changes

This morning I found out that my sweet, bonkers cat, Seven, died.  It�s difficult to articulate without sounding over the top, but I loved that creature and it�s all rather distressing.

Seven

Even still, these things happen.  Without wanting to sound like a Hallmark card, I know it�s part of the cycle of things and perfectly natural, but it�s still terribly sad.  Rather curiously, I wrote most of this post last night and it�s all about change.

Here goes.

There�s something about the changing of the seasons, but particularly the transition from summer heat to autumnal chill that always brings on a bout of self-reflection, a stock take of the past year.  I think it�s because I�ve spent nearly every October of my life starting a new school year so this month, far more than January, always feels like the true beginning of the year, the time to make new goals and assess the progress of previous plans and resolutions.

So. Where am I this October?  For the first time in twenty-odd years I am not starting October as a student.  On Monday I submitted my thesis to the examinations office so now it's just a few months of waiting while the examiners scribble furiously in red pen throughout the margins and then, after that's done, the viva.  Post viva, I shall be Dr. Crystal Bennes and none the wiser for it.

The nicest thing about finishing my thesis is not that I have my life back, for I seem to be busier than ever, but rather that the feeling of work never ending has vanished. Sure, I still have lots to do, but there's no longer the relentless little fairy of academia sitting on my shoulder whispering in my ear that I should be working whenever I'm doing anything that isn't working. I can tell you, it's absolutely liberating.

Other news, other changes: I'm moving. From Clerkenwell. To Hackney Wick. I've spent the better part of the last week and a half freaking out about this, but now I'm rather giddy. I like change. It excites me.  New environments spur new thinking and, though I love Clerkenwell, I think the stimulus provided by new people and a new part of London will more than make up for the loss of such a central location and such great restaurants.  Plus given Hackney Wick's proximity to the Olympic site, it's going to undergo an interesting metamorphosis over the next few years and being a part of that is bound to be interesting.  The only thing I told myself I really couldn't live without was a top-notch breakfasting spot within a ten-minute walk of chez moi.  Luckily, the brilliant and delicious Counter is exactly that.  Their breakfast is one of the best in London. Make the pilgrimage. You'll thank me.

My new place in Hackney Wick

From breakfast to snack food. Or so it would appear.  Ai Weiwei's new installation of 100 million hand-painted ceramic sunflower seeds has just opened in the Turbine Hall of the Tate Modern.  Let me waste no time: I don't like it. At all. Given that I tend to loathe most of the TM's blockbuster exhibitions, perhaps this isn't all that surprising, but I loved Miroslaw Balka's aircraft hangar of a blind-man's box and was expecting something equally sensational from Weiwei. 

More than that I was expecting something provocative, a statement piece, for lack of a better phrase.  Instead what I've been given is a work entirely without context desperately trying to carve out meaning via the artist�s reputation.  An oceanless beach of sunflower seeds does not a statement make.  No doubt the problem lies in the fact that Weiwei is so well known as an agent provocateur, an artist whose work so disturbed the smooth facade of the Chinese government that he was beaten by the police for investigating the student casualties of the Sichuan earthquake.  This is not the challenging, affront of a work one expects from such an individual, let alone artist.  It is a work with an imposed framework of meaning which supposedly enables the viewer to understand it, but only serves to distract from the fact that there is no significant meaning. 

Ai Weiwei's installation in the Tate Modern. photo by Loz Flowers

The sunflower seeds only work when one reads the accompanying text that explains each seed was individually hand painted by artisans in the workshops of Jingdezhen, where imperial porcelainware used to be made, workshops which have become increasingly commercialised.  Or that sunflower seeds were the snack-du-jour during the cultural revolution when other foodstuffs were scarce.  Conversely, I also don't want to accept the reductive viewpoint that I should enjoy the work as it is: something kind of fun to play in.  Perhaps this is unfair, but I expect more from an artist with Weiwei's reputation.  This could have, and should have, been an opportunity for both artist and institution - especially given that the Nobel Peace Prize Committee recently proved the threat of poor relations with China wasn't deterrent enough to award the Prize to a Chinese citizen - to create a truly provocative, forceful, and gripping piece of work.  100 million sunflower seeds is not challenging, nor beautiful, nor moving. It's disappointing. Now maybe if those seeds grew into 100 million sunflowers...

