artversussport

2008-09-29T12:23:00.004+01:00

Enjaulado (jailed)

Come to me

Don´t cry on my shoulder

For some reason I am not too obessessed with arranging my life according to the games of Barcelona, like I did more than a year ago. I feel that somehow they have to prove that it is worthwhile adjusting my schedule. I used to be obsessed, I used to arrange my dinner parties according to when Barcelona plays. But not know. Let´s hope for the good of ones health that it changes. To what it was like a couple of years ago.

Ps. The last watercolour (don´t cry on my shoulder) should have the MY pronounced loud. I was not that happy about those two at the time and I think you can see it in the effort and love I did not put into the picture.

Perhaps my favourite place on earth

2008-09-22T15:59:00.006+01:00

The village of Flatey. I have recently stayed there, but my memories remain with the farmer. My favourite farmer. The farmer who used to live by herself, for many many years. One house, who are not her friends and a boat that arrives once a week.

It was always my dream as a kid to drive one of those. It was my dream to live between sheeps and cows. Be one of them. But... I became a city kid.

Never ever touch these eggs, the owners are one incredibly aggressive. I was attacked by one. No not close to the egg. the sound of Krían is although very very impressive. The amount of sound they make. Not among my favourite birds.

This is so so Bergmanesque - it reminds me of a scene of the Seventh Seal.
I was baptised there by a very drunken priest, who lived on the mainland.

Exhibition Barcelona - 18 Sep - 14 Nov

2008-09-18T08:57:00.008+01:00

Poster Exhibition (made by Santiago)

Poetry

In total ecstasy (sexual)

Annoyed figure

In Culturas, La Vanguardia

2008-09-10T07:53:00.006+01:00

10 Sep this was published in La Vanguardia. On friday I think I have something in the UEFA CHAMPIONS magazine.

FEVER PITCH - an article from frieze

2008-09-07T00:21:00.002+01:00

The art of football

Juergen Teller filmed himself watching the 2002 World Cup final (Germany lost 2–0 to Brazil). Eyes on the television set, he twists and shouts, stewing with bullish rage. He later said that this film was ‘the most disturbing thing’ he’d ever seen.1

‘Zidane’s melancholy is my melancholy,’ explains the narrator of a story by Jean-Philippe Toussaint. Watching the infamous 2006 World Cup final during which Zidane was sent off for headbutting Italian defender Marco Materazzi, he becomes absorbed by the player’s weariness, by ‘the intoxication of fatigue and nervous tension. I know it,’ he confesses, ‘I have nourished it and I feel it.’2

Harun Farocki’s 12-channel video projection Deep Play (2007) unpacks the visual archive of the Fédération Internationale de Football Association (FIFA) for the same match. Farocki’s spectators have to tear themselves away from his installation – even knowing the outcome, gallery-goers drop their masks of cool sophistication in their compulsion to watch this two-hour drama unfold again and again, from impossible angles and in overwhelming statistical detail.

Douglas Gordon and Philippe Parreno’s Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait (2006) pushes that geometry to a new level by training 17 cameras on Zidane for the duration of a Real Madrid match. Isolated from the game by the camera’s focus, we wait with Zidane for the pass, for the attack. The soundtrack layers Scottish band Mogwai and crowd noise, the slap of foot against ball and the scratch of Zidane’s boot against the pitch. Over 90 minutes he smiles and laughs once in an exchange with a teammate. The singularity of this moment tells us he is at work. The film reveals nothing so well as Zidane’s expert control over his face.

Unlike that of 20-year-old football stars, lithe from running around and fond of diamond studs and long, flowing hair (Dimitar Berbatov or Lionel Messi), Zidane’s is a hard, menacing beauty. Gordon and Parreno’s film would have had an entirely different tone had they chosen an exuberant or openly flirtatious subject. Ronaldinho smiles every minute he is on the field, no matter how badly things are going. David Beckham’s audience is packed with fewer Marxist art critics (who prefer their subjects miserable) and with more women and gay men – as was the case for Sam Taylor-Wood’s video David (2004), a film of the footballer sleeping which functions as a homage to Andy Warhol’s Sleep (1963).

Gordon and Parreno cite Andy Warhol’s films as an inspiration, but it is hard to see the connection: Zidane … is too beautiful, too controlled, too glossy. You can buy the DVD in supermarkets in France – a sign of how deeply the film co-operates with and expands Zidane’s celebrity. It has much more in common with Warhol’s portraits.

The real Warholian moment of football cinema is Hellmuth Costard’s film Fußball wie noch nie (Football as Never Before, 1971). A point of reference for Zidane… and due for a European DVD re-release this summer, the film takes the famously charming George Best as its subject and edits multiple camera views to produce a real-time portrait of the player singled out during the course of an entire match. Lest we miss the homoerotic subtext of football art (and football culture), the half-time interval features a cruisey bit of filmmaking as we follow Best through a narrow hallway and into what looks like the boot room. Best turns and faces the camera for nearly three minutes. He holds our gaze as long as he can, pursing his lips, looking away and then back in a seemingly overt homage to the Warholian screen test. Best strikes a deal here with the camera, inviting us to look at him when he takes the field again; shots of his socks, his shoulders and his crotch seem to go on for ever.

