Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
The pic I was given was of a woman in ‘50s shorts and shirt, nice heeled shoes, semi squatting, holding a piece of cord attached to a dead lobster (?) the other hand held something I couldn’t see due to photocopy quality. I now see it’s a glass of something…
The text: Cushioning Effect.
- “Once upon a time there was”
…A P.A. (Procrastinating/Practicing Artist/Pain in the Arse) who kept on and on at herself, no doubt bored her remaining friends to tears, and drove her remaining family crazy because all she could say was, “My life is OVER!” (being 67 ‘n all in the mix)
So, the more she said this to herself the more she began to believe it. So much so that she then began to plan her exit from this world.
It became tedious. Very tedious. The PA soon became aware that the ‘overness’ of her life had become an excuse for inertia.
(here I insert that I made a rule to self: don’t top yourself whilst the son is still alive…unless absolutely necessary)
- “Every day”
…when the bell rang, PA would run outside and play. Anything but work on her new piece. Soon enough that pesky script would re-emerge.
Only this time the words “who cares, nobody gives a shit, It’s all irrelevant anyway!”
- “One day”
…the shit really hit the fan. Soon it was a dawning realisation that NOTHING would change if she kept on that mouse wheel. It was like sitting on a dead lobster. Ref to text
Through some random turn of events, PA began to pursue a more anarchistic line of work: Turning dumped domestic items into works of art by inscribing notes on the human condition upon them (spray paint) taking photos of it and posting on social media, as well as amongst my art community.
It somehow became a ‘hit’….amongst the dog walkers, the street painters, and then my good neighbour, who said I should publish these pics.
- “Because of that”
…PA started a notebook of ‘ideas’ in readiness for the random discovery of discarded domestic items to write on.
The next step would be a pictures blog on her existing website (“serious art”)
But still those nagging little shits, DOUBT and SELF DENIGRATION IM NOT REPRESENTED BY A PRESTIGIOUS GALLERY kept popping up.
This ratbag factor became a ‘cushioning effect’
- “And, because of that”
…well, co-incidentally one of my street dump texts, a friend who follows CD sent me the comment re my ‘sofa so good’ piece. ( Hence the notice of the classes). I’ve edited that last bit as its obvious. Except to say I need to commit..EXERCISE
6”Until Finally”
DO IT!! (was it Jerry Rubin,….or…in the 60s who wrote that book, DO IT)
Immediately the ideas fell into place:
Get a booklet of street art printed. Text added
Write re the art scene…(eeew;;;;mmmnfnelwfawjej)
That’s the rant. That’s the struggle.
Artists don’t need to deal with the shit that the scene pumps out. They just need to do the work…and then kill themselves. Selves. Selves.
Oops… I wasn’t going to mentions suicide again. But I did. And that’s a subject I am deeply interested in, as in CHOICE. When it comes to the ‘departure room’ as Clive James called it.
And, I didn’t even mention my dinner with Clive.
He came to my house for dinner. Ive written about dat.
tbc.