Wednesday, 24 March 2010
Sunday 14th March 2010
Gorgeous and Bright Eyes have made a monster chocolate cake for mother’s day. It is the first time my role has been honoured on this auspicious day. After cake, NW and I head south to Camberwell for Michael Landy’s Art Bin wrap up party. I draw and draw and there is considerable enthusiasm. I ask a man who is wearing a knitted cap under a trilby whether I might draw him. There is something charismatic about him. He asks what it is for and the says in a traditional cockney accent ‘Sex workers! Yeah. Draw me! That’s amazing. I’m up for this. No one supports the sex workers.’ I ask him what he does and he says he is a Punk musician. I ask his name and he tells me. It is vaguely familiar but I cannot place him. I ask if there is anything I might have heard of his a he reels off a load of names, which mean nothing to me. He gives me his phone number, asking me not to share it, and takes mine. He says he will be in touch. Perhaps the Drawn Petition has a famous friend at last.
Sat 13th March 2010.
PC is a male prostitute who has offered to be drawn and is giving me support and encouragement via emails. We still have not met but he has offered to take me to Club Fuk, a night club where people can have sex and do anything they like doing within the rules of the club which concern safety and respect. PC is exhausted from volunteering at a vegetarian café all day and I end up going alone. Gorgeous is very concerned. It is quite unlike anything I have ever done before but I feel quite confident that I can handle it. An old man walks around starkers, wearing nowt but his socks and belt. The younger crowd wear designer fetishist clothing debauched shabby chic vintage gear. There are butch women in jeans, checked shirts and DM’s. The barmaid is a butch lesbian who turns out to be a barrister with a strong interest in the cause of the Drawn Petition. She kindly keeps me plied with drinks. It seems a good place for gays who like an occasional woman and lesbians who like to have the odd man. I draw a fully shaven architect with naughty sparkling eyes, wearing a superb black latex vest and leather chaffs in boots. His penis is covered with a scarf but his bottom is exposed. He chats up a Chinese girl with a punk hairstyle and plenty of piercings. She is slim, athletic and very striking wearing only leather straps over her breasts. He hands her a nipple clamp and she attaches it to him and jangles it about. A women behind me in engaged in some spanking. There is some serious fondling going on in a far corner. A man is astride a woman.
On my way home I pass another club. There are two police cars outside. I suppose there’s been trouble. I would rather go to a civilised place like Club Fuk than a common or garden dive like this full of predatory blokes and drunken trollops.
On my way home I pass another club. There are two police cars outside. I suppose there’s been trouble. I would rather go to a civilised place like Club Fuk than a common or garden dive like this full of predatory blokes and drunken trollops.
Fri 12th March 2010. 14 new drawings
Wake feeling subhuman. NW has found out that a new law is coming in on April 1st condemning men who solicit prostitutes on the street or inadvertently engage a woman who has been forcibly trafficked. Spend a lot of the morning being briefed by CS and feel much better. By the end of the day I realise that the timing of the new crime bill could be useful and we would use it to raise awareness of the exhibition. Nothing like a crime new crime bill to lift ones spirits!
Spend late afternoon drawing at a hospital. All sorts. There is broad support from both patients and staff.
Spend late afternoon drawing at a hospital. All sorts. There is broad support from both patients and staff.
Thursday 11th March 2010. 30 new drawings total 314
I work late into the night and feel sick with fatigue. In the morning I am again delayed by loose ends that need following up: no interest in the flat I am trying to rent out, Tracey Emin has declined etc. We seem to be getting nowhere. And of course the sense that my art bag is never quite in order does not help me. I pack more stuff I know I will not need.
I am getting bored of drawing coat collars, scarves and hats. I head to The Place and draw dance students in the canteen. I see my old teacher and she introduces me to a lovely third year student. She says she has a number of male friends who visit prostitutes. I ask what she thinks about this. ‘I just think there is a need’ she says without any sense of judgement. I ask her whether she knows if her friends have used the services of a trafficked prostitute. She did not know of course, but she said ‘I doubt it, that would not be much of a turn on would it’?
I go by tube to London Bridge and draw the reluctant man in the sausage vending cabin. He says he has never had his portrait done since someone did a cruel caricature when he was 13 and he does not have the time to pose anyway. I say no matter, and draw him in the length of time it takes him to make a latte. He is pleased with the outcome and contributes it.
Spill coffee as I rush through the barrier resulting in first coffee stained drawing of the Drawn petition. High time.
