I have a sneaky suspicion...

...that musicians are, in fact, egotistical arseholes. And this I am allowed to say because a) I was dragged up by one and b) I am dating one.

I have realised it is very difficult to shimmy along to a gig (or in this case, an open mic night) to support someone you know who is performing, without looking like a mindless groupie. On Thursday night I was literally on the verge of politely asking where it was I had to line up to dish out the various blowjobs to 'the band'. Please.

Musos will talk to each other about how endlessly cool they are, and if you are with the band but don't play an instrument, they presume you are a little band sheep/slapper. I admit, I am fairly egotistical at times- you have to be if you really want to make it in life. But I am also incredibly humble to people who deem me a good artist. Because I am grateful whenever someone bothers to come and look at my work, or sends me a message telling me to keep it up. It is lavely.

My hackles quite literally come a-rising, however, when I am made to feel like a groupie. In fact, why should anyone be seen as a groupie? I am talented in my own right thank you very much, and I am here to support those who have supported me.

The clincher was probably when we were leaving. A chap in the band I was with knew a singer girl (who shall not be named, because I'd quite like to pull out her teeth). The other two members of the band, and myself, met her for the first time at this event. Upon our departure she gave each guy a big hug and a big 'Ohmygodweshouldsototallymeetupanddo musicstuffohmygod'. Coming to me, I began the arm-out-stretch, presuming (foolishly, apparently) that I would recieve similar treatment. Oh no. I got a pat on the arm and a quite patronising 'Nice to meet you'. Charming. Now perhaps she was just being a bit of a bitch, lets be honest. But it felt more than that. It felt like a 'Oh, you were here too weren't you. Like their cheerleader'.

I managed to hold my tongue. Until now.

Victorious at the Fabrika Gallery Competition

So, as sad and tragic as it may seem to you, I was horribly giddy when I was voted as the winning artist at the Fabrika Gallery Open Exhibition. Mainly due to the fact that the last time I won some sort of vaguely arty competition I a) was 6 years old and b) won a £5 book token and c) had made a (admittedly awesome) Christmas mobile of Santa and his reindeers. So yes, winning a two week exhibition in the Nottingham branch of The Art Organisation Gallery was pretty darn cool if I do say so myself.

I admit I could probably have handled the situation with a little more finesse. I looked a little more like a babbling red faced idiot rather than a suave, icy cool arteeest. Typical. When my victory was announced I was so shocked I just giggled like an imbecile (not sexy or mysterious at all), and when some man shouted "Speech!" I replied with "Urrr.....thanks!" How articulate I am in pressured situations.

I went even further when later a gaggle of people were gathered around my winning picture, Lightning Bolt, and some dude asked me what it meant. I replied "It's a girl on a board." Nice. I am sure he went away feeling artistically fulfilled.

Because of course, she isn't just a girl on a board. She is an awesome chick having a ball, doing just what guys do as well. She's effortless, she's sexy, she's brilliant. It's what I try to capture in all my portraits of girls, because essencially, men just aren't as good as us. We are awesome.

So long live Lightning Bolt.

Ru

Art shows and tha'

So this year I have managed to crank up four exhibitions so far....(exclaimations of excitement please!!)
I am currently exhibiting in a joint art show in Fabrika Gallery in Leicester, and in July I will be exhibiting along with other artists from all over the world in the Drawgasmic Show in The Mad Art Gallery, St Louis, USA. Sounds sexy non?! View my page here http://www.drawgasmic.com/artistpage.php?a=1121and click the link below to visit the Drawgasmic site, and if you're a native US of A-er yourself, and St Louis is not too far, go and see the show! (The date is yet to be confirmed, so I expect you to sit waiting avidly for an update. You may have toilet brakes.)


Big love,

Ru

If anyone needed proof of how far out the right hand side of my brain really is, read this. I found it scribbled on paper in a huge pile of drawings/incessant ramblings/old chewing gum;

"I was bestowed upon Melton Mowbray from on high as a mere mortal toddler. Any of you lucky Meltonians over the age of 20 would have felt the sonic boom of my touch down (I'll be frank, I was an incredibly fat baby, words can't even begin to describe my excess knee flab).

I will admit my very early work left a lot to be desired, but hey, I was five. My indecipherable doodles are still pretty much indecipherable, but of a better quality I feel. Now I can address my squiggles and say "Ah, that line is very good. Yes, I'll have another Jaffa Cake for that line." Etc etc. (It's a carrot and stick system I've perfected over the years, only it's called a "Jaffa or no Jaffa" system). "

Oh dear. Actually, while walking down the stairs yesterday I found myself muttering to my various characters in each painting I passed on the way down. Promising one he was in fact my favourite and we had a special bond, but keeping my voice down so the previous one didn't hear, as I had promised her she was my new special one. Hmm. By the time I reached the bottom step, I was seriously considering the possibility I may in fact be a little bit mad.

I do worry about myself sometimes.

Melbourne

So I made it.
And it's all a bit weird.

