream}

And Again

You see? I wasn't making this up – one week later, different city, more hearts. (Crap phone shot but that's what you get for being caught off guard.) I saved this one too.

{Today's Soundtrack: Massive Attack - Heligoland}

Strewn

Please tell me, does this just happen to me or do other people find hearts strewn under their feet on a regular basis? I keep finding these scuffed little shapes everywhere I go. Last spring there was a patch of time where I found loads, and saved some – on my dashboard, in my purse, as a bookmark. These things happen and–for the reflective character–they do make you wonder, is someone trying to tell you something?

I was with a lovely, wise lady when I found the first little heart, which was dead shiny one side, then I turned it over and saw it was scuffed and grubby. She pointed out that hearts in that condition are even better to love because there's no pretending from the offset. Rough with smooth. What you see, you get. In a way that makes things easier, doesn't it? You're allowed to come with your story.

{Today's Soundtrack: Aqualung}

Struggle

So there I was strolling down fancy old Kings Road fighting a not-very-Chelsea-urge for MacDonalds, wondering which gallery to head for as I was in town and felt like learning something. Then, right there before me was the new Saatchi Gallery. Gulp.

Now, I really, really struggle with modern art, but don't feel I can make a meaningful comment unless I at least try to engage with it. This was the moment. I went in.

The work was horrible–so ugly and distressed. I might have completely misinterpreted it, but it didn't make me want to look at it long enough to find out - the key problem I have with work which rejects beautifully crafted aesthetics. Each comment was about being shackled, mocked and bruised. That makes me really sad. We know life is tough, we all have battles and hear about many of these in headlines every day, but something makes us keep going. It's that I want to see on the walls – the thing that keeps us moving, refusing to take 'no' for an answer.

I felt injustice that artists occupying this significant wall space are granted license to pick us up in our struggles, put us in a deeply hopeless space and leave us there. I read on these walls a massive scorn for beauty, and hope. It appears to be unfashionable to believe in anything. I wished for a playmate who could have distracted me with some inappropriate Carry On gags when nausea kicked in.

One extraordinary exhibit was in the basement – an oil slick that caused a disorientating and intriguing reflection which, in context, was quite thought provoking.

Clever, but the fumes of burnt engine oil clung to my nostrils and increased my nausea. And the warden tried to chat me up. Difficult. I had to leave.

Anyone know any good jokes?

{Today's Soundtrack: Radio 4 - just a minute}

(exception)

I will just say, all Londoners are not weird, such as the lovely people I went to visit. They make it all ok. You know who you are! x

Mind The Gap

Mind what gap?! The only gaps to be found in much of London are those between the ears of commuters. (Or is that right? Maybe it's the reverse - heads too full to give anyone else the time of day?)

Personal Space. I still maintain it's a bit weird sharing armpits with complete strangers on the tube, or sitting opposite a sleeping stranger – feels as though you've broken in to their bedroom. It's very intimate, watching someone sleep. Should this be allowed in a public place?

Ahem... moving on. Mind the doors...

{Today's Soundtrack: Cara Dillon}