I am welcomed at the South London Gallery. I am introduced to Michael Landy and draw my ‘hero’ for the Drawn Petition and all his team members too. I climb the magnificent two-storey staircase constructed from welded steel and toss my tiny original drawing into the largely empty enclosure before me. I notice that there are huge numbers of post cards in it. Surely it was original art works that were supposed to be donated. I am a little surprised by the massive size of the beautifully constructed see-through skip, but totally underwhelmed by its lack of content. The gallery is next to a large art school that probably fills a skip a week, especially at this time of year. Michael has essentially offered free recycling! I notice that my little drawing of HH is The Art Bin’s one thousand and twenty third contribution. The show has been up nearly six weeks and had full national press coverage and this is the level of the support it draws? I am coming up to the big three hundred and suddenly feel quite successful.
I take the 12 into town. Fall asleep and wake up on the approach to Piccadilly. Drag myself through darkened streets of Mayfair feeling exhausted and hopeless. This is the daftest project in the world. No one here in this most exclusive of quarters will give a damn. They do not give a damn about anything except amassing copious quantities of wealth and looking expensively and conservatively elegant. They all rush by or they sit looking impeccable in smart hotels. I have shot myself in the bloody foot by focussing on this distasteful unwanted issue. All that I had to do was a pretty little show to garner an audience for my work in this pretty little gallery. I am a fool. This week The Gallery is full of large expensive photographs of urban views like the Thames with the London Eye at night. There are red spots on all the frames and a prim looking lady with a machine for direct debit payments. I don’t have the energy to ask if I might leave fliers, the world is against me tonight.
I buy a plate of spag bol at the little Italian sandwich shop by the taxi rank at Shepherds Market. I draw the staff and they are friendly. I try drawing at the Market Tavern to little avail and go into the Shepherds Tavern. It’s hard work.
I am getting bored of drawing coat collars, scarves and hats. I head to The Place and draw dance students in the canteen. I see my old teacher and she introduces me to a lovely third year student. She says she has a number of male friends who visit prostitutes. I ask what she thinks about this. ‘I just think there is a need’ she says without any sense of judgement. I ask her whether she knows if her friends have used the services of a trafficked prostitute. She did not know of course, but she said ‘I doubt it, that would not be much of a turn on would it’?
I go by tube to London Bridge and draw the reluctant man in the sausage vending cabin. He says he has never had his portrait done since someone did a cruel caricature when he was 13 and he does not have the time to pose anyway. I say no matter, and draw him in the length of time it takes him to make a latte. He is pleased with the outcome and contributes it.
Spill coffee as I rush through the barrier resulting in first coffee stained drawing of the Drawn petition. High time.
I am welcomed at the South London Gallery. I am introduced to Michael Landy and draw my ‘hero’ for the Drawn Petition and all his team members too. I climb the magnificent two-storey staircase constructed from welded steel and toss my tiny original drawing into the largely empty enclosure before me. I notice that there are huge numbers of post cards in it. Surely it was original art works that were supposed to be donated. I am a little surprised by the massive size of the beautifully constructed see-through skip, but totally underwhelmed by its lack of content. The gallery is next to a large art school that probably fills a skip a week, especially at this time of year. Michael has essentially offered free recycling! I notice that my little drawing of HH is The Art Bin’s one thousand and twenty third contribution. The show has been up nearly six weeks and had full national press coverage and this is the level of the support it draws? I am coming up to the big three hundred and suddenly feel quite successful.
I take the 12 into town. Fall asleep and wake up on the approach to Piccadilly. Drag myself through darkened streets of Mayfair feeling exhausted and hopeless. This is the daftest project in the world. No one here in this most exclusive of quarters will give a damn. They do not give a damn about anything except amassing copious quantities of wealth and looking expensively and conservatively elegant. They all rush by or they sit looking impeccable in smart hotels. I have shot myself in the bloody foot by focussing on this distasteful unwanted issue. All that I had to do was a pretty little show to garner an audience for my work in this pretty little gallery. I am a fool. This week The Gallery is full of large expensive photographs of urban views like the Thames with the London Eye at night. There are red spots on all the frames and a prim looking lady with a machine for direct debit payments. I don’t have the energy to ask if I might leave fliers, the world is against me tonight.
I buy a plate of spag bol at the little Italian sandwich shop by the taxi rank at Shepherds Market. I draw the staff and they are friendly. I try drawing at the Market Tavern to little avail and go into the Shepherds Tavern. It’s hard work.
Wednesday 10th March 2010. 28 new drawings total 284
Off to London College of Communication for interview with JM, a person I met outside the Ten Bells. Usual hurdles delay my arrival but I am perhaps only half and hour late. We have good chat but then he finds his voice recorder has failed and we have to do it all over again.
