Monday, 31 August 2009

Le France #7
On the ferry back home, I went for a shit on board. I looked in the bin and saw that there was an empty bottle of flavoured milk. The toilets smelled bad enough, but that really sent me over the edge. Who drinks a milkshake in the toilet? I had spontaneous shivers all through the journey, just thinking of someone drinking thick, sweetened milk while curling out a French turd.

Sunday, 30 August 2009

Le France #6
We stayed at a friends house. He told us a story about when he used to be a copywriter for a recruitment company. He had to recruit engineers for an oil tanker. He was shown round a ship to get the feel for what type of person the company needed. As he was shown round the tanker, he saw a swimming pool on deck, at the stern of the ship. The guide explained that although the ships needed huge crews, after their morning duties there was often little to do, and to encourage fitness they had installed a pool. My friend noticed that there were signs posted all around,

'STRICTLY NO DIVING', 'DIVING ABSOLUTELY PROHIBITED', 'UNDER ORDER OF THE CAPTAIN AND COMPANY, NO DIVING'. etc.

The guide explained that the ship, being so large, was prone to rocking. The water could suddenly move from one end of the pool to another, and several people had died as a result of diving in at just the wrong moment, and cracking their heads on the bottom.

Saturday, 29 August 2009

Le France #5
While driving from Paris down to the Dordogne, we stopped at a service station for machine coffee and to use the bathroom. I went in to the toilets and my eyes followed brown smudges across the floor and up the wall to the urinal. In the urinal was a huge human shit. Someone had also attempted to use the flush, which had created dark, swirling patterns all over the white ceramic. I sidled up to the next urinal and pissed, my eyes fixed on the thing next to me, as though it were some dangerous animal prone to sudden tempers.

Friday, 28 August 2009

Le France #4
We went to a race track and drank cheap rose wine and placed bets. The riders were not mounted on the horses, but rather rode behind them on a small cart. Their legs were held in stirrups, straddling the horse's rear. The phallic imagery of riding a horse became much more pointed, with the riders leaning back and their horse/penis shooting out in front of them, leading the way and dragging their desperate owner behind.
  Old men moved in ones or twos around the stadium, greeting each other, and drinking cold beers from plastic cups. They were topless, or had their shirts unbuttoned, or wore braces over discoloured vests. They were old farmers waiting to die. They enjoyed their slow summer and their cold beer, knowing that next year there would be a few less hands to shake.

Thursday, 27 August 2009

Le France #3
In Bergerac we went down to the river near our campsite to sit and read and enjoy the sun. At each spot we picked, we would go to place our rug over the grass and then realise that the ground was covered in dog shit.
  Sometimes the streets of small French towns stink of dried turds. The dogs we saw were pampered and groomed, but they were still dogs, and dogs do shit. If you will keep another animal as a sort of entertainging slave, then at least have the decency to clean up their mess.

Wednesday, 26 August 2009

Le France #2
Our diet in France was loaded with cheese, cured meats and pâté, along with the obligatory baguettes. Throughout our rich, but not richly varied  diet, my shits ran the gammet from parfait to rillette (complete with a top layer of white fat).

Tuesday, 25 August 2009

Le France #1
Ten days driving and camping in France. At first I was an early convert to the drop toilet. Who thought shitting standing up would be so invigorating? On my second visit, I suddenly had the urge to piss in the middle of a drop-ette. I doubt this is uncommon. I had to suddenly change angle so as not to wet my under shorts, this unfortunately caused a pinching of the buttocks which both locked away the final nugget of turd until a later date, and also smeared shit all over my bum cheeks.

Tuesday, 4 August 2009

Images aren't simply ubiquitous. They are also relentless.

You can never really delete an image, and even if you could, any space created in our visual landscape is instantly and unthinkingly filled as soon as it appears.

Sometimes this is the revealing of images behind images, sometimes it is a duplication, or reproduction, or cross-pollenation.

But, if no image comes to fill that space, can it really be empty? or does it become an image of an image erased?

Monday, 3 August 2009

I had an idea.

I found out about a tiny, almost deserted town in California called, 'Essex'. I also heard about a holiday resort near Great Yarmouth called 'California Sands'. I decided that I would pretend to be the mayor of Essex, C.A and try and get the town twinned with California Sands.

I would get a sign erected in California Sands, then, one day, I'd take a sign over to Essex, C.A and put one up there too. I would have a piece of adventurous, concept based art; a complete example of the 'interruptive sculpture' that I want to establish as the basis of my practice.

So I began to write an email to a resident of California Sands, and trying out my American accent for the phone call I hoped would follow.

Then I realied that Great Yarmouth is in Norfolk, not Essex. And so the joke doesn't make any sense at all.