Yesterday, I went to Diane Arbus ARTISTROOMS exhibit at the Nottingham Contemporary. I had been meaning to go ever since it opened, and through a mixture of procrastination, lack of finances, and general ennui, it was only yesterday that I managed to get there.
Arbus helped to create the visual shorthand we have for horror nowadays, for the other, whether that other involves freakshows, or transsexuals, or aging beauty queens, or older-than-their-years children, or anything like that. And the images she created helped to inspire other people, other scenes, other worlds. The photo of the identical twins above is one of the best-known examples, inspiring scenes from Kubrick’s The Shining.
Arbus brought the horrible and sublime into the same realm – where you saw what was all off in the world, but so painfully real.
I’ve been interested in Diane Arbus ever since I first read The Monster Show: A Cultural History of Horror by David J. Skal. A study of how America relates to horror, particularly in the moving and still image, Arbus is focused on in the introduction, on her photos of sideshow freaks and, in particular, Jack Dracula, a man with over 300 tattoos, including the word “Dracula” on his inner bottom lip.
The Nottingham Contemporary has a wonderful exhibit on, with a wide range of photos. And, when you see them, you realise how shocking they must have been when they were first shown, and how much things have changed since then. How these photos – photos of interracial marriage, transvestites, pro-war protesters, tattooed men – are often things we see on a regular basis.
One of the staff members walking through the exhibit had a full tattoo sleeve on one of his arms. I wondered if Diane would’ve wanted to take a photo of him. I should have taken one next to the Jack Dracula photo.
The exhibit runs until 3rd October. Entry is free, and if you are in Nottingham, or feel like a day trip, I highly recommend it.
On Thursday, 20th January, 2011, the Albert Hall in the centre of Nottingham will host the New Adventures in Web Design Conference – a one-day conference with some awesome people giving seminars on awesome topics.
The early-bird special (until 1st September) is £80, which you have to admit is ridiculously cheap for a web conference.
If you can spend the £80 (think of it as 17% of an iPad), you should definitely go. Nottingham’s cheaper than London, and there are a lot of awesome places to see, things to do, and people to meet.
Including me, because I’ll be there, either tapping away on my netbook or knitting furiously.
And if you do come to it, just let me know — we’ll hit the afterparty, and then hit Bad Juju, where we’ll drink our weight in zombies and mai tais.
Imagine, if you will, a crowded little basement nightclub. The band of the night has just finished, and you’re all enjoying your drinks, talking and laughing and having a wonderful time.
Another band is setting up, and the MC of the night’s festivities gets up on stage. He has a spiel, he sings a song, he makes you laugh even harder, despite how terrible the jokes are.
The band’s warmed up, and the MC calls out the first name. People go up on stage, and sing songs you know so well — Blur, Hole, the Strokes, Weezer, Joy Division, the Cure — all songs you’ve sung along with on the radio, shouted at the top of your lungs in a club, loved and remembered from university, college, school, your life.
It’s a whole range of people. Giggling tipsy girls stumble through EMF’s “Unbelievable”. Hipster boys in Vans and ironic t-shirts sing out Morrissey with all their hearts. The singer from the earlier band laughs and does a fantastic version of Kaiser Chief’s “I Predict a Riot”. A middle-aged man shouts out “Teenage Kicks” with a dirty old perverse growl.
Some are terrible. Some are brilliant. But they’re all wonderful.
And then it’s your turn.
You get up and walk to the stage. They hand you a sheet of paper and a microphone. You can’t see the audience as well as you thought you could, because there’s stage lights in your eyes, and the guitarist looks at you.
“Ready?” he says, fingers just above the strings.
You nod, and hear the keyboard start that familiar melody. You open your mouth, and start to sing.
“She came from Greece, she had a thirst for knowledge…”
But you’re not Jarvis Cocker, you’re someone else entirely. You’re not singing anymore, you’re shouting out the words, shouting at every rich kid you ever knew, straining against your slightly-too-tight 7-11 shirt you wear ironically because you know you’re barely one step away from working at the Spar. Your voice gets louder and angrier and the audience is cheering you on, singing along, urging you further and further until you’re screaming out the last bits.
The audience cheers, the MC gives you a hug, and everyone compliments you as you waveringly head to the bar. You order a rum and coke, and laugh shakingly, still high on adrenaline and admiration, at the irony.
On the first Friday of the month, the Buffalo Bar in London, right outside the Highbury and Islington tube station, hosts IndieOke, a karaoke night unlike any you’ve seen before.
There’s no pre-recorded backing track, there’s no bored Pop Idol wannabes with spray tans and alcopops, there’s no Righteous Brothers or Robbie Williams or Abba. It’s a live band, it’s a selection of indie songs, and it’s you. You up there, on stage, being a rock star.
You can sing Devo, L7, Pixies, Franz Ferdinand, Radiohead, White Stripes, hell, you could even sing Oasis if you wanted to. The band helps you along, the lyrics are on a sheet of paper, and the audience loves you, no matter what you do.
The next night is Friday, 2 July, and it’s £6 at the door. Go see the opening band, go enjoy the singing, and, if you’re up for it, sing your goddamned heart out.
Just don’t sing “Common People”. That’s my song now.
