Inspired by nature, wildlife, and 'far-off mystical lands', Stacey Williamson creates exquisite works of art for her startup business, Two for Joy. Using the medium of paper, Stacey creates beautiful framed cut-outs, as well as limited-edition screen prints, t-shirts, and bags. She lives and works in her studio in Shoreditch.
Some weeks ago, I had the pleasure of attending the opening of Memento Mori, a unique exhibition at the Hoxton Art Gallery which delves deep into the meaning of mortality. Among the many talented artists whose works are currently being featured at the gallery (the exhibition runs until the 6th of October), I had the chance to chat with Shane Mecklenburger, the man behind the mysterious Armadillo Diamond.
Odds and sods from around the 'Ditch - photographs by Tim D'Souza
When you finish eating, rest your chopsticks on top of your rice bowl, thank you very much. And thank Buddha this isn’t someone’s home, because you left your etiquette at the door by not bringing fruit, sweets, flowers or incense. And next time, if you do happen to remember to bring flowers, make sure they’re not yellow or chrysanthemums. No I’m not your mother-in-law or strict grandmother laying dinning etiquette rules down on the table like a bowl of scalding custard - I’m talking Vietnamese culture and their deliciously captivating way of doing things.
I discovered London-based freelance photojournalist Guilherme Zauith at the Candid Arts Studio in Angel. On display was his East London Hackney series, which may I add, completely drenched my ‘life is completely void of inspiration’ drought. Standing in front of his work sent me into an artistic alternate reality, as he had managed to capture parts of East London in such an organic and real kind of way, completely void of London’s highlighted glamour.
She hones— I hurled you Into my arms, the Cat in my voice a queen. You, ever in reserve, shied. Around us, East London took effect— A Pole, two Sicilians, married, two Greeks drinking Cobra beers, Fang in hand, Emily the scouse violinist, a German who Thought Berlin too small.
The [overrun] armadillo picked up in Texas by Ohio-based artist Shane Mecklenburger couldn’t have in its wildest dreams imagined that it would one day be cremated, and transformed into a shining piece of art. Transformed into a diamond from its ashes, Mecklenburger’s Texas armadillo will soon be on display at the Hoxton Art Gallery in Shoreditch, as part of their Memento Mori exhibition.
Commodities trader by day and artist extraordinaire by night, Sheiky is a man clouded in mystery with an aversion to being pigeon-holed or stereotyped. Making no mention of his origins, background, or artistic approach, he's one who definitely doesn't like to play things by the book, and who thrives on ambiguity. As Sheiky says of himself, 'he makes a conscious attempt that you don't get a chance to judge him' - and is quite successful in doing so.
I get a little teary-eyed when I see someone sitting all alone in the local park, with not a soul or second shadow in sight. The thought often crosses my mind that I should be the one to make a difference by expanding the shadow of their loneliness; I guess I’m just scared of a negative reaction - which shouldn’t be a valid excuse - but it is.
I toyed with a number of headlines for this article, including Stuart Bradley and the Unknown EMI Artist, but all of them sounded as much like rejected Harry Potter titles as the above example. Unfortunately, it’s pretty much the best I can do, as the event I’m reviewing was several weeks ago and I wasn’t even meant to be there (I got in by claiming to be a tech reviewer for a national newspaper that was writing an article on social dynamics within the electronic music scene). An elaborate story to construct sober, let alone after a heavy evening of after-work drinks, I credit being able to blag entry to the gravitas of this lie.
According to a well trusted friend of mine, who devotes her life to the perplexing ideologies of superstition, hair will begin to grow in your stomach if you chew and eat your nails to oblivion. I have no nails, so I have a lot to be concerned about. I can’t bear to imagine the thought of coughing up a fur ball, and am certainly not confident enough to ask the street roaming Salem-wannabe cats how to cough some up. Surely my internal hair farm needs a good harvest, right? And, even if it were a good season, I can’t imagine a decent-sized hairball having much street value.
My innermost apologies to all who oppose the title of my article, but I feel it necessary to blame the Saxons and their inexcusable attempt at naming this wondrous area after a ‘filthy stream that once ran nearby’ – Sewerditch. I’m no historian, no cultural expert, and take no responsibility in offering correct geographical facts or figures. I am simply an observer. A framer. A lover. And here, I share with you my own personal virginal memoirs of Shoreditch.
