Mixed media Day 1

I missed the introduction – coming back from Paris. The aims of the current project are:

1. To learn basic techniques of a range of media 2- To develop ideas of narrative and sequence, including non-linear narrative. 3. To develop sensitivity towards a range of media, the role of site, the potential of found/chance materials and walking as an arts practice. 4.  To continue the development of critical and analytical skills in relation to one’s own and other’s arts practice. 5. To collaborate with others in a group project and develop skills of negotiation, skill sharing and team building. 6. To experience a process of working from research, through development, refinement and editing to making a final presentation. We had to go on a local walk around Lincoln’s Inns Fields and collect information including written notes, drawings in a range of media, photos, rubbings, photocopies, maps. These are some of the things I collected. Photos of the natural world and sites of human activity in the square Really moving into full summer. A lot of people sitting on benches, seem to be waiting. Apparently there is/was a food kitchen in the evenings

The buildings as a seat of power with their symbols

Contrasts between old and new

A sense of pattern

We discussed our themes in the afternoon – many common ones and talked about ideas for working on these as a group.

We are asked to research Lincolns Inn Fields for homework as well as various artists and artistic movements.

Like we are being asked to research a novel…
Reminds me of the great visual opening of Charles Dickens Bleak House. One of the themes that arose in our group was the Inns of Court as representative of state power. (although the Master of the Rolls did find in favour of our hospital campaign against the government).

‘Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time — as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.

The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln’s Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.’ (Bleak House, Charles Dickens)

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