York St John

Been shouted at alot

My right arm has fallen off

Starting to hallucinate

People stopping me in the street when all I want to do is buy some 5 amp fuses

Delivery of beer from Peroni arrived, mmm.

Got shouted at again, apparently cutting all the lights off the ceiling is frowned upon.

Starting to look like a vagrant, maybe that’s why people are trying to stop me in the street.

I probably smell.

Friday is going to be massive.

Must not sleep through it.

I have collected dozens of tv sets each of which seems to have its own idiosyncratic personality. They don’t have the soul of a Vincent ’52 but the now redundant shapes lean well and sometimes change colour when they are angled. They now live in the cleaners cupboard, talking to each other in whispers. If you walk in on them they go mute, collective term for tv’s should be a Conspiracy. Results of incarceration shown here as taken through a peephole in the door. I think they are insanely beautiful.

Hostage scenario avoided, UN style negotiations rewarded with full access to cleaners cupboard. Bring it on.

Despite lengthy planning and an ultra-polite request I find out this week that the cleaners cupboard I planned to exhibit in is not available. My choices are:

1. See this as a real life challenge and make better art in spite of this

2. Have a real life hissy fit and take it all the way to the top.

3. Take the cleaner hostage in the cupboard and see how they like that.

Art is pain.

Be sure to find me

I want you to find me

And we’ll play all over

We’ll play all over

We’ll play all over again

Mr Waits just gets in your head.