Back to the drawing board

I was kept up all night by this intro. Incessantly nagged by new ideas, none of them seemed to quite fit – how could I boil down the atmosphere of Central Saint Martins in one snappy sentence?

All you really need to know is that it’s a somewhat elitist central London university, and for my first-ever art journalism assignment, I would be covering their BA Fine Art open studio. The event is a glimpse into the potential future of art. Students place their best works on show hoping to catch the eye of the odd reporter or collector in the sea of attendees that could launch them into the limelight. Joining their ranks was a turn to the dark side; I felt powerful.

Walking up to Coal Drops Yard I encountered Liz West’s Fluorescence sculpture commission. Its gaudy stripes were more reminiscent of an advertisement for Paul Smith’s nearby shop than the festivity its description promised. I hoped it wasn’t a precursor for what was to come from CSM. With a stomach lined with nothing but a meal deal I crossed my fingers and prayed to see some art worthy of both your and my time.

My journey into student art began with 3D sculpture. Filled with parents clad in gilets, colourful scarves and thick rimmed glasses, it was the perfect spot for my favourite game: ‘Who’s richest in the room?’ But I managed to hold off and turn my attention towards the art.

Hanging works from ceilings seems to be all the rage right now, which was unfortunate for me and my huge tote bag; I was like a bull in a china shop trying to dance between them. Highlights included Emza Spence’s So so much, for who and Franklin Collins’ Ode to a block of wood. Pressing my head against the latter was oddly calming, a much needed rest from the hustle and bustle.

In the centre of the room was a security guard dressed in a full MI5-style suit and black out shades. I joined a group of onlookers who were treating him like a royal guard, trying to elicit a reaction, but even the promise of a shoutout in Plaster couldn’t bring out his name.

30 minutes in and I was already worn out by too many 20-second catch-ups with old friends from student halls and unsuccessful hunts for artists. Downing a pink Monster that had been tactically stashed earlier felt fitting – what better way to enjoy student art than on the same thing that fuelled it?

I powered on to 4D, home of all things moving (video, performance, etc.). There was a clear star attraction which had drawn in a large crowd: Tegan Chinogurei’s karaoke booth where she MCed live through the night encouraging exhibition goers to join her choir. Having heard whispers earlier of its religious qualities, I’d expected to be greeted by angelic sounds. The cries and shouts that filled the room were far from it.

“It’s karaoke time, babyyy!” rang out, half warning, half invitation, followed shortly by inebriated belts of Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah.

The whole thing had me in a vaguely patriotic daze and longing for a pub rather than a church. It wasn’t clear if the other artists in the room minded the installation drowning everything else out. But it won the people’s hearts.

Personally, three hours of straight karaoke sounds like a version of hell but Tegan managed to maintain good spirits. “It’s gotta be done”, she said, surrounded by empty MOTH margarita cans. Buzzing on my Monster, I was almost roped into singing Creed’s One Last Breath, but was saved by self-consciousness.

En route to the next space, I overheard someone mention the name of my ex. Then I was struck by a sobering realisation: I was wearing her top.

I had no intention of returning it, so my only choice was to change, and this being CSM (home of the Fashion Student) my spare plain white top simply wouldn’t do. It was time to get creative. I retrieved a permanent marker and got to work jazzing it up with my commissioner’s name – I liked the idea of a more official uniform in which to perform my duties.

A quick swap in the gents brought back memories of an art piece I came across two years ago in this very toilet. Inside one of the men’s stalls was a disposable camera encouraging visitors to take anonymous dick pics which would be later collaged and displayed. I didn’t take part and now felt regret at missing out on CSM history. Nevermind. Safely in my new attire and smelling faintly of Sharpie, I trudged towards the next stop.

After running up and down six flights of the wrong staircase I eventually made it to 2D. At this point, the art fatigue was setting in, so I can’t offer a coherent report of the paintings. The critic in me had gone to sleep; no matter how long I stood there, my mind kept wandering.

Zhongyuan Zhang came to my rescue with When we say Attack you will hear nothing at first, an interactive piece for my TikTok-rotted, tech-loving brain. A webcam scanned participants’ faces, giving them a percentage for how much they looked like the artist, and I was disappointed to find that my score was 38.82% (maybe I don’t blend into the CSM crowd as much as I thought I did).

Time, like my camera’s battery, was running out and I still had one last room to tackle, XD (I still have no idea what this means). Looking for a dark spot to charge up led me to a baby submerged in an artificial womb, created by Quinnely Rose. They’ve taken it upon themselves to nurture baby ‘Navi’ in the tank, who will grow over the next few months, eventually being moved into the glass replica uterus of a wearable sculptural dress; it all sounded very impressive, and very CSM.

Three hours in I had finally reached the end of the tour. The whole thing had left me with a strange sensation. Perhaps it was déjà vu from previous years, or perhaps I just needed a drink.

I settled on the latter and made a beeline for the CSM bar.

Finding nowhere to sit but the likely piss-stained floor of the smoking area, I looked through my manic notes and prayed that tomorrow they might make some sense. And while I questioned my future as a journalist – or a viewer of student art – at least I’d be walking away with some unofficial Plaster merch.