In her ongoing watercolour diary Yrsa Roca Fannberg sneaks onto Barcelona’s pitch. These small, moody paintings are close cousins to Costard’s film and an important counterpoint to work such as Deep Play and Zidane… Costard and Fannberg give the lie to the game’s open secret. Football is a deeply sentimental space of male intimacy. Players explode in ecstasy, but they also love each other in more ordinary ways. They collapse in frustration, they cry. They are lost and wounded. They wrap their arms around each other and talk.

Eduardo Galeano (the Roland Barthes of football writing) describes ‘the history of soccer’ as ‘a sad voyage from beauty to duty’. That ‘duty’ is paid to the sports ‘telecracy’, in which ‘functionaries specialize in avoiding defeat’.3 Artists respond to this aspect of the game with melancholy and nostalgia – and often both. In ‘big’ art such as Farocki’s installation and Gordon and Parreno’s film, both of which were made in collaboration with that telecracy, the game itself is a receding horizon of pure experience in which the player dissolves with a pivot and a swing of the foot. His body – how it feels to be him – is beyond the reach of any representation. Technology and telecracy unite in the erasure of the player’s body, and his pleasure, from the picture. Roca Fannberg counters that theft by choosing as her medium a very simple dissolve of water on paper to capture how our moods, our thoughts, our legs get entangled with theirs. If the player dissolves, it is with us, and in tears.

The game is excised from the less romantic experimental film Substitute (2006) but not out of any formal trick. Fred Poulet gave his friend Vikash Dhorasoo a Super-8 camera so that the latter might keep a cinematic diary of his summer performances for the French national team during their 2006 World Cup run. The project was a disaster. Dhorasoo’s teammates refused to be filmed. Some, such as Zidane and Thierry Henry, are global brands; their images are trademarked. In spite of having featured in qualifying matches, Dhorasoo scarcely left the bench – many think the film project was to blame. Filming training is off limits, and the telecracy owns the game. The camera isolated Dhorasoo; we hardly ever leave his hotel room. His footage is grainy, often out of focus, while the narrative is sparse and grim. We track Dhorasoo’s struggle to keep his alienation and bitterness in check. Poulet and Dhorasoo replace the macho heroics of wounded masculinity with a far more compelling truth of exile, desire and resentment. The film ends not with a defiant geste but with Dhorasoo climbing the stairs to his apartment and sitting down at a table to open a large stack of mail.

1 Cited by Liz Hoggard in ‘This is for You, Dad’, The Observer, Sunday 14 September 2003
2 Jean-Philippe Toussaint, ‘Zidane’s Melancholy’, in New Formations: A Journal of Culture/Theory/Politics, 62, 2007, pp. 12–14
3 Eduardo Galeano, Soccer in Sun and Shadow, Verso, London, 1998

Jennifer Doyle

Jennifer Doyle is the author of Sex Objects: Art and the Dialectics of Desire (2006) and blogs about football at From a Left Wing.

Lost but alive

2008-08-25T12:10:00.003+01:00

In a whip I deleted the folder, and emptied the trash. Went swimming, came back and I just couldn´t believe what had happened. Unable to speak, unable to cry. I just stared at my computer. Went on google, the best friend in these circumstances and found some kind of programme that recovered files. Going through these files is a different matter. Once the computer starts to write over the files, they gain an immense beauty, as you can see:

I am alright now, it was a good clearout at least and I can start a new fresh start. Free of the burden of a past. But it is or was annoying, to say the least.

Crisp Summer Night

2008-08-02T22:54:00.003+01:00

Pasillo
Generally I am not a masochist, but I decided to do this painting as some kind of therapy. I really do hope I never ever have to experience this again and the player should use it as their screensaver in order to remind themselves again and again this must never ever happen again.

Structuring Unreality
Two of my favourite players. Not playing for the same team. Don´t ask me about the title, I was short of imagination.

Some watercolour paintings

2008-07-29T11:23:00.003+01:00

Rijkaard and his lonely shadow

In different directions

The red training shirt of Barça is good news, a bright, beautiful colour to paint, although I am not sure of the brownish shorts. Time will tell.
I will miss painting Rijkaard as it is really good fun, painting his hair and his firm packet. Guardiola, might have a smaller packet although he does seem to wear tight trousers, his hair - boring, at least to paint.
The only reason I would want to sign Adebayor or Drogba are painterly reasons, so paintoresque, those expressions, these haircuts, always with their shirt off.

Summer in Flatey

2008-07-23T23:12:00.006+01:00

Flatey, the magic island of Breiðarfjörður, where I spent most of my summers, with my friend Lísa.

I lived for most of the time in the cow house, eating grass, and sleeping with the cows, pure magic. I was not a human, but a cow, at least in my dreams. Unfortunately there are no cows anymore.

This time I went on a sea trip in the rain, the first sea trip I remember, at least on a small rubber boat. Looking for treasures close to the rocks, half way into the Atlantic ocean, the cold ocean. We almost went under in the haunt for beautiful stones and Ígulker. I got a couple for my relic collection against evil spirits.
The pleasure is impossible to describe, with the wind beating you in the face, forcefully and the cold water dribbling down. I was not in this world once we reached land, still rocking, incapable to speak, with electric waves through my body. Wet all the way through, the fresh air, with an unbelievable amount of oxygen. Oh Oh Oh it felt good.

