Sophie Calle 

“I saw him for the first time in December 1985, at a lecture he was giving. I found him attractive, but one thing bothered me: he was wearing an ugly tie. The next day I anonymously sent him a thin brown tie. Later, I saw him in a restaurant; he was wearing it. Unfortunately, it clashed with his shirt. I was then that I decided to take on the task of dressing him from head to toe: I would send him one article of clothing every year at Christmas. In 1986, he received a pair of silk grey socks; in 1987, a black alpaca sweater; in 1988, a white shirt; in 1989, a pair of gold-plated cufflinks; in 1990, a pair of boxer shorts with a Christmas-tree pattern; nothing in 1991; and in 1992, a pair of grey trousers. Someday, when he is fully dressed by me, I would like to be introduced to him.” 

Sophie Calle – Appointment with Sigmund Freud 

What does Sophie Calle do when her boyfriend breaks up with her via email?  Cry?  Break into his apartment and rip his clothes to shreds?  Sob into a tub of ice cream?  No, the celebrated French conceptual artist is more likely to gather together 107 women from across the world, and have them analyse every last word of the email, right down to the very last sentence ‘take care of yourself’ and then write a book about it.  

We’ve been captivated by Calle since we discovered a retrospective of her best work, ‘M’as tu vue?’  Whether she’s inviting strangers to sleep in her bed, following them to Venice, or employing a detective to follow her without him knowing she has arranged it, Calle’s work is always original and often controversial.  

Calle’s talent is turning her internal pain into art, and what could have been more painful than finding out her mother had a month to live?  ‘Pas pu saisir la mort’ is a film installation documenting the last few moments of her life.  Not wanting to miss her last word or breath, Calle painstakingly kept track of the minutes left on each tape, rather than the minutes her mother had left to live.  

Calle is currently  exhibiting at the newly opened Whitechapel Gallery.

We’ll see you there… 

www.galerieperrotin.com 
www.whitechapelgallery.org

Miranda July 

“What a terrible mistake to let go of something wonderful for something real.” 

When Miranda July needs a website building for her latest project, the last thing she does is turn to a designer.  Instead, she turns to her fridge.  For her latest book ‘No one belongs here more than you’ the Los Angeles based performance artist didn’t take her creative frustration out by raiding the contents, but used both the door, as well as her stove as a canvas for her thoughts. Using only a pen and a wipe, she wrote everything she needed to write on the appliances, photographed it all, and then turned it into a website. 

Her website isn’t generic, and neither is her writing.  ‘No one belongs here more than you’ is a collection of short stories, showcasing seemingly ordinary people living the most extraordinary lives.  There’s the girl who moves to Belvedere and teaches a group of OAPs how to swim using nothing but three bowls of warm tap water; there’s the elderly man who works in a factory and is invited to his colleague’s home to meet his attractive younger sister, and only when the two men are sat on the sofa snogging does he realise the sister never existed and was nothing more than a lure to get him there; and there’s the special-needs assistant who inappropriately begins a sexual relationship with her 15 year old special-needs student.  

Back in 2002 Miranda July and Harrell Fletcher created 60 assignments that could be completed by anybody.  Wanting to encourage ordinary people to complete out of the ordinary projects, they created a website where participants could upload their submissions.  ‘Climb to the top of a tree and take a photo of the view’,‘write a press release about an everyday event’ and ‘give advice to yourself in the past’ were some of the assignments. 

‘Learning to love you more’ is the book created to showcase the most memorable submissions.  The result is surprising, lively and overwhelmingly heartfelt.  

www.noonebelongsheremorethanyou.com 
www.learningtoloveyoumore.com 
www.mirandajuly.com

“I am ready to defend from the bottom of my heart the fact that we shall only be able to work for man and culture’s progress by formulating things in a positive way.” 

We’d never met anyone named after Pippi Longstocking before, but if we had we’d have expected them to be infectiously energetic yet slightly disturbing.  So when we found out about Pipilotti Rist, all our suspicions were confirmed. 

The Swiss performance artist treats life like a laboratory, turning every day life into a surreal acid trip.  In her video ‘I’m not the girl who misses much’ she dances in a black dress with uncovered breasts, singing, or more accurately screeching, the same line over and over again.  Her image becoming increasingly blurred as the end approaches, and breaks into the song’s inspiration – John Lennon’s ‘Happiness is a warm gun’.  

Having recently won the €70000 Joan Miró prize for her outstanding contribution to the current art scene, Pipilotti Rist is heading for the big time.  And we’ll be watching her every step of the way. 

www.pipilottirist.com

 Shh, says the Dirty Laundry team.  Don’t tell our mums what we’ve been up to…

Craigslist.com 

Re: You think that you know but do you really? m4wIve 

Giving a blow job is a skill that any woman thinks that she can do and yet it is one which is surrounded by mystery.  The ‘porn star experience’ that men seem to want does not necessarily maximise their pleasure and men will often tire of a woman who offers the same blow job time and time again.  

