petrol blue mondrian

IMG_20140903_115502365

some old lady is running the show…
we are top floor in her family buildings and encounter her passing with her entourage…

flip to housing scheme flats…help girl move in to her new home…she is nervous…

Back to my house…i find a burglar in my bathroom with goods stolen from other flats. He does not speak but nods agitatedly at items. I knock him out and then soak him in water so he becomes a sodden lump. The burglar is in a bag of laundry…he might go through the washing machine at hot cycle but I think this is hand wash..

I have a bath with my nightgown still on. I do not wash my hair. I pick up the sodden mass and remove it to some path end which goes downhill to the river by some bridge embankment. Either that or I flush him away. A child screams later as he dries out in the sun…washed downstream…a smashed rearranged body. I go to see…by this time he is the size of a postcard. There is a fire burning nearby.

IMG_20140903_105425785

I decide he is a ticket to the cinema and hesitate outside an old three in one complex with Sharon an old junior school flame…a first love and protective spirit. All the films look like crap. They are moving people around to fill the aisles. I see a mate there with his kids. It must be a family movie. I go to the top floor balcony. It has been turned into some nightclub…like a Star Trek transporter room.

Back downstairs I settle into a quiet seat…on my right is a cougher…to my left is a a fidgeting non English speaker. His friend turns up and they babble away in some strange language. I get up and leave. I try one more area down front to the left. Old black couples are cuddling. A mentally challenged child is asking what everything is VERY LOUDLY. I give up and go the foyer to ask for a refund. I am asked to fill in a complaint form and I find I cannot write or even spell as I watch strange Asiatic families leave the cinema.

My life story is in a folder on the ground…case notes. It is trampled on by the exiting audience. They diagnose, those who read, a mild schizophrenia and ask how I interact with reality and normal life.  I ask which reality and which normal life? The case notes are a script…lines from  a part I must learn for an audition…to appear on these screens….in this auditorium…before these people.

A petrol blue Mondrian or Klee appears. Its blocks recede and separate revealing white glows as they fade and dissolve into the light…a palette…

IMG_20140903_112045591

Anderson decor is a family business…expanding beyond the home decoration and building trade of my ancestors into psychic outfitting and set design…landscapes…mindsets…

Kids dismantle municipal fixtures and fittings as soon as they appear…as if asking them to explain themselves. Strange monoliths inserted into this  composition…clues…anomalies…patterns…

…the family business of interior furnishing…the trappings of a domestic consumption…an eye for a room…seeing behind the surfaces… is applied out into art and theory and practice and work and process. Den building. Taking your home with you. The street as extension of the home…framing borders…catchment areas…allotments. The hatching texture of road layouts nesting hot cores of domicility and identity…of residence…the concept of here…of “IN”…

kids still talk in secret codes
about built up areas
i wear my helmet loose like a rabbinical
they are dismantling the gentlemen’s club
disinterring, displacing…
digging up the bodies
taking their dust OUT in wheelbarrows.
I am not an Outsider Artist.
I am an Insider Artist…
so inside I go through the membrane
and reappear on the outside…

IMG_20140903_110945785

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s