On the last day I went to feed the bastard sheeps, the poor sheeps left behind by their mother, they grabbed the bottle and sucked, like hell. It was fun, it filled me, reminded me of old times, like when I went three years, old escaping my mother in the middle of the night, with only boots and a coat over my pyjamas, in order to be with the cows. They found me thanks to the small foot print in the snow on the other side of the island.
I have decided on the lamb I want for Christmas.

Kríur, the aggressive bird that hoards over the island. There are two psychotic ones, and one attacked me, it hurt. A lot. Blood dribbling down my face. I have hardly experienced an aggression before. Until I suddenly remembered. The trauma. What caused the trauma was probably when I stole the eggs, as a three year old, in order to eat them, fearless, at the time, but it paralysed the adults. Later a few years later, I went to bring back the cows. The cows came back, but not me, shaking under an elve stone, hiding from the birds. Unable to move. This time I brought with me a stick, it helped, but it did not bring out my fear.

By by the back door, through the middle door.

2008-06-10T08:54:00.004+01:00

I would like to do or read some statistics on which doors, super stars (Kaká, Henry, Schevchenko, Zidane, Ronaldo, C.Ronaldo, Figo, Eto'o, Ronaldinho) leave. Not from a small/middle club, but how they leave the big clubs.
It is said that stars never leave by the big door, which is not that strange, as clubs won't sell them while they are of use (if there is not someone with a huge cheque book) and if they stay they become a burden of the bench. A good manager should always sell them the year they start to entering their decline, however the fans hardly understand when that moment is, which leaves them discontent.
Ronaldinho and Deco should have been sold last year and this (however much hurts) is the year Eto'o should be sold. Ronaldinho, should have been sold two years ago. It was the idea of the club that a player like him deserves to leave by the front door it became an unsustainable situation on everyone's behalf. The player is mainly to blame, but each part has a percentage in the whole soap opera it has become.

How did Zidane leave, by the middle door. Figo, Ronaldo (back door), time though puts everything in perspective.

Images:
Playing not playing
In motion (tribute to New Order and Eto'o)

Welcome

2008-05-27T00:53:00.004+01:00

Keita, another addition to the midfield. I hope it will give a different dimension to a midfield that sometimes has lacked physical power and height. Any big team need variations and the sense of being able to surprise and change the course of the game.
Barcelona have so many times this year been overrun, it is a free highway straight to the defence. Hopefully Keita will stop that.
Touré, Keita and Iniesta is what I want to see.
Image:
In Trust

I don't see it all as fair play!

2008-05-09T13:40:00.003+01:00

It hurts to read the news papers today. I am not fully sure of the intentions behind Laporta and his board. he claims it was a united decisions, but it all seems like some kind of dirty play. What is Txiki doing? How come he is intact in this situation, does he only work two months of the year? How come he has not been sacked. I do think his signings were excellent last year, at least three out of the four and the fourth was with good intentions, but...
I think every one is guilty and I suspect this summer will be very lively and not in a positive sense.

Brainstorming during the humiliation

2008-05-07T22:42:00.005+01:00

Rijkaard's face after the 4-0 is indescribable, to be honest I just want this to end, but my biggest worry it is not the end, that their is a dark era looming behind the corner. Not because the players are bad, but I think there is a civil war approaching, no one will have any patience. Results will be demanded immediately and that is a difficult working method, impossible to work with such a pressure. I don't think that Mourinho is the solution, as his arrogance and ego will attract all the attention, but I am not so sure that is the best working method for the club.
Anyway it looks like it will be Guardiola, well, what can one say. He knows the club, seems to have some kind of personality, but else? It all remain to be seen.

In theory Barça don't have bad players, but something is happening, there is a lack of testerone and lack of will power. One would have thought that after an awful year like last year, the players would want to prove a point, but some of them just want to live well. Perhaps human.

I don't like Madrid, but I have to agree that I do like certain things:
- that Raúl is suddenly valid again. They have dragged the ghost out of him, a good way to use and make an icon for its club leave by the grand door.
- the way they fight to the end of each game, getting the result needed in the last minute.
- That most of their players are not huge stars, but "working" class players (obviously on good wages)

It hurts to see Rijkaard leave this way. What most hurts is that all the human values I value are thrown out by the wind, that perhaps it is impossible to conduct modern rich spoiled players with intelligence and respect. That perhaps all that works is the harsh bad aggressive father who prohibits rather than allows each person's intelligence to control their situation. That it is impossible to act to treat these super ego's with a soft left hand, they will just walk over you. It is not the way I wished for Frank Rijkaard to leave, in severe humiliation. In time I think we will miss him.

Images:
Individual Boxes
Hide My Soul

Relief

2008-05-04T18:21:00.004+01:00

It was never really a fully realistic task, or perhaps it was. To reach Moscow. It would have been a wonderful way to end something, or perhaps that end would have been prolonged. With the second year and no titles, the drama is present, very present. A third year without titles is unconceivable and I don't believe the club will take any risks for next year. Don't forget elections are looming under the horizont and if it is bad enough to have had two years without a single titles (not even the Catalan Cup, I think) you can imagine what three years would be.
Next year, is now, even if we have to fight for the second place.
Not fight, but obtain it.
The so called "worst Madrid ever" have won the same amount of league titles as the so called "best Barça ever".

