If you know me at all, you'll know my favourite movie is Breakfast at Tiffany's. In it, Holly Golightly explains how it feels to get 'The Mean Reds' to her dashing neighbour, Paul Varjak:
Holly: You know those days when you get the mean reds?
Paul: The mean reds, you mean like the blues?
Holly: No. The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?
I'd like to think my life draws many parallels with Holly's. I live alone in an apartment, rarely have anything more in my fridge than a lone bottle of champagne, sleep in late, and I occasionally cat-sit for my neighbours. Granted, I don't go out every night in fabulous gowns with older men, and I unfortunately don't have a handsome and creatively-troubled single neighbour in my building, but there are similarities there. Living alone has its perks. I can stay up as late as I want, get up as early as I want, make noise, make mess, have friends over, and not feel the least bit guilty. Yes, it is a selfish lifestyle, but I'd choose living solo over arguments about bills, noise, and who-stole-my-cheese any day. The only trouble with living alone is in the name: it sometimes gets a bit lonely.
I'm an only child, so solitude comes almost as a second nature. I'm not good in groups, don't like crowds, and will opt for a night in watching Sex in the City over looking for sex in the city. I suppose you could call me a bit of a hermit. It means I don't rely on the company of others as much as other people, but it also means that when loneliness strikes, it's often crippling. In the movie, Holly's antidote for this feeling is to head to Tiffany's, because, "nothing very bad could happen to you there." My 'Tiffany's' are exhibitions, and today I went to a new one.
The Cornerhouse Manchester is not somewhere I frequent very often. Not because it isn't lovely, but because I always feel a bit, well, out of place. It's one of those trendy gallery-come-cafe-come-cinema's, and is always full of intimidating hipsters in oversized vintage coats and questionable haircuts - I'm afraid I, in my brand-new Topshop boots and blowdried hair, don't quite cut it in terms of 'alternative chic'. Nevertheless, I'd been wanting to go to their current David Shrigley exhibition as soon as I had heard about it, and seeing as I'd had a bad case of the Mean Reds last night, I thought it would be a good antidote. As it was Friday lunchtime, most hipsters were either still in bed with an absinthe hangover, or dining at the latest pop-up burger restaurant, so I was free to wander around unjudged. Spread over three small floors, your introduction into the mind of David Shrigley is in a room with a foam bed (the "napping station"), a whiteboard (to write how you are feeling), a mirror, and a gong (just because). I could tell this was going to be the perfect exhibition.
Already feeling my spirits lifting, I continued to the second floor. Covered almost floor to ceiling with black-and-white drawings, it's like stumbling down the rabbit hole and into the mind of the Mad Hatter or Cheshire Cat - nothing makes sense, everything is allowed, and silliness is most definitely encouraged...
David's art has an amazing way of making you feel happy. It makes you laugh (which was fine, because there was no one there to stare at me), it makes you think, and it makes you feel less alone. Gradually, I realised it's ok to be lonely sometimes. And a bit weird. And this feeling made me happy.
The third floor holds a giant statue of a man, with a row of chairs encircling him, and sheets of A3 covering the walls. It became apparent that you are encouraged to draw, or make some kind of artistic offering, that will be put on the walls. A little apprehensive, I looked around at what other people had drawn...
...and slowly but surely built up the courage to sit down and take a Shrigley-esque crack at it. Here is my finished product, in all it's glory:
The exhibition is entitled 'How are you feeling?'. On the whiteboard in the first floor, I had written lonely. By the time I had finished with my purple sharpie on the third, I was happy. For now, at least, the Mean Reds were gone.
How are you feeling?
Love,
Belle x
