Locally there is plenty to explore. When space is not at a real estate premium, redundant spaces linger gracefully, allowing all kinds of environmental and sociological decay to creep through its cracks. The dye works is one such space, identified earlier this year via the urban grapevine as a graf hangout, but also a retreat for skaters, drinkers, ruffnecks and junkies. On a sunny day the place assumes a majestic beauty that defies any condescending snobbish preconceptions about the decay of youth and society, as budleia and ivy thrive amongst the broken glass and clogged caps. We spent the morning exploring, documenting and painting a bit ourselves, before the cloud set it and the real world beckoned our dumb attentions…
Not sure who Gary is, nor why he is being hunted. Still more paradoxical is the idea that one would advertise a search with a publicity event such as a balloon release/search. Are we hunting balloons about hunting for Gary, or hunting for Gary himself?
As an absurdism, I chose not to find this balloon, despite having come across it. Stick that in yer pipe n smoke it, Gary
The act of walking as an artform has been pretty big sine the 60’s. Todays iPhone happy citizens seem to me like little artists all their own, snapping, walking, describing their daily rituals and excursions in an instagramtic cocophony of visual drivel. Thanks to ever increasing cloud storage, SD storage, USB storage and other bottomless devices, there seems to be no possible overflow or need to edit or scrutinise what it is we record, comment on and produce. Infact, the lack of quality control is actually encouraged as more raw data, information, drivel, whatever- is needed to keep the drivel-storage industry in business.
Anyway, being a drivel-happy spouter of generally cynical waffle, I too am determined to fill both the air with noise and the storage facilities with mineable data. To that end, I present a series of photographs from my own Richard Long-esque meandering, a photograph every 17 minutes along a predetermined route that I have called ‘Brian’.
Teignmouth in Devon seems at times caught in a 1970’s timewarp, yet has found renewed popularity in our current climate of staycation. Its prestigious and once glorious pier has happily resisted the impetus that this influx of custom might precipitate to update or modify the treats and attraction that await its eager customers.