Nothing more needs to be said.

The Manchester game was a pain, not a pain in the arse, but a painful painful week. The hope was there once we reached an allrightish result at Camp Nou. Perhaps perhaps, we could reach Moscow (a city I always wanted to visit and still do want to visit). A blurry, foggy dream. Was present, was there. Where there is life, there is hope. Yes.
With the 180 minutes without being able to score a single goal, with the so called "best three strikers in the world), it ended. I have to say that I did not feel sad, angry, just relieved that this was over. Clinging on to an Utopia, looking at the sky and hoping there was some help to be had, looking at the stones asking the elves to be there, to send their protection army.
Illusions can be helpful, but never useful.

Praying !!!

2008-04-29T10:38:00.002+01:00

Hiding Between Fireworks

Not Even Half Naked Do I Find You Sexy!

Remembering the Past in order to Move into the Future

2008-04-24T16:36:00.006+01:00

Memories of that Champions League!
Yes that one, Paris 2006.

The start of the of the CL was met with expectations, after winning the Spanish league with style, what the culés wanted was the fat one.
Once the draw was made it was clear that in a group of Werder Bremen, Panantinaikos, Udinese, Barça would not have difficulties in qualifying, at least in normal circumstances. It was a mere formality almost. It gave Barcelona the opportunity to mix some great football with marvelous football. Very attack minded, with great results and allowing the fans to enjoy rather than suffered.

Once the first round was finished and Chelsea had come second, I just knew we would meet them, it was purely an intuition, but it was obvious that if Barça wanted to progress, they would have to finish an unfinished business.

The game against Chelsea, had two months of build up. It was almost insane, the league was a freeway, where the results just kept coming in, which was beneficial in order to be able to rest players against the first important game of the year. The one at Stamford Bridge. There was a sense of confidence, but no arrogance, but I was almost certain that Barcelona would go through. They had been naive in the previous year, where they granted Chelsea to dictate the return match. Another benefit was that the second game was at Camp Nou, meaning that if a good result could be obtained in England, qualification would be almost like a formality. The game was tainted the question of the state of the grass at Stamford Bridge, that the club had allowed it to deteriorate in order to slow down Barcelona's passing game. There was the classic sending off, with Asier Del Horno bumping down Messi, the youngster who everyone would be talking about after the game. Del Horno was lucky not to be sent off 10 minutes earlier, with a clumsy challenge, with studmarks showing for weeks afterwards. Barcelona totally dominated the game and even if Chelsea went up first, they were lucky to loose only 1-2. Mourinho was furious at Messi's so called play acting, stirring the atmosphere up even more. He was spat at upon arrival at the airport, but later Rijkaard pleaded the fans to meet him with respect at the stadium. When Ronaldinho scored a wonderful goal in the second half, the fans burst out singing "Mourinho, go to the theatre, go to the theatre, Mourinho go to the theatre". Class. I feel very proud that under Rijkaard's strict orders, the players should concede no free kicks on the edge of the penaties nor any corners. Mission fulfilled

The next rivals came briefly after and would be Benfica. For this game, I was much more nervous. As Benfica are not one of the major clubs in Europe anymore, there was a risk of relaxations. In the first game, Barcelona attacked and attacked and I think there were 20 shots on goal, but the goalkeeper simply had the game of his life. Every time Benfica counterattacked, I was truly nervous. Barcelona were also lucky to escape a penalty in the area. An unlucky result, but lucky at the same time. The return game came straight after el clásico with Madrid (rarely had that game meant as little). The players seemed confident, but there was also a morbo as Koeman was Benfica's coach (Koeman's scored Barcelona's goal in their only CL final victory), it would just be typical if he would be the man kicking Barcelona out of the tournament. Apparently each time the two clubs had met in the European cup the winner had later gone and won the tournament. In the first five minutes of the return leg, Ronaldinho missed a penalty and we were all wondering if the goalkeeper would have his miracle moment again. Soon thereafter Ronaldinho scored the first goal of the game. The second half took for ever to arrive and Benfica were approaching the opposite area with decision, but fortunately no precision. Simao seem to have the game in his hands, but Valdés made a great safe. That goal would probably have meant that Benfica would go through. Five minutes before the end, Eto'o scored a wonderful goal and I have rarely experienced such a relief.

