After my hand in I wanted to look back and see what areas I could improve on in preparation for the self directed project.
The best way to learn how to tell a story is by reading. “People do not read enough, and that’s how you create critical thinking.” The way a book will make you feel will bleed into your work. Build your reading stamina like a muscle. I do not do this near enough… The phone has replaced the book, as a faster injection of information. Reading opens your heart and mind. I want this to be my morning ritual – I grab a book before I grab a phone. The reading and the writing is the research. I’ve been reading books on book reading to remind myself its vital to read more. I can travel from the comfort of my bed to new worlds.

Writing is a process of discovery and has a calming effect on the mind. It helps to guide and solidify your ideas. I bought a vintage Parker pen so I would write more. Implement the ritual – as soon as I pick up the pen – I can’t let it go until I’ve written for at least an hour. “Even when you think you have nothing, you just have to start writing rather than wait for inspiration” – Nick Cave.

Writing helps to solve problems when you are stuck on an idea. I must read ‘The Painter of Modern Life” by Baudelarie and “Les fleurs du Mal”.

As part of the initial stage of my research I went down to the beach every day for two weeks. Inspired with the summer project I did with free writing, I set myself the goal of recording whatever came into my head, unedited. Recording what I felt, what I saw, what I remembered and what narratives I could invent between the characters I met by the sea.

It started with a longing, a longing for lost memories. Whenever I came across a piece of writing, a ramble, it felt like a gift. We write to taste life twice. In the moment and in retrospect.

What I realised in the first term is that it’s really important to document moments/memories as these will feed into your work in the form of imagery. Everything is usable.

Rekindling my love for writing. I vowed at the end of first year I was going to write a lot more. It is an important part of the process as it helps me to understand where I am going with my work. Free writing has helped me during Lockdown. It has given me a space to escape too.
Writing memories of images I had by the sea or when I went back to Spain to see my family and friends.

Drawing from memory. I remember cutting my foot on rocks the colour of toasted almonds. I remember a trip I took with a poet to Malta and I fell in love with her and then she threw my heart in the swimming pool. I remember getting stung by a Medusa on my leg and it itched all day.

We were chewing roasted almonds. Salted, without the skin on. You threw one in the air and caught it between your teeth. You grinned at me and did it again. I was never able to do it until you taught me. We lay there, kissing on the bench, the ground scattered with sunflower seeds like rose petals at a wedding scene. The earth embroidered with cigarette butts – a shrine to youth and rebellion. I missed my train, again and again and again. Lips that tasted of cigarettes and toasted almonds.

We met New Years eve. You asked me if I could teach you how to dance. Cocaine in the morning at 8am – we were just getting started. At the train station. You said you needed to go smoke again. We kissed the glass. Three nights of bliss etched across our lips. I felt free around you. You wondered if you’d ever see me again. Listening to arabic love songs in the rain. Fizzy apple spilt on the table as we kissed like melting flames. And I remembered what it felt like to live in Spain. Wild wind, pine trees and sea men. Cigarette sunsets, bbq flames, kissing the sky with our heaven scent. You ask me if there is anything I ever need… maybe it would be nice. Maybe it would be nicer if we had a place of our own. Green eyes lets make love outside. Fuck it cos we still young.

Considering changing course because there’s a hottie doing sculpture. It’s a draught out here. No hotties. Zilch, nada, rien. Nada de nada tia. So fucking rare. In an environment with a ratio of 10 females to 1 male. Killer instinct kicks in. 

Oh and let me tell you – this bitch was thirsty – thinking she was the white missy elliot. This gyal was all about the oatly milkshakes, track pants and fur bucket hats. I chew my hot pink nails and consider buying a bucket hat. Maybe I got it all wrong, maybe not showing off your beautiful derriere in 50s style high waisted Armani jeans, is the way to go. I stick my ass out when I walk past the hottie hoping he’s staring at me. 

But he can’t stop laughing at the bucket hat’s shit jokes. 

If only I could get his number. 

Track pants, bucket hats and flannel is the only way to get some dick in this town. 

Where girls claw at each others throats to fuck greasy boys from bands, and hug random strangers cos its all peace out bro one love.

