The raw and the cooked

A short film about Gabriel Orozco*

 Apologies in advance to current practising artists - myself included - but I feel I need to set this down.

I am alarmed to find myself bored with contemporary art and I want to understand why. The prospect of traipsing around yet another gallery has started to weigh heavy, when once it was an adventure, pursued with passion. I have started to opt out of openings, to not bother to make trips to shows I once would have considered unmissable. It's true, I am older and a little jaded but I think there's another problem. The art is getting worse.

To borrow a term from Claude Lévi-Strauss, I see a lot of raw rather than cooked art these days. By which I mean art for which the raw ingredients have been gathered but which has sidestepped the more challenging process of cooking (thinking and making) that resolves those ingredients into something new.

Perhaps you'll find pure research (photos, objects, drawings, papers) arranged in vitrines or on the gallery walls, which the viewer is invited to study as if marking the artist's homework.

Or, mundane photos / barely edited smartphone footage of little significance, were it not for some accompanying text that explains an idea or reference that occurred to the artist but remains unexpressed in the visuals.

Or illustrative paintings / drawings of people or landscapes that in themselves may connote important themes or narratives, but the painter is content to sit back and let the referents and not their own painterly labour do the work.  

Or imitative abstracts (painted or sculpted) that continue to riff on a revolution in art more than 50 years after the fact. 

Or art made to illustrate a doctoral thesis or tick a scientist's funding criteria or meet a museum's engagement agenda or fulfil a property developer's Section 106 requirement. 

Or art made to look like all the other art - clumsy painting; re-assembled painted pallets; fat bundles of stuff on on spindly legs; recycled kitsch; large draped pieces of fabric; random objects culled from the street around an urban studio. 

Or clunky artisanal ceramics, and other badly executed crafts presented with (if we're lucky) a splash of irony.  

Sometimes I see these things, recognise them for what they are and part with hard cash to hang them on my wall or put them on my shelves. Because I like them and think I could live with them. But that's interior design, not art.

Sometimes things can look like any of the above and still be full of important ideas. There are no rules.

But. 

Good art, cooked art, brings together unsuspected content to create new flavours. "What if?" "Why not?" "Fuck that!" It surprises, provokes, confuses, disrupts, asks questions, opens doors, creates awkwardness, angers, unsettles. It might give pleasure, but in a thoroughly overwhelming and disorienting way - like a relentless tickle or a dose of psilocybin, not a stroke of the head. 

It resolves into something that the artist needs to tell the world, consciously or unconsciously. It alters people's minds, their ways of being. In some small way, every piece of real art changes the world; it doesn't just add to the pile of meaningless stuff already in it. 

I understand many artists are battling almost impossible odds to have the time, physical space, head space and cash to make their work. These circumstances do not help artists to generate quality work, and sometimes I feel it's a miracle any art gets made at all. 

Very few of us can make significant, fascinating, provocative art all the time. But some of us, sadly, aren't even trying. 

 *Gabriel Orozco is one of many artists whose work and process I feel hits this high bar. See also https://gabriellehoad.blogspot.com/2011/04/love-and-hate-and-gabriel-orozco.html

Making space

Life drawing - 30-second pose | 1990s

Over the past few months, I've been sifting the contents of my house, regularly traipsing to the recycling centre with bin bags full of old artworks, advertising work and shredded papers. I am hoping to make some space for a small home studio by the end of the year. 

Looking back at old art is one of the hardest, saddest things. I've drawn and painted and made stuff since I was a child, believing that being good at something was all that mattered. When I realised people like me did not get to have careers in the arts, I found a 'proper' job in advertising instead. But I kept on with the sketchbooks and evening classes and summer schools.  

I promised myself I would return to art but, in the meantime I tried to build my skills. I learnt the basics of painting, printing, photography, casting, sculpting, design. Amidst all the sketchbooks and photos and experiments, I have unearthed stacks of old life drawings. I attended classes regularly, often after long days in the office, believing it to be an essential part of the artist's routine. But I also loved the intensity of the life room: the drawings you could only make in that moment with that person in front of you.

So what a shock when I finally made it to art school as a mature student to find the life room dismissed as a 'comfort zone' and the workshops and studio spaces being actively run down. Instead I was taught ideas and theories. After a bit, I adapted happily enough to a more conceptually oriented way of working, with much of the making outsourced. It's what I still, broadly speaking, do today. It suits my studio-less state. 

It's sad to think of all the long hours and labour I devoted to a dream that never quite materialised, but I don't see the time as wasted. In the moment it had meaning and I still use much of the knowledge I acquired - from plasterwork to print pre-production, sewing to screenprinting - even if it's only to commission makers who are more practised in their craft than me.