Next were Milan. Remembrance of the 1994 final, were Milan thumped Barcelona in Athens, 4-0 to win the final, was brought up. A good sign. As there was some kind of revenge in the air. Deco was suspended for the second game, which was almost a blessing as he had a serious dip in the second half of the season. Larsson was also out, so was Messi, who had not returned from the injury in the return leg of the Chelsea game. I was in Spain for the semifinal, going to a restaurant with my dad and his friend, eating tapas and drinking wine. A great way to watch football. It was a very tactical game, almost Italian. Milan were reaching the area, but it just did not seem to be their night. Iniesta got his BA in the games against Benfica, where he controlled it the moment he came on, but against Milan he had another immense game, were he got his Master. He simply over shadowed, Pirlo, Seedorf and Gattuso. It was so lovely to see. Ronaldinho had one moment of magic, were he released Giuly, who scored the only goal of the game. A Frenchman handing us the ticket to Paris? Now there was only a result to be held out at Camp Nou. Milan were again attacking and came close a few times, as did Barcelona. It was probably a very boring game for neutrals. Barcelona could count themselves lucky that a Schevchenko goal was disallowed, for something noone really seems to be able to grasp. Lucky. Then again Champions always have luck on their side. Five minutes before the end, the stadium suddenly started to believe what everyone had hoped for: a ticket to Paris. It was such a feeling to experience to contained eruption of 98 000. It was like a murmurring staccato, which suddenly became loader and loader. Si Si Si Nos Vamos A Paris (yes, yes, yes we are going to Paris). The whistle did not come soon enough, but then it did and tears were streaming down on everyone. The walk down from the stadium was slower then ever, with everyone singing. I would turn around and see the joy in the face of 70 year old men in suits, or youngsters all singing together. The smile of the lady next to me, is hard to forget. The noise of the cars, everyone, everyone was singing and dancing. Something very very rare in the reserved nation of Catalunya.

Paris 17 May 2006
A day that could not come soon enough. For all the time since the final whistle of the CL semifinal, this was the day. I think I thought about it constantly. For a little moment lets fight the mess with the tickets to the final (something that almost overshadow the fact that Barcelona were in their first European final since Athens), but lets remember the day for what it was. I was so nervous the whole day, that I could just not decide were I was going to watch it, it was almost going down to the very last instinct. I tried to remember all the superstitious little things that I did before the big games. However I decided to break all of them and just go with my inner feeling. In the end I can hardly remember anything of the game. Although I suspect if the Giuly's goal would not have been disallowed I believe that Barcelona would have been 3-0 up before half time. However that was not the case and the referee denied us of a true final by sending off Lehmann. This meant that Arsenal would close themselves up at the back even more efficiently and rely on Henry even more. Thierry Henry had a great chance at the start of the game, which Valdés saved, a great safe, he would later repeat that in the 70th minute. Before the first half whistle Arsenal were up by one goal. Barcelona had most off the possion, but were incapable of penetrating the Arsenal defence. Arsenal's counter attacks were poisenous, but not lethal. In the 70th minute, Henry had a one on one with Valdés, but his shot was lame. This was the moment things could turn. It was obviously not his night. Rijkaard made some fantastic substitutions, brave and precise. Iniesta came on for Emilson, Larsson and then Belleti. Iniesta would be the man dictating the game, where Arsenal were exhausted after having to play most of the game with 10 men. I believe Arsene Wenger should have been equally as brave, as a Barcelona goal would have been a big psychological blow. Instead of bring on Reyes which could have helped Henry to run at Barcelona's defenders, he brought on Flemini, a defender. Henry had been able to run past Márquez and Puyol almost at will, but not putting the ball in the net, perhaps he could have done with some help. However it was another substitutions who made a huge impact. It was going to be his last game for Barcelona, before retiring to Swedish football. Henrik Larsson, alongside was the difference. He sliced a pass through to Eto'o who scored the equaliser. Eto'o received the ball and in a lightning quick second changed feet to score with the other one and getting Almunia off balance. A few minutes later the most unlikely hero of them all was to score his first goal ever for the club. Juliano Belleti. Belleti is a player, who most fans seemed to agree, was their worst player. Someone who had no tactical ability and very often he would attack and attack, leaving a huge field behind him, where opponents would punish his team. Tonight was different though, he was supposed to attack. Larsson penetrated the ball into Belleti's path with great precision and Bam. Goal. The commentatory on the radio was fantastic. It was told with almost a coolness, when Belleti received the ball. No one believed he would score, so when he did it got everyone by surprise. Suddenly there was a new hero. Juliano Belleti. He stumbled a few metres after scoring the goal, until falling down, with Eto'o next to him crying. It was raining tropically, but that was of little matter. The players created a small Kilimanjaro replica, lying on top of each other, gasping the moment. The equaliser never seemed to arrive, I was starting to belief and tell myself: "Don't worry, it is only football". When the first one came, I knew the title would be ours. Only a couple of minutes were left and ...

Calvinistic Children

2008-03-25T10:33:00.003Z

I can't confess so I will leave this moment of doubt in the hands of God who will inform me later on if I can celebrate or not...
I leave you these pictures in the meantime, that I took.
Let's hope the Álfar will help us. My grandmother has sent her protection army (Álfarnir)

I am still Waiting for you Henry!!!

2008-03-09T23:56:00.002Z

I have no energy to write or think about what happened in the game tonight. I have to say it was kind of predictable. Every single time Barcelona and their stupid entorno and their stupid fans (including me) laugh about Madrid, our Karma comes to haunt us. It comes to hunt us in bright sunlight and causes a slow, but deep and painful wound with a blunt rusty knife.

I will keep on painting, but I will focus my energy on more important things...