Later I draw in the school foyer. I come across a young male student who wants to discuss ideology and principles. He comes up with all the usual stuff: prostitution is wrong, women shouldn’t have to, it is exploitative, degrading. I find myself on the defence. On and on he goes. His final remark is ‘beside they spread germs’. So do hospitals, I feel like saying.
Later I draw in the school foyer. I come across a young male student who wants to discuss ideology and principles. He comes up with all the usual stuff: prostitution is wrong, women shouldn’t have to, it is exploitative, degrading. I find myself on the defence. On and on he goes. His final remark is ‘beside they spread germs’. So do hospitals, I feel like saying.
Tuesday 9th March. 12 new drawings total 258
The lady from the Times has phoned in. My sister, who is now helping on the project, will follow up. Don’t feel any sense of optimism; she has to sell the story to the paper.
Can’t find A to Z. Cycle via city, over London Bridge to the Market Porter, an old Southwark pub for the 60th Birthday party of JP. Discover I have forgotten my keys and therefore can’t lock bike. A cook says I can stash vehicle under a fire escape reached through a through gate across an old walled yard between the railway arches and the warehouse which is now occupied by his restaurant. So Southwark! What a good place to forget ones keys!
Mrs EM is at the party. She is a former vicar. She agrees to be drawn. My friend CM is also there. Her husband is cool about being drawn but I can tell that MC is less willing. She is in a hurry to get home with their little boy. She does not have the time for the conversation that always seems to happen when someone is essentially against the principle of supporting prostitution but perhaps supports the idea of art being used for a social purpose. The drawing was done in less than 30 seconds and I could see her relief at being unrecognisable.
JP has many friends who work with young people in areas the areas of health and arts; they are warmly enthusiastic about the Drawn Petition. I draw a lovely lady, HH, who is a senior member of staff at the South London Gallery. She asks if I have contributed to Michael Landy’s Art Bin installation. I do two drawings of her. One for The Drawn Petition and one to throw into Landy’s giant glass skip. She takes it with her. She invites me to the wrap up party for this major show by one of my favourite YBA artists. I go home with stars in my eyes! I phone NW, the petition’ s loyal intern who is focussing on publicity. Invite her to the star studded Champaign reception. This is one way I can thank her for her hard work.
Cycle back on the south side of the Thames and cross at Blackfriars. Stop off to make enquiries at the Venus Lap Dancing Club. I am told to return next day to discuss with day manager.
Can’t find A to Z. Cycle via city, over London Bridge to the Market Porter, an old Southwark pub for the 60th Birthday party of JP. Discover I have forgotten my keys and therefore can’t lock bike. A cook says I can stash vehicle under a fire escape reached through a through gate across an old walled yard between the railway arches and the warehouse which is now occupied by his restaurant. So Southwark! What a good place to forget ones keys!
Mrs EM is at the party. She is a former vicar. She agrees to be drawn. My friend CM is also there. Her husband is cool about being drawn but I can tell that MC is less willing. She is in a hurry to get home with their little boy. She does not have the time for the conversation that always seems to happen when someone is essentially against the principle of supporting prostitution but perhaps supports the idea of art being used for a social purpose. The drawing was done in less than 30 seconds and I could see her relief at being unrecognisable.
JP has many friends who work with young people in areas the areas of health and arts; they are warmly enthusiastic about the Drawn Petition. I draw a lovely lady, HH, who is a senior member of staff at the South London Gallery. She asks if I have contributed to Michael Landy’s Art Bin installation. I do two drawings of her. One for The Drawn Petition and one to throw into Landy’s giant glass skip. She takes it with her. She invites me to the wrap up party for this major show by one of my favourite YBA artists. I go home with stars in my eyes! I phone NW, the petition’ s loyal intern who is focussing on publicity. Invite her to the star studded Champaign reception. This is one way I can thank her for her hard work.
Cycle back on the south side of the Thames and cross at Blackfriars. Stop off to make enquiries at the Venus Lap Dancing Club. I am told to return next day to discuss with day manager.
Monday 8th March 2010
Take bike to shop for third time in ten days and upgrade back tyre. Leave late for International Women’s day event and miss the crowd. It is absolutely freezing. I know the women “manning” the stalls could be tough cookies but still manage to draw over half of those whom I ask, including a very well informed man who has worked for one of the charities concerned with identifying and supporting women who have been forced into prostitution against their will. He is aware of the enormous complexities around the issue, it is a difficult cause to support. He works now for a development magazine and points out an article about a Bengali prostitute (and mother of eight) with the headline: “I never want to be rescued again.”
