hiatus

A period of inactivity in one sphere tends to mean, for me at least, that productivity on a deific scale is taking place in another sphere. Trust me when I say that when I go quiet in blogland I am inevitably focusing intensely on the magnum opus: the novel. However, the lure of the art essay is ever stronger so I'm working on something to kick start this little love child again very soon!

'Man is least himself when he talks in his own person, give him a mask and he'll tell you the truth.'

A Mexican wrestler's mask is with him for life. It stays with him through every single public appearance, it's his hallmark, his career tattoo. The mask is the tenuous and tantalising line between man and luchador, which is probably why I've fallen completely in love with them.

The designs are basic. They give off a crude, primal quality, owing to their original intention to pay homage to Aztec artisanship and steal some of its excitable flare which is always achieved most notably when less is more. Their lack of absolute character definition means the theatricalities in the ring always add and never subtract, but more importantly, it means that in this complex mythology of heroes and hellraisers, the audience can always expect the unexpected.

When I look at any mask in particular -and bear in mind, I have little knowledge of Lucha Libre in terms of characters or history and at this point can only appreciate it on a visual level- I see several different traits in contradiction of each other. I can love the predominantly dark, demonic masks with the jagged, tyrannical smiles because there are mischievous eyes and playful intentions to keep me sweet. Powerful bright colours and heroic silver and gold sheens can hold a dark side in a tight-lipped mouth or enraged eyes. Every single one of them could be a god of war or whimsy at any point. Every face has fun, fire and flare all at once. The masks are sacred. Pulling an opponent's mask off during a match is grounds for disqualification. Lucha Libre masks have made careers, they've made legends and they're now gaining major significance in Mexican politics and art. Their symbolic power beyond the ring is becoming a force for change and contemplation in a way American wrestling is yet to achieve. They have also succeeded in representing personal change. Sometimes a character's mask morphs over the years to signify a new gimmick, new moves, new allegiances and major events. At times a wrestler on the verge of retirement will demask at the end of the tournament to signify the death of his character. The anthropomorphism inherent in donning a mask made to symbolise a power animal, an ancient hero or an Aztec god makes way for the transitional and poetic act of leaving the identity behind and 'returning to earth' in front of an adoring crowd who've followed the journey with passion.

Santo only ever revealed his face briefly after retirement. He continued to wear his mask and was buried in it, and when you consider how it made him a fortune as a film star and a national hero, it's not surprising he had so much love for the simplistic silver disguise.

They can be beautiful, brutal and hilarious all at once. They're kitsch but they're classic, depending on your perspective. They're commonplace on street stalls outside Lucha Libre events and if you were a Mexican school boy at any point in the last century they were integral to your understanding of loyalty, bravery, deceit, passion and playground politics, yet to me they're exotic, intense and the emblematic talismans of a secret world.

'Modelling is an ugly business'

Premier, a UK prestige modelling Agency, has opened its doors for Channel 4 and in the immortal words of James St James, 'It's not all sequins and cocktails, kids!'

The fly on the wall series promised to be somewhat of a backstage pass into the modelling world and its deliberate focus on the intense fashion week period -six weeks of money, madness and mood swings- offers a unique portal into the fashion business from the perspective of those behind its curtains rather than in front of the press pit. I eagerly anticipated The Model Agency but equally expected to find myself at odds with its message and the personalities it showcased. The documentary style offers plenty of inane office chat and shows the inner workings of 'the desk' to be no different to any other office environment. Carole White, the founder and office manager, is amongst the staff members to gush about the 'big family' dynamic and the depth of feeling they all have for each other underneath the banter and bravado. However, bitching often reaches dizzying heights with tension between commercial and editorial staff making for draining viewing at times.

Amid the minutiae of daily office life the word 'fat' is thrown around like it's going out of style as office members pore over photographs and criticise every 'flaw' in a manner verging on the reptilian. Yet, in Wednesday's episode a commercial model visits the office for a meeting with her booker only to find the entire desk openly gawping at her obvious lack of flesh and loudly gossiping about her thin legs which one staff member has difficulty looking at. They profess concerns on camera about the amount of weight she appears to have dropped since joining the agency a year ago. It's this lack of association made between the bookers' willingness to talk about the models as commodities and the models subsequently making drastic changes to fit the profile that leaves a sour taste.

