The Cultural Relevance of Pot Noodle (A moment of self doubt)

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Pain

My attempts to curry favour with gallery owners and curators are best described as ill advised moments of insanity. Possibly for personal amusement, Taramind Dewhurst, the Chloe clad, immaculately groomed curator of ‘The Onion’ gallery, sacrificed some time to see me.

Ushering me towards a vast fibreglass sculpture of what appeared to be a rabid representation of a cat in decline, Taramind purred, “It’s sublime isn’t it? Such a poignant reference to the transient quality of life and the finality of death in such an inescapable way”.

I adopted what I considered to be a knowledgeable pose and nodded sagely. Tracing a finger across the belly of the cat, Taramind turned to me, a smile playing on her glossy lips, “So tell me about your bottles”.

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Misery. Time to hit the bottle and get smashed.

I managed to cobble together a stuttering of words relating to semiotics, structuralism and of my position within popular culture, but I knew I was out of my depth. Taramind gazed at me, slightly flirtatiously, but with just about the right amount of derision to ensure the onset of an anxiety attack.

Sometime later, whilst recovering in my car it occurred to me that if Picasso was a culinary four course extravaganza, served in only the best restaurants in town, then I was the artistic equivalent of Pot Noodle, a grubby secret, instantly gratifying but leaving no lasting impression. I recognised my place in the food chain, something had to be done and so began the machinations of my masterplan.

17 November 2006

Repressed Childhood Memory

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My sister and her friend took me into a field to see the donkey. Whilst they were talking I fell over and the donkey stood on me . . .

13 November 2006

An extract from a newspaper article – November 2045

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. . . artists like Tracy Emin & Sarah Lucas may have passed over into that great gallery in the sky, but Scarlet Blue, easily their equal in the legend stakes, has plenty of life in her yet. Enough energy at 80 to make an appearance at the opening of her major retrospective exhibition in Luddley-cum-Mogwash village hall.

It was here in Luddley-cum-Mogwash that she staged what was to become her most controversial piece of work. In May 2007 she was . . .

Freud and Art

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Is art a substitute for gratification? According to Freud . . .

“There is, in fact, a path from phantasy back again to reality and that is – art. The artist has also an introverted disposition and has not far to go to become neurotic. He is one who is urged on by instinctive needs which are too clamorous; he longs to attain to honour, power, riches, fame and the love of women; but he lacks the means of achieving these gratifications. So, like any other unsatisfied longing, he turns away from reality and transfers all his interest and all his libido too, on to the creation of his wishes in life. There must be many factors in combination to prevent this becoming the whole outcome of his development; it is well known how often artists in particular suffer from partial inhibition of their capacities through neurosis. Probably their constitution is endowed with a powerful capacity for sublimation and with a certain flexibility in the repressions determining the conflict. He is not the only one who has a life of phantasy; the intermediate world of phantasy is sanctioned by a general human consent and every hungry soul looks to it for comfort and consolation. But to those who are not artists, the gratification that can be drawn from the springs of phantasy is very limited . . . a true artist has more at his disposal.”

Freud, 1917

How To Make Friends and Influence People (Tales from Luddley-cum-Mogwash, part 1)

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10 November 2006

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Cruelty

My arrival in the village of Luddley-cum-Mogwash was greeted with general indifference from the local community, I tried to join village societies but more often than not the help I offered was firmly rejected. I secretly hoped that this was because I was more Top-Shop Treacle Tart in a clapped out Peugeot than Boden Yummy Mummy in a Sherman Tank, but, in fairness, I think it had more to do with me being a complete outsider and interloper. Indeed, because of my lowly status it had become something of a village sport to avoid all forms of communication with me; maximum points were awarded to those who could tease me with overtures of friendship, luring me into the trap of leaving never to be returned messages on answering machines.

One neighbour however, had noticed my plight. Sebastian St. Johnson, a lentil munching, idealistic sociology graduate adopted me as his ‘good cause’. Believing that I was from Essex, he had taken it upon himself to extend the breadth of my general knowledge. Speaking deliberately slowly and dropping the odd ‘aitch so as not to intimidate me, he explained to me complicated concepts such as ‘democracy’, ’social identity’ and the cultural relevance of ‘The Archers’.

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Cruelty

Sebastian was a newcomer himself, blessed with boyish good looks and considerable charm; it was with envy that I witnessed his meteoric rise through the echelons of village power. Within six months of his arrival he had taken control of several important committees including: The Used T-bag Collectors Club, The Mogwash Mimers and the Watercolourists by Moonlight Society. All this, it later transpired, so that he could gain a seat on the parish council, his first step on the political rung to possible World domination.

I considered my position and realised my predicament… it was highly likely that I would be a good six foot under before being clasped to the bosom of the Mogwash community…  presuming that they would allow me into the cemetery….

How To Make Money From Art

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2nd November 2006

When I had at last mastered the art of bottling I focussed my energies on artistic creativity; I retreated to my purpose built garret at the bottom of the garden and awaited inspiration. Crawling through the back passage of my emotions, I re-experienced hideous moments of my life that are probably best forgotten, it was a long painful journey, not without misgivings, but I was determined to suffer for my art, if I had to lie on a bed of nails and walk bare foot over burning coals, then so be it. Finally, when the sun was parallel to Pluto and Uranus was rising, my work was done. Ten bottles of feeling stood before me and I was a shadow of my former self, but there was no time for me to rest on my laurels, I had to show these masterpieces to the world….

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Temptation

‘Viridian Venus’ is a small local gallery run by Moonchild Etherington -Smythe, who in her own words is a ‘Visionary Artist’, to quote further, her works are ‘a product of innate personal vision’. In Moonchild’s case, these visions manifest themselves as childlike impressions of angels. Appearing well-groomed at all times, she strikes the perfect balance between ethnic charm and middle England authority…

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Bottled Temptation

Moonchild was not overly keen on my bottles, she exclaimed that my soul was barren, that it was imperative that I release my bottled feelings immediately if I was to ever re-connect with my inner child. All I needed to do was sign up for one of her Visionary Workshops, it would only cost £500 and she would teach me to express the sound of a vacuum cleaner through the medium of paint.
I declined, I left her gallery leaving her to re-arrange her crystals; I was worried, confused, slightly disturbed whilst at the same time seriously impressed by her visionary commercial sense.