According to research, many men are dissatisfied with the oral sex that their partners give them.  A survey of my own male friends has told me time and time again that what men want is variety, sensuality and experience. 

I am an experienced therapist who has given many lessons in giving the perfect oral experience to a man.  If you are interested please contact mantoplaywith@xxx.com 

—

Produced for Dirty Laundry Magazine – May 2009
Illustration by David Gardner

This free online dating site considers well-endowment to be a pre-requisite rather than an added bonus.

Sensitivity? Generosity? Trust? Yawn. Huge cock? Oh now you’re talking… 

It might be incredibly vulgar but we’re pleased that it’s men being objectified for a change. There’s nothing like a bit of role reversal once in a while… 

www.7orbetter.com

Written for Dirty Laundry Magazine - June 2009

“And suddenly, as Selden noted the fine shades of manner by which she harmonised herself with her surroundings, it flashed on him that, to need such adroit handling, the situation must indeed be desperate.”

Edith Wharton – The House of Mirth

Living a lie for over two years left Agatha’s* world in ruins.  As Louise Hemmings discovers, things aren’t always what they seem on the other side of the computer screen. 

Agatha is nervous, really nervous. She‘s nervous in that I-don’t- actually-think-I-can-go-through-with-this sort of way. She knows she shouldn’t be, and that there is nothing to worry about. But that doesn’t stop the nerves kicking in. Meeting someone after only speaking to them online holds too much of a familiar fear for her. 

It’s taken me months of coaxing and cajoling for her to agree to meet. Agatha was reluctant at first, not wanting to drag up a past she has tried very hard to leave behind. Eventually she agreed and this is her story. 

Written for Dirty Laundry Magazine - June 2009
Image: Nikki Birdwell 
Shot in Texas, USA

Bright. Young. Thing. That’s me. Vibrant, energetic and full of life. Career prospects galore; men falling at my feet; and a rammed social calendar. I’m super connected (Facebook, Myspace, Twitter); and super switched on (Google, Youtube, iPlayer). My CV brings potential employers to their knees; I’ve got at least five men wanting to charm the socks off me; I’ve got an apartment to die for; and if we’re being honest, I rarely have a spare minute to stop to consider how amazing I am. 

Oh give me strength. 

I am £16,834 in debt (actually add on at least an extra ten grand as I can’t bring myself to work out the actual figure); I have amazing exam results and a great degree, yet no job (I worked my arse off for all those years to make coffee and answer the phone for the next ten years?); I have a stack of unopened and unpaid bills, I live in fear of my electricity being cut off and I haven’t checked my bank balance in the last six months; I have no boyfriend and no hope of getting one anytime soon (hell I don’t even know if I want one, if I do then the sort of man I want, and no idea if he can or will actually help anything); I am liberated enough to have one night stands yet feel used and abused the next day; my world is full of unanswered questions (Am I supposed to be thin, fat or happy as I am? Should I be using wrinkle cream? What does ‘happy’ feel like?); I’m so connected to everything and everyone it feels as though I have a constant migraine (thanks Facebook); some days I can barely move from under the duvet, I often send every call I receive to voicemail and sob into a tub of Ben & Jerry’s I can’t afford; I would gladly drink myself into a stupor on a daily basis and my GP’s suggestion of Prozac just made everything worse. 

I’m lost, I’m confused and I’m far from happy.

Written for Dirty Laundry Magazine - June 2009.
Image by Vann Apragal 

Thirties

Forties

Fifties

Illustrations by David Gardner.
Written for Dirty Laundry Magazine. 

We were Generation Girl Power. ‘Spice up your life’ we sang, dressed in our uniform of skirts-over-trousers and banana clips as we debated which Spice Girl we were most like. We shopped in Tammy Girl, drank Sunny Delight, collected Beanie Babies and watched The Parent Trap. We discovered Napster, got hooked on MSN and upgraded our internet connections from 56k to Broadband. We read J17, Sugar and Smash Hits. We swooned over Clockhouse at C&A and begged our mums to let us wear Kickers. We watched Mystic Meg on a Saturday night and cried when Princess Diana died. We drank our way through our teenage years in a blur of Barcardi Breezers and Smirnoff Ice. We were Independent Women inspired by Destiny’s Child and Charlie’s Angels. 

