A VICIOUS DRIVE TO SUCCEED
Imagine if you had brain surgery and the surgeon opened up your head but all that was inside was a peperami.
Imagine if your intestines were actually Heinz tinned spaghetti. And your brain was a Birds Eye Potato Waffle. Your liver was a cheese sandwich, your kidneys were hard boiled eggs, and your feet were Bernard Matthews Turkey Drummers. You would have a vicious drive to succeed.
Imagine if you fell out of the sky straight into a private view and crashed through the ceiling and destroyed all the artworks, trying to cling onto a sculpture to steady your landing. And someone calls the police and you get done for breaking and entering. In prison you attend art classes and form an unshakeable bond with the art teacher who thinks you are a genius.
Imagine if you attempt a heist at Lidl with a peperami and someone throws a tampon at your head and you cry your eyes out.
Imagine working at Everything 99p shop wearing a yellow tee shirt with 99p Everything emblazoned on it in big urban graphics. You would have to price goods and mop up spillages. You would have a pricing gun, which only produces 99p price stickers, as everything in the shop is 99p and you would ponder at the total futility of this often.
Imagine if you went to a private view and saw the person who wouldn’t give you a show, you would pull out my price gun out and shoot them on the forehead with 99p.
Imagine having a panic attack in the middle of Boots The Chemist. Your heart would race and your palms would clam. You collapse on the floor and the pharmacist would take the opportunity to give you the kiss of life but they would get carried away and slide their tongue down your throat to lick your tonsils.
I was pricing tins of peas on the shelf. I crawled to the back of the shelf to get the tins. I crawled on all fours and found myself submerged in a cobweb made of black licorice. I was tangled in the licorice and the only way out was to eat myself out. After one hour, I rolled off the shelf onto the aisle and rolled around in agony bursting with licorice and big gurgling black bubbles frothed over from my mouth.
Imagine if you had a solo show. Like all the right people were due to come, you were pretty sure they would come and they said they would come anyway so fingers crossed. And then you are there with your colossal paintings and this momentous occasion, a significant moment, a clear marker of success and nearly all the important people you invited do come, thank God. But then the gallery door opens, and all your failed abandoned paintings which you keep in a secret cupboard, appear and they waddle in like penguins. You try to push them out of the door but they are strong and demand to be visible like some kind of revenge of the oppressed ffs. The important people notice and horrified by the embarrassing shit before them. They can’t believe you have duped them and that you have pretended to be a good artist because a good artist would not be capable of making such shit. They leave.
She became visibly distressed. She was crying begging her embarrassing paintings to leave but at the same time their appearance triggered a deep trauma of loss, a loss of self deep inside the core of her being and she could not turn her back on them this time and she held her hideous failures the way someone would cradle an injured animal with tears running down her face.