Slide Show at the Barbican

2008-03-08T14:52:00.003Z

FREE EVENING AT THE BARBICAN
Main hall (level -1)
From 9.30 until midnight (with Bar)

SLIDE SHOW

51 artists responding by email to the Barbican strapline
DO SOMETHING DIFFERENT

a proposal by International Exhibitionist

Katarzyna Kozyra, Dan Graham, Thomas Rentmeister, Matthieu Laurette, Nooshin Farid, Marie-Ange Guilleminot, Grace Ndiritu, Orlan, Aneta Mona Chisa & Lucia Tkácová, Claire Fontaine, Flávia Müller Medeiros, Shezad Dawood, Antoine Catalla, Martin Zet, Laurent Moriceau, Caroline McCarthy, Bruno Peinado, Antony Gross, François Curlet, Andro Semeiko, Toine Klaassen, Yu-Chen Wang, Gordon Cheung, Charbel Ackermann, Shoko Maeda, Mathijs Lieshout, Mairéad McClean, Valérie Vivancos, Julien Blaine, Valentin Torrens, Simon Faithfull, Anne Cleary & Denis Connolly, Bernadette Genée & Alain Le Borgne, Ross Birrell, Jan Kjetil Borheim, Mamuka Japardeize, Enna Chaton, Yrsa Roca Fannberg, Patricia & Marie France Martin, Adina Bar-On, Vincent Julliard, Roddy Hunter, Michael Asbury, Van McElwee, Doug Fishbone, Adam Nankervis, Giacomo Picca, Pierre Bastien

Invitation by Barbican Education

Specific slide shows will be presented in between performances.

Programme :

9.30 Performance by Ken Campbell & the School of the Night + music by 5 performer

Slide show

10.05 Performance by Julian Fox

Slide Show and short films : Chelpa Ferro - Martin Zet - Pierre Bastien

10.55 Musical performance by Paul Granjon

Slide Show

11.45 Musical performance by Scanner

Midnight Performance by Lone Twin ends in Silk street.

Ps.
It should be availabe at this website sometimes soon:
http://international-exhibitionist.org/

Wooohoo I can finally put on my CV that I have been in the same show as Dan Graham :)

Look After This KID!!!

2008-03-04T22:07:00.003Z

I made this watercolour a while ago, when Leo was receiving all these kicks and bites from opposite players. It was a cry out for protection.

The only thought I have in my mind is Leo's injury. Once again. It really feels, and my it caused tears filling my eyes. Valdés reaction said so much.
Some might say that Rijkaard is lucky as he won't have to choose between the forwards, but NO NO NO. It is no luck. Messi is surely asking himself if he will ever be able to make history. If he is sentenced to play a side part, if he will only be able to play 25 percent of the games in a season.
This career is so delicate and so short and i would like all parts to protect him and that he should concentrate on becoming what we all know that he will become. Concentrate on what he can give us.

Watching the image of Messi crying was like having a blunt rusty knife cutting through ones organs. Unbearable.

There is More to Life Than This?

2008-03-02T22:55:00.008Z

I have to admit that due to National duties I did not see the game, only listened to it half heartedly until the 2-1. When it was 3-1 I was staring in to a sheep's head and decided it would stay that way.
Enjoy the old man playing on his harmonica singing about Jósep and his birds.

From my scarce understanding of the game, the result was predictable.

Each time the media starts its bla bla bluh there is a downfall. At. Madrid were seen as a team that was buried live and no chance of resurrection, but...

Arrogance never ever pays off. Bad Karma.

I am glad that Touré was rested for the Celtic game. It is not that I think there will be a problem, but you should never take the British fighting spirit lightly, they will give more than all (especially when they know that Barça can concede four goals). Touré is essential in that game.
Messi needs a rest I think, I am worried that he he has played too many games since Christmas.

Why is common sense so difficult within the bubble Barça (the press, the fans etc), sometimes it seems like we are all pensioners looking for something to worry about.

Hei Life is not that Bad, last month was a lot more positive than previous 18.

I leave you a little treat:
Fish coated in Pistachio:
Buy white fish fillets
cut pistachios (unsalted obviously) into tiny tiny bits
cut parsley into really small bits
mix parsley and pistachio
whip an egg, coat the fillet in it and then into the
pistachio and parsley mix.
Fry.

Note:The title is in Björk's honour and her song Violently Happy (as I am living a moment where at times I feel I am so happy I could explode).

Images:
Rijkaard and Ronaldinho in training.
A trio in training at Barça.
Fun in training.

Þorri

2008-03-02T19:27:00.012Z

Anecdotes:
When I was little, my mother used to give me some shark to eat, so she could smell where I was playing - no smell = danger.

I used to baby sit for the Icelandic community in Lund, Sweden for the Þorrablót. I remember there were always some scandals and people would get incredibly drunk.

The food itself doesn't really appeal to me, I guess I have lived too long abroad.

My mother told me that once they had a Þorrablót in the company where she was working.
It started at six, by seven they evacuated all paintings in the room (as people were getting too drunk) at 8.30 they wanted to beat up the boss, due to some payment issues, at nine my mother left as it was getting far too chaotic.

I decided to go to this Þorrablót, I knew I had to eat a good lunch, as I don't really eat much more than Harðfiskur, Hangikjöt, flatkökur, but no. For some reason I decided I was going to try the sheap head, so many people I know love it and I used to love sucking its bones, eyeas and the chin was my favourite part.
Here is the result:

It is not so much that I am disgusted, but I was really really scared to bite in to this head. I do remember that I loved it as a child and good friends (with a food taste) like it. However it was not that disgusting, but more scary. I ate the whole of the tongue though, but did not have the courage to suck the eye.
In my youth (and I am not that old) we used to play with the bones, that were left of the sheep.

