In Certain Places

The show’s over.

The music from those cartoons starts playing in my head. Now what? The material is removed. My allotment becomes storage space, potential, more sheds/studios.

My nextdoor neighbour from the newsagents having a go again. Apparently some kids moved the chair from outside my shop window and blocked his doorway. My initial thought when he tells me this is ‘What’s the big deal, move the chair.’ I ask when the alleged offence occured and he says Saturday. That’s interesting because I haven’t been opening the shop on a Saturday so there wouldn’t have been a chair outside on a Saturday.

There’s a couple of screwdrivers on the floor that weren’t there when I left, strange. Look for their little kit but cannot find it. Someone may have manouevred the bulldozer so that they could reach through the letterbox and taken the screwdriver set.

“The end is near.” Have started to remove myself, my presence, my art, from the shop unit. What happens to it now?

Something different with the letters.

I went to see my Dad the other day and he was with an old hippy friend from school who was talking about ‘retail therapy’ and the fact that shopping is addictive. You know somethings wrong when the hippys have complied to consumerism. Next thing you know it’ll be a new range from Nike; Nike Hippy, Nike Goth.

Been thinking about a tee shirt that says SHOPPING SAVES LIVES.

A week has past, passed, since my last ‘post’. Friends have been asking how the exhibition is going. I met a friend outside the shop last week and I thought he said quarter past five, he says he said quarter to five. What that means is that he saw how it’s going. He said there was alot of interest from all kinds of passers-by. I know that people have been listening to the audio because every time I go I leave the headphones facing up so that the sound can be heard as you walk past. Every time I come back they’re the other way round. I know that people have been using/playing with the digger because the rolls of hazard tape are gathered around the base of the scuplture. And everytime I go back at night to turn off somebody has ‘written’ something on the fridge doors with the magnetic letters, usually your basic low-level school standard graffiti.

Somebody shoved the remote control through the letterbox!

Somebody tried to pull an empty roll of hazard tape back through the letterbox.

Somebody stole the sign saying “it’s ok to listen” off the plinth.

But nobody has managed to knock the sculpture over. Yet.