We sailed through years of education, memorising the mark scheme’s model answers every step of the way. We sat in exam halls across the country, furiously scribbling practiced answers like a pandemonium of parrots dressed in Topshop. SATs, GCSEs and A Levels all passed by in a breeze. ‘The world is your oyster,’ our parents and teachers cried. Nice houses, fast cars, exotic holidays: whatever we wanted to have, we would have.  Lawyers, architects, novelists: whatever we wanted to be, we would be.

We were Generation Everything. We were bright sparks heading for an even brighter future. 

And then everything changed. Napster got shut down. Sunny Delight turned out to be horrendously bad for us. Lindsay Lohan went to rehab. Tammy Girl went bankrupt. Destiny’s Child split up. And alcopops meant only one thing: alcoholism. Suddenly we are on the fast track to nowhere. 

What happened to the good times we were told to expect? Shadowed by a feeling of never being good enough, our years of expensive education have not only left us riddled with debts but also the doubt that we will ever find a job at our intellectual level. Push.co.uk estimates the average student debt is now £17500 and coupled with the increasing amount of credit card debt, difficulty in securing loans and large interest rates, it’s no wonder we’re left feeling a little out of pocket.

We’ve got the exam grades, we’ve got the degree, but where are the glittering careers we were promised? We’re stuck with nothing but the photocopier or the beer pump. And for a measly £6.50 an hour. If we’re lucky. 

“I got a first from a good university in a highly regarded subject,” explains graduate Sophie Hynes. “Yet here I am two years later, and the only thing to look forward to is another evening of empty pint glasses and KP Nuts.” 

There’s no home sweet home either. Instead of chic urban apartments with stainless steel kettles and spare bedrooms, we’re faced with grotty flatshares or moving back to the family home. 

“I live in a mouse-infested bedsit in Hackney,” says 24 year old Aby Peacock. “It takes me 25 minutes to walk to the tube station, and then I have an hour’s journey to get to my job. I still pay over £100 a week and that doesn’t even include any bills.” 

And forget about love conquering all. “Disney ruined my life,” confesses Hannah Beasley, a 23 year old photographer who, on paper, has everything going for her. There is no understandable reason why this attractive, intelligent girl should be single. And yet she is. 

“Every time I see my mother, she looks at me in despair. ‘Not bringing a nice man home this time dear?’ she chimes. ‘No mum,’ I reply, as yet another year of being single passes.” 

Raised on a diet of Aladdin and Pocahontas, we’ve suddenly faced with a decided lack of Prince Charmings.  And without Prince Charming, can there ever be a happily ever after?  Our little girl fantasies of a white wedding and ‘til death do us part’ are exactly that, fantasies.  With two out of three marriages ending in divorce, we are having to be a lot more realistic about our future.  Some of us may end up with the white picket fence dream; others may remain eternally single.  Either way, men are no longer the definitive answer to ultimate fulfilment.  

If we can’t find a man, there’s always drink.  We’re enjoying a drink even if the only thing to celebrate is the opening of a new box of Corn Flakes.  A recent University of Manchester study investigated the drinking habits of 200 girls aged between 16 and 24 in a sexual health clinic in the South East.  75% drank more than five units on a typical night out but a significant number consumed more than the recommended 14 unit weekly limit in one night alone.  The Daily Mail headlines don’t lie: We’re now a nation of very drunk young women who can only find relief at the bottom of a wine bottle.  

The amount we’re drinking isn’t our only worry.  Atkins?  Cabbage Soup?  Weight Watchers?  We’ve been there, we’ve done that, and we’ve got the T-shirt.  Anorexia?  Bulimia?  We’ve been there, we’ve done that, and we’ve got that T-shirt too.  With conflicting messages being sent out by magazines, it’s no wonder it won’t be over until the fat lady sings, or, more accurately, until the fat lady’s thin.  

And  we’re feeling under pressure.  Who have we got to inspire us?  Are we supposed to adore the vanilla looks and vanilla personalities of Fearne Cotton, Holly Willoughby and Cat Deeley?  Or is it all about marrying a footballer and stripping off for page three? We’re in the midst of an identity crisis.  Call us ‘girls’ and we sound like alcopop drinking 16 year olds on a night out in Essex; call us ‘ladies’ and we may as well be wearing vast amounts of Jaeger and ‘doing’ lunch; and call us ‘women’ and it’s all tampons, the Pill and childbirth. 

Career or children is no longer the question.  Career and children is what we expect and what is expected of us.  Compromise is not an option.  Success and contentment are supposed to go hand-in-hand.  We’re angst-ridden twenty somethings, carrying the weight of the world on our shoulders. 

We were young and ambitious.  And now we’re feeling old and embittered.  Forget mid-life crisis, it’s all about Quarter Life Crisis.  The mess we’re in would have even Sylvia Plath in tears.  

We’re getting on, we’re getting by and, the truth is, we’re getting nowhere.

