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.
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