I am really pleased to be a part of the new Winchester based Satire magazine SMUG, working as a contributor with both my artwork and article writing. Below is my article from the first issue.
A loose blueprint
You have to go all the way; first of all it does help if this process is undertaken on the coldest night of the year. Unlock the front door of your house and pin a note to it saying come inside. Proceed to the largest room in the house and knock out all of the windowpanes. Try to perform this act in the most practical yet physically exhilarating manner possible, don’t worry about the glass if it shatters and crunches often it falls away in one gnarled piece. Push it and it will fall. Establish a controllable climate; Sit two of those wonderfully extravagant bladeless Dyson fans in either corner of the room so that they are facing one another. Do not opt for cheap imitations or a bladed fan, as you will regret it instantly. Set one to air-conditioned cold, the other to a state of antithesis. Place in the centre of the room directly in-between both fans a Sir Norman Foster 'Nomos' desk table with black laminated top and chrome base. For seating decide upon an uncomfortable, austere looking non descript mass produced plastic chair from the 70’s. Colour of the chair is optional, but white is best. Make sure this arrangement is directly facing the pane-less window. If you are a drinker have a few sizable measures of your favorite falling down water to hand. If you are adverse to alcohol perhaps a chemical substitute either prescription or non-prescription, depending on availability or your own moral ethics. Remove all of your clothes, place them under the desk and sit down. Use your mobile phone to call a local takeaway which delivers, food choice is optional. Place the order and stipulate that the person delivering should read the note on the front door, remember to act upon this and call out until they hear your voice. Now wait, wait, wait, listen and wait, wait and listen until a strangers voice calls out, beckon them to you. After paying and tipping fairly, regardless of the delivery person’s gender and your sexual orientation, before they leave speak these words verbatim, without making any eye contact. “Kiss me you beautiful bastard.”
As an artist I think the above text captures a modicum of how people who create feel throughout all stages of their creative lives. The temperature is always different, the room is always different, everything is in constant flux, but that odd dichotomy of anal-retentive control and absolute vulnerability is always there. The essence is there even if the scenario might differ, the room might change, the desk, fans, temperature, even the house might change, however at its essence, perhaps this is one way to explain what it feels like to let others into the art in which you are responsible.