Menu for Þorrablót,
comments courtesy of your host.

Traditional Appetizers:

Hákarl:
Shark, served in small cubes. It is prepared by burying it for several weeks, and then hanging it up and allowing it to dry. The semi-opaque flesh of the belly is called glerhákarl (glassy shark), and is not nearly as popular as the skyrhákarl, which is flesh from the body of the fish. Skyrhákarl draws its name from its resemblance in appearance to the Icelandic curds called skyr. The tough glerhákarl is recommended for beginners, as the soft skyrhákarl has been known to cause an involuntary gagging reaction due to its texture. Wash down with a shot of cold Brennivín (caraway schnapps). Believe it or not, this is actually good for the digestion - especially before eating the heavy Þorri food.

When the rotten shark was taken out of the package I almost fainted/vomited

Harðfiskur:
Dried fish, usually haddock, cod or catfish, beaten to soften it. Delicious with or without butter. In olden times harðfiskur was eaten like bread in those homes that could only afford flour for baking on special occasions. It is still Iceland's favourite snack, and a popular travel food. (Chances are, if you meet an Icelander and he has a funny smell about him, it will be because of the harðfiskur tucked away in his luggage).

Main courses:
This is where the menu begins to get really interesting. Almost everything you find on a typical Þorri buffet is made from lamb or mutton, with a few exceptions. The food can be separated into two categories: sour and non-sour. The sour food has been pickled in extra strong skyrmysa (whey) for several weeks. The trick is to get it sour enough to tell where it's been, but not so sour that you can't tell what it is. Most of the sour food is also served non-sour. In the old days, sour milk was sometimes uses instead of mysa.

Sour only:
Hrútspungar or pressed sheep's testicles. Has little taste of it's own, and a texture reminiscent of pressed cod roe.
Hvalspik or whale blubber. This became hard to find after the parliament passed a law forbidding whaling several years ago. It has made a small comeback recently, due to the whaling ban being lifted. Fresh whale blubber is stringy and tough, but pickling it makes it soft and more digestible.
Lundabaggar - This is a tough one to explain - it is made from secondary meats, like colons and other such stuff, rolled up, boiled, pickled and sliced. Usually very fatty.
Bringukollar - breast meat. These are cuts of really fat meat on the bone, which have been boiled before pickling. As the name suggests, these pieces come from the breast of the animal.
Selshreifar - seal's flippers. These are rare, except at some family feasts where the participants have hunted the seals themselves.
Hvalllíki or fake whale blubber. This was invented after the whaling ban. It is made from fish, and has a colour and texture reminiscent of the real thing, but an entirely different taste. Has become a Þorri staple for many, and is by some preferred over the real thing. I think that now whale blubber is available, this will probably disappear soon, unless whaling stops again.

Sour and non-sour:
Slátur. Of this there are two types: Lifrarpylsa or liver sausage and Blóðmör or blood sausage. Both are cooked before pickling. Both are quite good when fresh, but take on wholly different taste when pickled, which people either love or loathe (I happen to like it). Both contain rye meal, which contributes to the souring process and creates a special kind of taste that's hard to describe. Both are quite firm when fresh, but will take on a crumbly texture after extended pickling. These can actually be pickled in water or milk, as the rye meal causes a souring action similar to whey.
Sviðasulta - sheep's head jam (headcheese). This is quite good when pickled, and delicious fresh. It is made by cutting up the meat from cooked sheep's heads (svið), pressing into moulds and cooling. The cooking liquid turns into jelly when cold, and keeps the whole thing together.
Svínasulta, or spiced pigs' head jam/headcheese. A recent addition to the Þorri table, probably borrowed from the Danish. Tastes much better fresh than pickled.
Lappir and/or Fótasulta - sheep's legs and sheep's leg jam. This is a rare sight, both due to the effort it takes to produce the jam, and the fact that the slaughterhouses are required to throw the legs away. Therefore only available where people do their own butchering.*

*The must have changed the regulations - you can now get legs at my local supermarket.

Non-sour:
Hangikjöt - Literally "hung meat". This usually refers to smoked lamb or mutton, although smoked horse-meat is also called hangikjöt. This is one of those courses that are eaten outside the Þorri season as well, and is really delicious.
Magálar - heavily smoked sheep's bellies. Eaten like hangikjöt.
Svið - singed sheep's heads. The name refers to the tradition of burning away all the hair from the head before cooking. This gives the meat a smoky flavour. The heads are cut in half lengthwise and the brains removed before cooking. Like hangikjöt, this is also quite a popular dish outside the Þorri season.

Side dishes:
Kartöflustappa - mashed potatoes. This hopefully needs no explanation. Recipe will be posted at some later date.
Rófustappa - mashed rutabagas. These are boiled until soft, mashed and sweetened with sugar.
Flatbrauð - flat bread, served with butter.
rúgbrauð - rye bread. Dark (almost black) "thunder-bread" served with butter. Top with pickled herring for an entrée, eat on the side with the main courses.