I do make, of course: I perform live actions, I arrange things in spaces, I bring people together for events, I create photos and moving image footage, I design publications and edit films. And, when I have bigger ideas I want to execute, I work things out through models and prototypes. But I do miss the process of thinking through making with my hands. It's a long time since I made physical marks and formed physical shapes simply to see what they show me. Or indeed since I went to life class. Just thinking about splooshing paint or ink or plaster around again makes me homesick with longing.  It's time to make some space for making.

On not being an artist

Image public domain from OpenClipart

A few days ago, I heard that a modestly funded residency I applied for had received over 250 applications. I'm grateful to the organisers for their transparency - and have adjusted my expectations of the outcome accordingly! They've clearly put a lot of thought into the application process: asking for the bare minimum they need to shortlist, while making it as accessible and easy as possible, so I have no grumbles with them. But it does indicate how few good-quality opportunties are available and how many artists are now competing for them.

No wonder so many artists are abandoning the profession (or even this entire Brexit-hobbled country) - often entering trades such as plumbing, carpentry, building, clothes-making, community organising, food and catering, horticulture, marketing, and painting and decorating ... Where they usually find their intelligence, creativity, energy and problem-solving skills are highly valued. Out in the real world, people expect to pay you for your time, materials and overheads, and respect you for being the expert you are. It's not all rosy, of course, but it is possible to earn a living and feel good about what you do.

Meanwhile I watch the demoralising privatisation of the art space and a corresponding drop in the quality of work that gains any traction. My Instagram feed is full of ads for self-funded 'residencies' in private venues; 'open' exhibitions charging extortionate entry fees; fee-based professional development opportunities promising to equip desperate artists with the skills to compete; and privately run galleries and venues pushing an agenda of exclusivity and privilege. And don't get me started on the way art has been colonised by bloated university departments pyramid-selling pointless qualifications. Any one would think artists are awash with money when, in fact, most are simply out of options.

It's not going to get better any time soon, so new strategies are needed. Even though I'd love to continue to share physical work in physical spaces, the opportunities to do so with proper support are becoming vanishingly rare - and eyewateringly competitive. My move towards film has been partly motivated by a desire to stop wrangling with gate-keepers and have more control over the means of production and distribution. Self-organised events will be key but, to reach larger, more international audiences, there are also thousands of film festivals and screenings.  

I've been pleasantly surprised by Film Freeway, a central hub for entering film festivals around the world. Yes, you still 'pay to play' as you would for an open exhibition but, if you're canny and hit earlybird entry fees, the costs stay low. Best of all, there's a very light admin burden: you upload your film and publicity materials just once, for free, and then pay fees as and when you choose to enter different festivals. No tailored proposals required, no images and statements in umpteen different formats, no delivery and collection days where you must turn up in person to hand in or collect your work. 

It's this kind of respect for the busy and precarious lives of people who make stuff that I'm looking for, whether it's the paid residency with a simple application process and transparent communication, or the application platform that alleviates my admin burden. I also really appreciate a thoughtful rejection message (because, let's face it, we see far more of those than acceptances!)

Curators and commissioners probably do need to think harder about what they are asking of artists when they advertise opportunities ... before we all become so exhausted we stop bothering to apply (no joke). Andrew Simonet is very good on the extractive nature of artist call-outs and what organisations might do to improve things.  

The Film Festival Experience

I feel privileged to have had my film The Porous Body shown as part of the Official Selection at Two Short Nights 2026. It's really thrilling (as well as totally overwhelming) to see your film on the big screen and to hear it relayed through a cinema sound system. It was also very instructive.  I've spent the weekend doing a few tweaks: correcting tiny mistakes that were suddenly evident in this new setting.

As an artist more used revealing my new work in gallery spaces, it felt incredible to have a room full of strangers sit quietly in the dark and give my film their full attention. By contrast, a gallery private view is mostly full of people standing around drinking wine and gossiping.

But here's the thing I have to accept about film festivals. My films may or may not find complementary company. The Porous Body was shown as part of a programme called 'Something Feels Off', which focused on horror, suspense and the uncanny. As soon as I saw the programme I knew that my low-budget, low-key, research-driven film was going to be swamped. The other films (all of them well-resourced dramas) were great but they were of a very different genre. I was proud of the integrity and simplicity of my work, but it simply didn't fit.

(By contrast, the film I made with Frankie Williams and Tim King as part of the Two Short Nights 48-Hour Film Challenge benefited enormously from being screened alongside similarly make-shift, chaotic works in an atmosphere of generosity and hilarity.)

This isn't a criticism of the programming as I understand how hard it is to fit everything together for a festival. There's no perfect way in such a crammed schedule to give each film the space it deserves. But it is something I need to consider as I continue to make submissions to different film festivals.  