Written for Dirty Laundry Magazine. 

Things haven’t got off to a flying start. As if being here isn’t embarrassing enough, the rather gorgeous Australian speed dating host has just laughed in my face.  Will he be joining in tonight’s proceedings, I wonder.  “As if I need to,” he sniggers, whilst writing my name on a badge, and attempting to pin it onto my dress. 

‘I’m not wearing that,’ I think to myself, as I unpin it and discreetly drop the bright orange ‘My name is…’ badge onto the floor.  Could it be any more obvious how desperately I need to get laid?  Do I really need a confirmatory badge?  Should I just turn off the music, jump onto the bar and shout it for all to hear? 

I head to the bar, and contemplate the menu.  What I’m not contemplating is which cocktail to order, but whether ordering a bottle of wine instead of a glass will make me look like a raging alcoholic to the other daters.  I decide it will, and settle on ordering four glasses of wine and hiding them under the table instead. 

There’s a ‘score card’ on my table and I see that I’m supposed to fill it in after each ‘date’.  The options are stark in their simplicity: yes, no or friend.  

The girl on the table next to me looks as perplexed as I feel.  We introduce ourselves and make forced small talk.  There’s no female camaraderie here.  This is a competition, and she’s thinner and prettier than me.  I see her eyeing up the other girls; mostly clad in this season’s jewel colours and high heels, apart from one twenty something who hasn’t quite got over her teenage obsession with all things goth.  My neighbour looks pleased by this particular contestant, and I get the idea she’s just written her off as any sort of competition.  

The gorgeous Australian rings a bell and badge no. 1 approaches my table.  Ryan.  Hello Ryan.  How are you Ryan?  Is this your first time Ryan?   It’s all very generic.  I don’t want to come across as a desperate try-hard who has a pre-prepared list of questions in her handbag. Before he’s even finished explaining (or should I say justifying) his reasons for being here, our three minutes are up.  Bye Ryan.  I give him a yes on my score card, unsure of how high my standards are supposed to be. 

Along comes No. 2. Hi Lee.  He notices my lack of name badge.  “Oh has it fallen off already?” I ask.  He doesn’t seem to care.  My name doesn’t matter anyway.  To him, I’m nothing more than No. 5.  I go with a hesitant yes for Lee, and a question mark in the friend column. 

Number 3.  Sunny.  He attempts to regale me with his latest research into astrophysics.  I get the next glass of wine from under the table and regale myself with drinking it.  

Number 4. Banker.  Hot but knows it.  Arrogant prick.  No. 

Number 5.  Nice shoes.  Very shiny.  Yes.  

Number 6. He’s shorter than me, and I’m short.  I decide not to be so judgmental, and give him a chance.  It’s still a no. 

Number 7.  Matt.  He’s from my hometown.  Common Ground?  Yes. 

Number 8.  Adam.  Scottish, gorgeous accent.  Oh alright then. 

Number 9.  Jim.  Devon.  Suppose so. 

Jim, Piers, Tom, Marc, Ben, James… 

The next few pass in a blur.  I can’t even remember their faces.  I’m not sure whether that’s more to do with the three minutes I have to meet these men, or the rapidly diminishing glasses of wine under my table. 

We get to number 16. We’re on the home straight.  Amer looks like a doctor, he sounds like a doctor.  Oh he is a doctor.  He hasn’t even asked my name.  “I’m one of the best in the country in my field,” he drawls, and I stop listening. 

I look around, and think how this is just a meat market.  It’s so loud.  Everyone is selling their wares, doing their best to stand out from the competition. ‘Buy me,’ is disguised as a plate of polite questions and polite responses, peppered with a hint of flirtation.  

There are the rib-eyes: popular, juicy and highly desirable thanks to being especially tender and flavourful.  The fillets: prime cuts, extremely tender and a rare treat.  The sirloins: a much tougher cut, and probably best served with a sauce.  The rumps: alright fried on a week night after a long day at work, but nothing special.  

Next it’s David, and Dave, and Sarmad.  I’m bored, really bored, insanely bored. 

I hate this hideous flesh-fest, where judgements are made within three minutes, and decisions are filed into one of three boxes.  I hate the way I have to judge the men, and they have to judge me, making potentially life-changing decisions within three minutes.  But most of all I hate being part of this battle.  I don’t want to compete against these women.  

Because in my mind, they will always win.  I don’t fit into their boxes, and I don’t want to either.  

There’s more to me than ‘meats’ the eye.  But at this market, I’m just mince meat.  And if a fillet steak is on offer, who is going to pick a cottage pie? 

If you too want to be judged after three minutes, and become nothing more than a tick in a box, why not log onto www.speeddater.co.uk?  

Written for Dirty Laundry Magazine.