memories, mentors and the movies

(Cliche alert!) I love how I often seem to find what I didn't even know I was looking for at just the precise moment I need it. Usually, this something comes in the form of a book. So, I�m *this* close to finishing my PhD and wondering what in the hell I�m going to do now that I�m not clinging on to the life raft that is academia when, on a whim, I start reading Eric Kandel�s autobiography. Kandel, apart from being a surprisingly wonderful writer and a total genius (such a babe!), won the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 2000 for his research on the physiological basis of memory storage in neurons. I don�t normally read autobiographies, but Kandel�s is awesome: aside from our shared interest in neuroscience and the quality of his prose, many of his insights have reminded me that there�s excitement, discovery and inspiration to be found outside of academia, somewhat surprising given that most of Kandel�s life has been spent in research labs.

There�s one anecdote that has nothing to do with science or academia, where Kandel describes his first date with his future wife, which properly cracked me up. According to Kandel, she resisted his advances initially, though eventually consented to go out on a date with him. When he picked her up, he asked if she�d rather go to a movie or to the best bar in town and when she said she�d like to go to the best bar in town, he took her back to his apartment. What pluck! I love it.

Kandel writes of what it�s like to work in a lab beautifully, but one of the most striking passages describes Kandel's excitement and pleasure when he first began to conduct his own experiments. Despite the fact that Kandel was merely replicating Hodgkin and Huxley�s experiments recording the action potential in the large axon of the crayfish, his joy at discovering his results match those of his predecessors is so uplifting. I won�t explain it well, but there�s something about the thrill of setting off on one�s own, whether in a lab or elsewhere, that's so intoxicating. And there's something about seeing these same feelings mirrored in the experiences of another human being... I don't know. It's reassuring and strangely moving.

Having said that, Kandel also speaks very eloquently of the importance of mentors throughout his career. I suppose that I had mentors as an undergraduate, or at least professors I adored and who steered me down the academic path of no return. But since then, in both professional and professorial contexts, there�s been not one person who�s seemed to me anything like what a mentor ought to be. I�m not sure if this is because everyone�s now so concerned with personal gain, that the idea of passing on knowledge to the younger generation is anathema or if perhaps because the idea of mentoring is simply old fashioned. I don�t know, but I do find it sort of depressing that learning comes only from reading books or from that ancient art of screwing things up and learning from mistakes/experience. Not that I have anything against either, but I think it would be wonderful to have someone around who just, I don�t know, rocked your world a bit and pushed you on to brighter and bolder things. Pipe dreams� Anyway, the book is fantastic and I heartily recommend it: you�ll learn a lot about molecular neural science, but also about the fascinating life of an equally fascinating man.

Happily, I did more this weekend than just read an autobiography that made me feel all wistful and uninspired. I also learned how to change my inner tube when my tire (sorry Anglo folks: I refuse to spell tire, tyre. Icky) got its first ever puncture.

Thankfully, tire got said puncture just before we rocked up to this lovely little caf� in Hackney Wick, the Counter, so I was able to scoff a plateful of eggs florentine before getting my hands greasy.

Bikes fixed, we realised how close we were to the Olympic site and cycled over to check out the progress. I�m not sure why it�d taken me so long to have a nosey round (hello, cynicism!), but I�m glad I finally went to have a look, because it�s actually pretty rad.

Also pretty rad is the cinema that�s been erected on the petrol station where we had our feast back in July. Some seriously ambitious kids knocked up  stadium-style seating, a silver curtain and a cinema screen which will be up through the middle of September. I�m actually amazed they pulled it off, but pull it off they did and it�s great fun. I�m a total sucker for this sort of thing: no massive corporation pulling a marketing scheme, no money-making scamming, just good, old-fashioned DIY architecture at its best.