Drinks:
Brennivín - caraway schnapps, locally known as Svartidauði - "Black Death". These days many people will rather drink vodka and/or whisky - which they claim tastes better.
Mysa - whey. Yes, it can also be drunk. Before the arrival of carbonated beverages, this was the refreshment of choice. Unfortunately, it is not much used as a drink anymore. The taste? It is reminiscent of dry white wine, and mysa can actually be used instead of white wine in cooking, without anyone noticing the difference.
Bjór - beer and its relatives, Malt (non-alcoholic brown ale) and Lageröl (pale ale). During the beer-less years (several decades), the only ale allowed in Iceland was the low-alcohol Malt and Lageröl. Since we have been allowed to drink beer again, it has become "the drink" for many at Þorrablót feasts. These days you can even buy special Þorri beer.
Soft drinks - for those who don't like ale or strong spirits.

Afterword:
Every year, I hear people, especially young people and those who like to consider themselves cosmopolitans, grumbling about the Þorri feasts. They go on about the food being horrible and the tradition outdated and cheesy, and ask why we should eat all this horrible, fattening preserved food (which must be horrible to everyone because they don’t like it) when we can get it fresh. In my opinion, they should count themselves lucky to have been born in the 20th century, when they at least have a choice as to what they eat, a luxury our ancestors didn't have. The old-fashioned food of today is much healthier than the same kind of food used to be. Here I am not just referring to the traditional Þorri food, but also for example to sour and mouldy butter, rotting meat and bread with lots of extra proteins due to maggots and insects in the flour. Many people had no choice but to eat this kind of food, or else starve.

Note: Almost all of the information on Þorrablót are taken from: Icecook

Other References are:
Icelandic Horse

Til Hamingju Freyja!

2008-03-01T10:53:00.004Z

Calm and Patience

2008-02-24T22:49:00.005Z

Slowly, it seems to be happening. Not sure entirely when that sensation came, perhaps it was against Sevilla in the Cup, perhaps against Sevilla in the league or perhaps it was against Zaragoza last week. Barcelona won a very difficult game away from home, where Diego Milito missed a penalty, Barça were handed a goal and a penalty. The luck of the Champions? Hmmm, still remains to be seen.
The Celtic game was the first game in I don´t know how long that Barça, my team came from behind to win a game. Suddenly there was spirit, team effort, sacrification, hugnger.

It could well be that the egos have had enough and have finally realised that it is not that funny that people laugh or spit in your face. I hope that they have decided to pull themselves out of the mess they got themselves in to. During the game against Celtic, I had a strong feeling, that we would win, you could see the hunger in the players eyes, it was not the same complacent gaze since Paris 2006. Yes almost two years.
Today, I decided not to go to the stadium in order to paint (as you know my schedule is fierce and hard), but I did go to the bar to watch the game. Xavi scored, then Zambrotta in one of his moods committed an extremely stupid penalty and it was 1-1. No - I never had a doubt, we would win this, it was just going to be like that. I also said to my dad that Madrid would loose or draw. The words of a witch.
Monday is looming and 9 points became six, then eight, then five and now two...
Let´s not forget however that the future is just starting, not just for myself, but for this team. Let´s forget about Mourinho, Ronaldinho and Benzema. The hard work has just began. Just began.

My Life

2008-02-07T10:29:00.001Z

This is what I ideally want. Perhaps utopic, but I want to continue my working pattern from December, before I went to Iceland.
In Spain I am finding people talking too much, no space for silence, something extremely important. I almost long for the autistic long dark winters, like the ones in Iceland now, where you can hardly leave the house.
I am still looking for the place, the place where you go to the sea, the immense overwhelming sea (not the cute Mediterranean) and on a needed day you just stand there, overlooking or not looking or whatever. If you are angry you shout, if you are sad you cry, if you just are, you just are.

Here is my daily schedule -
07.30 - the alarm clock rings
08.00 - i get out of bed
08.05 - i drink a glass of juice
08.15 - i go out on the terrace with my skipping rope to jump
08.25 - have breakfast, read the news online
08.45 - shower
09.00 - study (alternating - watching films, reading on films and working on my own film)
13.00 - Every other day I cook (the other day I study until 14.00)
14.00 - lunch
14.30 - leave home
16.00 - my class starts
19.45 - take the train home
21.00 - have dinner
21.30 - watercolouring

This is Monday to Friday. Sometimes I go to the stadium in the week, sometime I meet up with someone. Max two evenings in the week, preferably one.
Saturday and Sunday -
I can have one day off, the other one is dedicated to watching films, reading, writing and watercolouring.

My Favourite Turks Yoghurt Recipe:

- 1 lt of milk
- a handful of yogurt yeast. another good yogurt would do if you
cannae find yeast.

- bring milk to boil, and let it boil for a while afterwards (say 20 mins)
- when milk has cooled down to a point slightly cooler than a
temperature at which you can bathe a baby in summer (as my granny
would say),
put yogurt yeast in the milk, cover it with a towel (sides and top)
and leave it for a day. dont move it around.
make sure yeast is about the same temp when you put it in. warm it
up slightly for that *before* you put it in.

enjoy.

Ps. This is my plan - not sure if it is realistic.

Image: England (Bridge & Gerrard), down and dirty after falling flat against Croatia.