I feel absolutely atrocious and can barely see any point in being around or even doing anything, yet somehow, i'm still plodding along- hysterically crying in public places in front of people i don't know, yet plodding along.
It's ironic that I'm about to start a project based on identity when I have absolutely no idea who I actually am anymore.
Anyway, not the monday gone, but the Monday before, my BA Fine Art class and me went to Liverpool to the Tate Gallery, in all honesty there wasn't a great deal there as two of the floors were closed for a revamp so we only had access to the constellations collection/exhibition that was on. Whilst i could appreciate alot of skill had gone into many of the works, I hated the majority and found it all ugly and distasteful, bar Elanor Antin's 'The blood of a poet' which whilst i thought was in no way linked to me, upon further research she just so happens to be the most connected, self portraying artist there, although she tends to work through film and photography. I just loved the morbid concept of taking the blood from each poet/artist/writer to demonstrate just how much of a person goes into creating art in any form.
