Tuesday.

The day started with the alarm of a mobile telephone, Stephen's. It was a quarter to ten and the Cornerhouse's Tuesday Talk was to take place at eleven. We breakfasted and I ran off to wait for a Magic Bus. I reached the Cornerhouse minutes before take-off, joining the conceptual miners on the heated road to the basement, where it was dark and filling.

The talk was introduced by a loud and dramatic man with curly hair. I know his name. He is the host, the speaker is his friend and we are their patients. It was boring, packed with polite jibberish, snug in the world of art and meaningless outside of itself. I do not want to be part of this. I do not want a future filled with casual lies and actions without passion. I cannot allow myself to lapse back into the character that says yes when he does not mean it, or applaud a bore, or emulate a fraud.

The climate of art discussion is dull and riddled with alienating jargon. I had adopted so much of it as an eager Foundation student, such a weedy shoeshiner, an unpaid classroom assistant too paranoid to commit to any one perspective, to full of the fears of parental disapproval from any figure of authority. I do not care for the intellectual debate. Over-complicated common sense with no charisma or showmanship. For me it is as much of a compromise as popular culture. Art to me involves the ideas of an individual, and for too long my ideas have been nutured and distilled by the same corruptive force; the place of education which lets me avoid the world of adult responsibility. I am sick of the place, I am bored of the city, I do not want to have anything to do with the art world which is removed from everything else and driven by accolade and deals. Then again, I way want to be the star on the cover. I am confused and in need of change. I am going on an exchange programme. I am leaving the present situation with which I have grown complacent.

The obvious things come up, the only truth is my opinion. The only answers I care about are personal, I like emotional and personal art. Conceptual brilliance is a moving as the drone of a computer fan - it reminds me of the factory that is the present, in art and media and work and life. Wonderful things happen everywhere, galleries are so flat and small and full of flat feet. I love a world with integrity and sexuality and comfort and care and consideration. I hate the gallery and its static black clothes. I hate contemporary art writing. I hate contemporary art merchandise. I love a blue sky and a white cloud. I love meaning and honesty and belief and discovery. I detest the looseleaf pile of indirect nonsense that I have generated over the last several years. I listen to myself and trust my opinions. I do not wait for a nod. What are my ideas? What will I do? None and nothing? No. My ideas and memories resurface. My interests remain consistant. My loves and hates stand forever. I am a student, I want to be an adult, I want to be a child, I am probably still a teenager. I am free and the staff are welcome to their own opinions, personal and professional. My mind is too busy to take them in.

In conclusion, I am in a phase which is full of extreme feelings. When it has passed, I will know exactly what it is I want to be doing.