The stalls close and I too am packing up when by chance I over hear a conversation between a young white South African man and a young black London woman, both of whom work for the security company staffing the event. They are discussing the South African government's decision to legalise prostitution for the short duration of the World Cup in order to introduce compulsory health checks. Both of them agree that is a regressive and stupid, the law should not be limited by the duration of a game!
The girl comes from Manor House. She says there is a lot of street prostitution on Amhurst Road, the main road through Stamford Hill, and that the local Hasidic men are the clients. She says it is hardly surprising given how restrictive the Hassid’s are. She said, ‘Women are force to look like nothing and the have to have sex through a whole in sheet’. I say that I think that is only on their nuptial night, but I am not sure about this. She tells me that she knows a number of girls who frequently have sex for money but do not see themselves as prostitutes. ‘They want to have a lot of sex, they like it’ she adds. “They can make good money. I wouldn’t do it’ she said. ‘For me, sex involves emotions’.
I do not have much time, but feel that as a point of principle I must draw in Tate Modern. I go for lunch in the member’s room and see someone I had drawn at the Place party some days ago. I start off drawing her friend and that leads quite easily on to a few others.
Dash back north. Collect Bright Eyes late. Cook, eat and head off to Burlington Gardens where one of the charities from this morning’s Women’s event is holding a fundraiser at The Haunch of Vennison gallery, hosted by Damian Hurst. I am on time for once and they are running somewhat late. A small queue has formed outside. I draw a journalist from the Times, the head of Sky Arts and a few others. Once the doors are open it is harder to stop people. The way they arrive, climbing out of taxis and chauffer driven cars, immaculate, buffed up, tall, skinny, wearing designer shoes, coats and carrying hand bags costing thousands, and breeze up the steps make me feel very small and very cold and very, very marginal. These things are all relative, but again it clarifies for me why some people choose sex work. If you are totally on the outside of economic possibility, you might well think that you have much more to gain than to loose. One exploitative job is much the same as any other.
Cycle back via Covent Garden and notice a crowd in The Poetry Café. A pretty boy is standing outside. He is very charming and confident. It turns out he’s a model. It’s really shit he says, but the money is very good. He is evidently well heeled and suggests that his mum should commission portraits of himself and his brother. His eyes light up; he says she would love it if I drew her dog! I’d be most welcome to come and stay with the family in Norfolk. I say, I do not draw dog portraits.
The stalls close and I too am packing up when by chance I over hear a conversation between a young white South African man and a young black London woman, both of whom work for the security company staffing the event. They are discussing the South African government's decision to legalise prostitution for the short duration of the World Cup in order to introduce compulsory health checks. Both of them agree that is a regressive and stupid, the law should not be limited by the duration of a game!
The girl comes from Manor House. She says there is a lot of street prostitution on Amhurst Road, the main road through Stamford Hill, and that the local Hasidic men are the clients. She says it is hardly surprising given how restrictive the Hassid’s are. She said, ‘Women are force to look like nothing and the have to have sex through a whole in sheet’. I say that I think that is only on their nuptial night, but I am not sure about this. She tells me that she knows a number of girls who frequently have sex for money but do not see themselves as prostitutes. ‘They want to have a lot of sex, they like it’ she adds. “They can make good money. I wouldn’t do it’ she said. ‘For me, sex involves emotions’.
I do not have much time, but feel that as a point of principle I must draw in Tate Modern. I go for lunch in the member’s room and see someone I had drawn at the Place party some days ago. I start off drawing her friend and that leads quite easily on to a few others.
Dash back north. Collect Bright Eyes late. Cook, eat and head off to Burlington Gardens where one of the charities from this morning’s Women’s event is holding a fundraiser at The Haunch of Vennison gallery, hosted by Damian Hurst. I am on time for once and they are running somewhat late. A small queue has formed outside. I draw a journalist from the Times, the head of Sky Arts and a few others. Once the doors are open it is harder to stop people. The way they arrive, climbing out of taxis and chauffer driven cars, immaculate, buffed up, tall, skinny, wearing designer shoes, coats and carrying hand bags costing thousands, and breeze up the steps make me feel very small and very cold and very, very marginal. These things are all relative, but again it clarifies for me why some people choose sex work. If you are totally on the outside of economic possibility, you might well think that you have much more to gain than to loose. One exploitative job is much the same as any other.
Cycle back via Covent Garden and notice a crowd in The Poetry Café. A pretty boy is standing outside. He is very charming and confident. It turns out he’s a model. It’s really shit he says, but the money is very good. He is evidently well heeled and suggests that his mum should commission portraits of himself and his brother. His eyes light up; he says she would love it if I drew her dog! I’d be most welcome to come and stay with the family in Norfolk. I say, I do not draw dog portraits.
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