Never Touch the Ground

 Frank Mary Films | Still from Never Touch the Ground | 2026 

Two women, one cake and an epic cross-country challenge. 

I spent this weekend working with Frankie Williams and Tim King as part of Exeter Phoenix's 48-Hour Film Challenge. The aim is to make a three-minute film from script to final edit in just 48 hours.  You can recruit cast and crew, recce locations and gather kit in advance ... but the actual brief arrives at 6pm on Friday and the completed film must be uploaded at 6pm on Sunday.

We were assigned Documentary/Mockumentary as a genre, along with the same compulsory prop and line of text that all 2026 competitors have to include in their films. 

Things didn't go exactly as planned: life has a habit of throwing up the unexpected. But we got there and had lots of fun along the way, especially during filming. However, doing a speedy edit and post-production on the Sunday when already tired was quite a slog. 

"Film-making is a muscle," said Ben Wheatley at a Q&A the other week after a screening of his new film BULK. That is to say, you only get better by keeping on making them. I agree. Every time I've brought one to completion I've learnt a bit more about how to structure a project, how to think about narrative (or anti-narrative), how to shoot, how to edit, how to deal with sound.

Never Touch the Ground is very rough and pretty silly and I am sure it's not the best film any of us will ever make, but it was an intense learning experience. We hope it will be part of the screening at Two Short Nights on Friday 6th March.

The year so far

Work in progress for inclusion in The Future Present | 2026

January didn't get off to a good start when I heard that an application I'd made with another artist to be part of the Freelands Foundation's Two Together studio programme had failed. We felt we had a strong application, but we didn't even get to interview.

The thought of spending a month in a large, purpose-built studio space (as opposed to my kitchen table, a muddy field or a windy beach) was a wonderful thing to contemplate. But, as with so many opportunities advertised at the moment, the competition (for even a modest fee) was impossibly intense. The cursory rejection, after so much shared effort on our part, made me look at two other proposals I was drafting and almost give up.

Now I'm left with an even sharper awareness of my lack of a permanent studio - one of the factors that is driving me towards moving image practice. Digital video and sound can be planned at home, made on location, edited at a desk and stored on a drive. But, in parallel, I would still like to be able to let "my fingers do the thinking" as my fellow artist Stella Tripp puts it, and that means a dedicated space, even if it's just a table at home that's used for nothing else. It's led me to consider permanent rental of offsite storage to clear some space in my house. It feels counter-intuitive to rent commercial storage rather than a studio, but this kind of space is far more readily available in Exeter, and in some cases actually cheaper.

In better news, I'm looking forward to the inaugural cinema screening of my new film The Porous Body at Two Short Nights in March.  I'm also cooking up plans with Frankie Williams to take on the 48 Hour Film Challenge - writing, shooting and editing a three-minute film to a brief that won't be known until the 48-hour countdown begins. In the meantime we've been checking tech, scouting locations and gathering props, costumes and potential extras.

More good news is that a piece I wrote on class and its impact on my art career has been accepted by Axis for a forthcoming publication. This was so difficult to talk about that I resorted to metaphor and now feel I bottled out - especially when I heard Sarah Ryder talk (see below).  But I really think it's something we need to acknowledge, so I don't regret having a go. (See a previous attempt here.)

I've also made 200 tiny packets of seeds and shipped them off to Nick Davies at Loophole Projects for inclusion in a forthcoming publication The Future Present. 

And despite a strong urge to hibernate, I've made an effort to be out and about at film screenings and various artists talks and meetings.  I truly believe one of the best individual actions we can take in the current geopolitical climate is to stay connected and look out for each other. Today's outing was to see Sarah Ryder closing her fabulous show Multiferals at Exeter Phoenix with a fascinating talk that underlined how limitations (of class, space, time etc) need not hold us back. Far better to work right up to and bounce hard against them: resourcefulness can have amazing results.

 

Official Selection - Two Short Nights

                                 

What a great way to end the year: hearing that my moving image work - The Porous Body - has been selected for the Two Short Nights Film Festival , which takes place 5th-6th March next year.  

This experimental short explores the dark and claustrophobic world of the late 19th / early 20th century seance room -- from the point of view of a female medium. It is based on first-hand accounts by believers, sceptics and scientists.

Mediums aroused curiosity and suspicion in equal amounts. Often treated like scientific specimens, they were subjected to intrusive examinations and troubling experiments in order to demonstrate their integrity.

It's a tangled story of faith and rationality, the limited power that women held in a highly patriarchal society, and the Victorian obsession with pushing at the frontiers of scientific discovery.

The film's low-tech, low-budget aesthetic reflects the simple means by which these women conjured their manifestations of ectoplasm and other phenomena -- as well as the still-evolving technology that was used to record and comprehend them.