The first episode honed in on Annie. As the Head of New Faces she's responsible for girls as young as twelve who find themselves scouted by a member of Premier's staff and subsequently put onto the books for 'nurturing' until they're ready to be 'launched' in a catwalk season at around the age of sixteen. India Farrell is the new model they suspect will be a 'breakthrough girl' and they've packed her off to New York alone to meet with design houses for fittings and bookings. As it transpires that young India is having second thoughts about a future in the modelling industry the whole office seems to go into emotional hyper drive. Annie spends almost the entire episode on the phone, weeping uncontrollably to this kid and stating manipulatively, 'I love you', 'I've looked after you since you were a baby' and 'I don't want you to regret this'. The cherry on the cake of this tasteless show of inappropriate emotional attachment was when Annie claimed to be closer to the young models than their own parents. If this series isn't a clear caution against taking your pretty daughter for a walk-in appointment at Premier I can't imagine what is. These flamboyant displays of 'care' and 'concern' turn to frustration and anger as the sixteen year old India decides to put an end to her modelling career and return home after experiencing illness, homesickness and the unpleasant experience of a New York agent calling her 'fat' to her face. It would be interesting to know if the same amount of energy and tears are spent by Annie on the girls who are dropped from the agency after initial promise doesn't turn into earning potential. I'd be interested to see if the series addresses the plights of models who've experienced the polar opposite of star treatment but I suspect the makers of The Model Agency will play it as safe as possible.

Annie and Carole from The Model Agency

When they're not using words like 'nurturing' and 'launching' as though each model is a fragile, dependent fledgling being cast into the fray, there's unsavoury talk of 'money girls' and 'show girls'. Somewhat sinister references to young women as commodities abound throughout - feminists beware! As news hits the office of India's decision to leave modelling, Premier co-founder Steve White is stunned at the notion that a sixteen year old with the potential to earn ridiculous money has instead chosen to live a 'normal, regular teenage life'. If he took the short time necessary to consider the significant self-esteem issues that can arise as the result of living life within strict physical boundaries where you can be rejected from a catwalk job on the grounds that your hipbones are too broad, he might have an easier time comprehending her decision.

'Only great minds can afford a simple syle.'

I remember discovering Erwin Wurm after seeing the Red Hot Chilli Peppers video that claimed to be inspired by his work in which the band members placed their bodies into brief, absurd marriages with various objects. For me Wurm's One Minute Sculptures -thoughtful physical engagements with marker pens, plastic bottles and waste paper bins- always kept me amused and curious as to his intentions but it was the way he used clothing in sculpture that charmed me. Stretching it, shrinking it, reshaping it and reinventing its use, Wurm's artistic relationship with the humble pullover could easily be described as slapstick, and indeed on the surface he has been considered art's top-billing comedian. Along with his obese houses, spaceship cars and warped transit trucks it's not hard to see why I took him for an all round cynic who expressed his contempt with banality by making it laughable.

I recently read an interview with Wurm in which he explained how embracing comedy felt daring, important and subversive. He spoke about the essential rebellion of reading comics as a child. They were forbidden in school in the '50s and their contents considered incendiary. But I was more interested in learning that his father was a police detective who felt that an entrance into the art world would be irrevocably tied to criminality. It made me wonder if Wurm's insurgence against his environment helped him to navigate a pathway through tongue-in-cheek sculptural narrations and childish visual absurdity and ultimately to his bottom line, which could be that ordinary objects hold magical qualities and that the imagination is more easily unlocked than many of us accept.

So a few days ago I was pleasantly baffled by the editorial directed by Wurm in the March issue of Wallpaper magazine. And suddenly I was thinking, 'Yes! Of course, this guy is the perfect person to work on a fashion editorial! What is a pose if not a one minute physical sculpture? What is style if not a fleeting statement of power and permanence?'

Is it me or do these images as an overall project seem to work on two equally valid levels? On the one hand there's a small-scale-smaller-budget, community project atmosphere present. This sense that there's just a room, a camera and a box of clothes left to a bunch of creatives who have one big chance to take the whole concept of a fashion shoot to another planet. Yet, there's also real poignancy on offer. The clothes are being experienced. There is no trace of passivity, instead every shot is pumped with a passion for texture, colour, material and durability. Bringing a sculptor to the task of shooting clothes has donated an often absent sense of exploration which succeeds to make the material seem close enough to touch.

Emmanuel Kant said that for something to qualify as truly beautiful in essence it has to transcend purpose. Its rightness of design should satiate our imagination and intellect without evaluating its reason. He suggested that any judgement of beauty could be instantly contaminated by desire. If an incredibly ripe strawberry makes you want to eat it or a particularly red rose makes you want to pluck it and wear it in your hair then you're not appreciating these items for their beauty but only for the pleasure they offer. If I was to apply this evaluation technique to clothes in a fashion editorial, Wurm would be my art director of choice. To take beautiful, well-made clothing to a place of excellent presentation without encouraging the viewer to want it, to need it, to be unable to imagine the dull reality of life without it, is to ask the viewer to see the clothes more as art and less as commodity.

Granted, the entire fashion industry from the bottom upwards could crumble if this kind of result was commonplace, but it just gives me something to think about..