It was a good weekend. Fairly cultural too, all the food groups covered.
First there was the fashion in the zoo thing on Friday. Then we went to a festival called Melt! on Saturday. It was at a place called Ferropolis which is extremely groovy: a big dis-used mining place about an hour and a half south-ish of Berlin. It’s got these huges beautiful machines stood around which look brilliant in the daylight, and look even better at night with coloured lights illuminating them.
We were only really there to see Underworld and Whitey, so it was pretty relaxing, spending most of our time wandering around. It was good. Aside from all the inflatable tents advertising stuff and the big screens behind the stages showing adverts constantly between the bands. It depresses me that even at a disused industrial site in the middle of nowhere, you can’t get away from adverts trying to sell you phones.
And there’s this thing in Germany called a pfand. It’s a deposit you pay on top of the price of the beer or cola etc. so that you return the bottle. All well and good, and something I’m used to in daily life where you just take the bottles back to a supermarket and chuck ‘em in a machine which counts them, gives you a ticket, and you get your refund from the checkout. But at some live venues, like this one, they have a con going. A con which nobody in a position of authority had realised is a con. They give you a little plastic token (usually a coin or a ring), so when you return your bottle, you have to also give the token back. No token, no money back. Even if you have done what is needed, environmentally, and returned the bottle. I am convinced this is just a scheme for them to make money, cos it’s impractical to ask your mates for all their tokens if you’re making a bar trip. And why is it needed if not to try and eek out 50 cents here and there from us suckers?
Anyway (breathe, Craig, breathe…), Whitey had a faulty computer meaning they farted around on stage for a while and cut their set because of it (proving, seemingly, that their drummer is just decoration); Underworld were good, but not loud enough (the sound from the other stages was audible during the quieter moments).
Here’s a photo of that moment of Born Slippy:
All in all, though, it was a fine day. Topped off by reclining the passenger seat and sleeping all the way back to Berlin, much to Hanni’s understandable annoyance.
Sunday, I woke up in the afternoon after an extremely frustrating dream: I had to animate episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm. And it was so much work, so many things to draw over and over with slight movement changes. And the deadline was imminent, and I was working alone, and, and, and…
We then went to see some art. I don’t know what to write about art. I’m totally no good at understanding meaning and stuff. I just look at something and it either looks or, on a slightly more gut-feeling level, feels nice or it doesn’t. Anyway, this exhibition was in another dis-used location; an old cigarette factory, I’m told. And I didn’t pay much attention to the name of the exhibition or the artists, so I can’t give you any real information, other than that yesterday was the last day, so it doesn’t really matter.
As with all group shows, it was hit and miss. A few gems, a lot of chaff and several big steamy turds. The biggest turd of the lot was a “proposal” for a sign on a new building where the World Trade Centre used to stand. The sign was made up of letters taken from corporate logos (F from Ford, C from Coca Cola, etc.), which said something like Fuck Me Up The Ass Daddy. What is the point? Really. What the hell is the point in doing art like that? You think that’s shocking? It’s just rude and un-funny and juvenile. The artist could argue that, “hey, at least you remembered it!”, but, hey, I remember what pumpkin tastes like, it doesn’t mean I ever want to eat it again. Grrr…
Sometimes I just don’t understand why some people want to be artists. And that’s probably the problem: they want to be artists. Surely an artist is something you are; I don’t really see that it’s a profession you choose; it’s, if you will, a calling.
Here’s some photos, though, of some of the better things. Apologies to the artists for not crediting them, but I had no pen to write down their names, and my memory on this particular Sunday afternoon was pretty shoddy.
To finish off the weekend, we rented Ray from the video shop, which was okay. Nowhere near as good as you’d expect from all the prizes and nominations and stuff.
Did you have a good weekend?