Whistle blower
your table shine is mine
In my mind’s eye I saw from below the coffee table again, its underside constructed for ultimate-fold and transportability. Atop this table, opposite from where I hid, stood a woman wrapped in a scarf and covered from breast to toe in a black jump suit. She whistled a tune that, by way of my open-plan apartment’s acoustics, rang true through the room. The women held her arms aloft balancing core-weight against one table leg that appeared shorter than the others – she swayed from one foot to the other on the balls of her feet, and the table followed suit in time with her song.
I was sat amongst my objects on the half of the open plan space that housed my studio endeavors – ever since I invited the women in I had begun to construct a hide out for myself amongst paintings: by now she was so coveted by her song her eyes were blind against her senses, and I could move unseen and unheard gradually gaining on her – closer and closer still and then upon her.
I needed the coffee table, I had inspected its underbelly and had planned a painting using its alterior surface as a ground for decided incisions, cuttings, and pastings – I had the oils mixed and ready, emulsified with turpentine and bees wax.
I would only get so close before interrupting her flow. I had to carefully plan my moves, one after the other, to increment this sound and build upon her display. She had to fall in the opposite direction towards the window for the table, pushed by her dexterous mishap, to carefully roll on to my side of the space. One foot wrong on my part and she would fall the wrong way.
I got as far as the staircase in the middle of the room and had to stop. She stared right in to my eyes as her whistle reached a higher tone, as if to pierce right through me…
Vault Art Fair and the brand of Glasgow (here I am stating – there I am showing).
Under one guise and then another – and then another. I journeyed West yesterday over to Glasgow to meet a friend, first of all, for coffee and then we took a walk through Kelvingrove park, over the hill passed Park Circus in the sunshine – the chime of Glasgow University tower donning against the odd cloud hanging in the sky. My friend then left and I journeyed with another old pal down to King St. – venturing in to Transmission Gallery I caught up with the resource room in the basement, got to grips with its goings on. I then took a step out of the glass door and headed further south towards the river Clyde. I arrived early at my final destination – the Briggait and found myself cut off from the vault inside. I stood waiting at the door for tickets that I needed to get in – but then a member of the filming crew passed by (he was head camera man, and happened to be friends with the other person I was with at the time). He soon returned to the door where we stood and gave us both a film crew pass.
Inside there was stall upon stall of art for sale or art for commissioned value or art for oysters. Commercial standing stood next to not-for-profit artist groups – and together they stood pretty well.
All in all I am happy with the submission I made to The Mutual – a story-cum-interview with fellow artist and writer Sophie Frost, attached to the back of an A3 page – folded to perfection in to a ‘pamphlet for sale’. Together with the pamphlet and the backing design we were asked to put together a flag: this flag then performed as a title for the work enclosed in the pamphlet and was also screen printed to bespoke canvas bags, scarfs and bunting – all of which are too for sale in an increment of prices.
For the speeches, I was asked to make the most of my film crew pass – for this I climbed the stairs to the surrounding mezzanine and ‘spied’ on the goings on from above! Then back to the train, back east again and now rain – yet more rain. Its as if I had dragged the representative weather with me and now I sit underneath the cloud.
footnote
“She would always, without fail, wear a scarf – but on my arrival her neck was bare. At the back of the stall there was a neatly folded yellow screen printed scarf, left for someone to wear – why she did not have it wrapped around her neck I did not give any time to know: I said she had to put it on – and from that point onwards she became to me who she always was. It all felt complete and its as if I had never left!”