Still suffering pretty badly, not necessarily from jetlag, but constant spinning head syndrome. I imagine going up, down, up then down again isn't natural. It's messes with your mind man.

So I've been here about three days and I'm trying to get my head around things. I'm staying with relatives which is very nice and helpful for thine wallet, yet I think it's making it harder too. I'm very far out of the centre (much further than in London) and staying with people you know means you aren't thrown in the deep end with other travellers. Whish sort of sucks.

I also hope I can land a job soon, if I can it means I'll have more freedom to do my coastal trip huzzah! For now I shall keep my eyes peeled, perhaps stay in a hostel for a few nights to socialise with some other people. Though I reckon I'll have to sleep a bit more first, and get rid of this irritating spinning head. Arrrg!

Contemplation

"What the fuck!

Our days are running thin.

Our hopes will start to fall.

I can feel the world collapse around me from within.

And the letters keep coming by to let us know when time will die.

And please, God, will you forgive us and give us one more try?

If you will then we'll go as fast as we go far.

Maybe we'll be forgotten when the world is torn apart.

I've been up all night long counting days that all went wrong.

I opened my bedroom window.

I wish this pain was gone.

There are no useful drugs to escape from feeling numb.

I remember an amazing birthday.

I remember when I was young.

If you will then we'll go as fast as we go far.

Maybe we'll be forgotten when the world is torn apart.

'Cause the sun won't be so blinding and the rains will finally come.

The ashes will slowly pile up just to prove we're finally done.

If you will then we'll go as fast as we go far.

Maybe we'll be forgotten when the world is torn apart.

'Cause the sun won't be so blinding and the rains will finally come.

The ashes will slowly pile up just to prove we're finally done.

What the fuck!"

Good ol' Boxcar, for some reason this song is exactly how I feel.

Hopefully only stuck here for four more weeks hurrah!

Punishment

So, irritatingly, I have been delayed.

For some unknown crime in a past life, the powers that be presume to punish me with none-to-serious-but-oh-so-annoying ailments. Mumps for example, christmas 2006. What a stupidly pointless illness?! And yet, may I add, horribly painful and none to attractive. I literally looked like Bubbles from Little Britain (just the face of course). My crimes mustn't have been too awful I suppose. I probably stole some cheese.

And now cruel fate, it happens again. Instead of being on my plane to Australia on Monday 2nd March, I was being wheeled into surgery in an incredibly un-flattering see though, backless gown, green stockings which are meant to stop the inset of deep-vein thrombosis (???) and with what felt like thousands of holes on my arms where the bastards were desperately trying to inject things into/draw things out of me. What did I do??! I think fate enjoys playing some sort of heavenly ping-pong match with my fragile nerves.

If at all possible by the way, avoid hospitals at all costs. They are, in a word, ming.
Firstly, you are surrounded by sick people who all insist on coughing periodically to keep you from sleeping. Secondly, in some cruel bid to lace your thoughts with nightmares of MRSA, all the nurses and doctors constantly inform you of everything that may go wrong, or illnesses you may contract. Considering my operation was on my back, I was disturbed when the doctor warned me they may accidentally chip or break off some of my teeth. I'm sorry, my teeth? Are you planning to access my back through my mouth? Is your chosen instrument actually a sledgehammer?! Oh no, of course not, but as we put the breathing tube down your throat we may accidentally on purpose....
Also, being told you may wake up with a tube coming out of your stomach (another bizzare way of avoiding D.V.T) is none to settling.

Good grief. Some things you just don't want to know.

Finally, you always seem to get stuck with the one person in the world you'd most like to kill, or at least inflict some sort of pain on in some awful way (perhaps flicking matches in to their eyes). Thus is was so. Now I am not a 'weightist' person. I am no skinny minny myself, but attempt to keep myself in some sort of shape I suppose. But sometimes, some peoples problems are clear. In this case, my Ward 7 nemisis was no more than a lazy, fat, cow. Harsh but undeniably true, and supported by several nurses who often had to restrain themselves lest they bop the stupid woman right on her head.

'The Wailer' as I affectionally called her, lived up to her name. She wailed the entire time I was there. She would cry out that she was dying, that she was in so much pain, that she couldn't breathe properly. The reason being, as conveyed to her by her doctors, was that she wouldn't get off her fat arse and walk around the ward and get moving. She even refused to go to the loo, using a bed pan instead. This poor womans ailment must have been severe I hear you cry! It was not. She had had her appendix out. Two whole days before I even encountered her in dreaded Ward 7. I know people who don't have bowels anymore who are more able than this silly woman. When you are laying face down on your bed after just being wheeled out of surgery, and The Wailer is wailing in the face of the nurses who are telling her she is keeping everyone else awake and to stop being so selfish as she's had all the painkillers they can legally give her, it's difficult to resist the urge to drag ones self from bed and strangle this woman with her own I.V.

There. Now I have ranted I feel vaguely better. But I am still stuck here, and will be for a few more weeks. Drat and blast.