I look outside and its fucking raining again. I Google: “how to tell if someone is flirting with you”. One of the signs is that they ignore you. If the ignoring gets really intense then you know they’re in to you… or maybe they’re really not… hard to tell really. The article says its all about instinct. My instinct is telling me I need to set light to the bucket hat.

The article finishes with: remember, eye contact is key! 

Well, I’ve been searing holes into the back of this guys skull for weeks… sashaying my fine backside for his eyes to see, as I prowl around the photocopier seductively, swishing my hair to the right, paper and ink have never looked so interesting. 

Ah Photocopiers, the backdrop of many a sexscapades. It got to the point where I was just printing random pieces of text I found on google just so I had a reason to walk towards the  photocopier.

Spent precious time and Moneys doing this routine, but hey, sometimes needs must. I find English boys hard. But then I’ve been spoilt – Spanish boys are too easy to read. You can smell the lust everywhere cos its just too hot to be outside so you might as well do something productive whilst your home bound in summer cos its too hot to go out in the day. Clutching ice packs and sipping Tinto de Verano, whilst whispering things like “I’m gonna eat you” into your lovers ear. 

Perfectly timed with the hip roll to the left… honestly I choreograph my seduction techniques for YOU and Im just getting ignored. But the article says it’s a sign that he’s shy. So there you go.

Might as well throw myself from the third floor, maybe that’ll catch his attention. Like, I accidentally just happened to fall from the window ledge whilst gazing ecstatically at the amazing pigeons, gathering on the rooftop and shitting in unison. He lunges from the window to save me, grabs my arm all Hollywood sunsets, ripped biceps, sweat and tears. 

But, this is England. Fucking great Britain they call it. The land that invented Ribena and slavery. I dated a 29 year old who couldn’t drink water unless he’d added squash. 

I stare at Venus. Her skin is like glass and milk, you can see her veins, blue snakes swim to the surface to take a drink. In one hand she clutches a bag shaped like a blue shell whilst the other plays tricks with a cigarette. Blue Purple smoke curls around her fingers. Fire and water. You reach out to touch her. Her eyes are like lasers – shimmering beneath the waves. She doesn’t flinch as she throws herself against the rocks. cuts her tongue out and flings it into the waves. Lapis lazuli. Defiant, strong, lost, fragile. Her hair is the waves. Mother, daughter, lover… Her heart thunders across the ocean. You can feel the rain burning your skin when she cries out in pain. Her lover curls his toes in the sand and ignores her. He has a tattoo on his hip. Reminds me of you. like lovers who etch their name in the sand.

Remember when I opened my lips over your hip bone and saw things only lovers will remember.  Scrawled angrily across your skin in italics. A language I didn’t = understand. I asked you what it meant. You said you didn’t remember… was a long time ago – Drunk – on a lads holiday, Ayia Napa or somewhere. I don’t believe you. That night we cast spells and threw all our coins in the fountain. I prayed at the alter.

The salt hits the back of my mouth and I watch you float away.

I grew up in a land where the summers were too hot, storms grew violent and forest fires raged. The adults blamed the smoke and destruction, on young lovers; throwing their flaming cigarettes out of car windows, while they kissed feverishly, in an attempt to forget about the world. 

Before you knew it, a whole pine forest had lit up and a swarm of helicopters buzzed overhead. 

I lived in a town outside of Barcelona. Cactuses and cherry trees grew like weeds in our back garden. Every summer when the wind caressed the leaves and the cherries grew swollen, I would climb to the very top of the tree and squint at the sun. Bleeding deep red across the powder blue sky. I’d sit for hours, watching, as the sky turned pink in the evening. 

Then one spring, they ripped off all the branches – so they could sell the cherries at the market. And spring came again and again, but the cherry trees did not bloom. I waited patiently… but I already knew the trees had died of sadness. 

I remember this moment so clearly… I can still reach out and taste it. The child inside me who loved playing died that spring. I have spent years trying to relearn how to play. Slowly, through love and hard work, I feel myself coming back to that place. A world where I can play and create instinctively.