#mitchellstut

[laurenbaileyctca]

Mitchell’s Tut

Self Portrait 

Andy Warhol

1986

Screen Print on Canvas

This could be it. The greatest moment of my career. I have put everything into this case, my blood, sweat and tears, not to mention my failed marriage. But by the end of today it will all be worth it. Everyone will see that my suspicions were correct, my evidence is damming and that I am the best detective that this precinct has ever seen. The captain will be so proud. I take the last drag of my cigarette that has been speckled with the stray rain drops and toss it into a nearby puddle. Today is too big of a day for me to be concerned about the environment. Warm, stuffy air greets me as I open the doors to the precinct, along with the hustle and bustle of officers and ringing phones. This place has a magic to it, a magic that is created through the smell of stale coffee and the excitement of doing mediocre work. I walk with intention to the integration room, fueled by the determination that has been growing for years. However this walk of power is rudely interrupted by a subordinate who clearly does not have his priorities straight. “Hey there buddy! The wife made you some brownies for the big day-“. Idiot. Without even turning my head I respond. “Shut the fuck up Carl, you are not ruining this for me”. I keep making my way towards the room that is going to close the book on this case. I cant believe it. The file, thick with years of study and evidence is waiting for me outside the door. I pick it up slowly and hold it close to my chest. My deep breath pushes it forward and then returns back to my chest. I feel it, its time. I burst through the interrogation room door a little too abruptly and drop my file. Most of the papers scatter around my feet. Okay not as smooth as I was hoping for but we are going to roll with it. I get up from gathering my papers and I am immediately met with his cold, hard stare. It feels as if he is looking at me but also straight through me. He is unfazed by my presence. I take a seat across the table from him and slam my file onto the desk. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mr Warhol”. Nice, that was a super cool phrase to start with. However he remains silent and continues to stare me down.  “Im not here to play games Warhol, I’m here for answers. Its up to you how this plays out, don’t make me be the bad guy”. He scoffs and slowly raises one eyebrow, emphasizing the menacing aesthetic he portrays. He slowly raises his hand and adjusts his disheveled silver wig and for the first time finally responds to me. “Are we not all bad guys?”. Wow, okay deep, but thats what you can expect from an artist. “Your fancy words are not going to help you here”. As soon as I finish my sentence I quickly reach to my right and grab the desk lamp that I made Carl source for me. Its not exactly protocol but I have a flare for the dramatics. I turn it on and directly angle it at his face. A strong red glow emulates from the light, Carl must have added a red gel to the light bulb, nice touch Carl. Warhol, whose face is painted by the red light, winces from the strong light targeting his eyes. “Cut the bullshit, Andy! I want answers and I want them now! What did you do with Marilyn?”. I am of course referring to Marilyn Monroe who died under mysterious circumstances and how shortly after her death Warhol began making artwork based around her looks and persona. “I have no idea what you are talking about, detective”, he says with a humorous tone. Im trying to keep calm but this man is testing me on purpose. My life’s work depends on him opening up to me and he knows this. Its as if he has made it his life work to avoid this very action. Bastard. “Im talking about how you murdered Marilyn for your own personal gain. You knew by taking her out of the public sphere, literally and figuratively, that you could capitalize from her image.” He takes a long hard breath and starts laughing. The kind of laugh that doesn’t root from happiness but instead a place of evil. “Detective, do you really think that I, a humble artist could have pulled this off by myself? You may be on the right path but perhaps you need to take a closer look at the world around you”. He gestures to the window over looking the office. Suddenly something hits me, something I have missed. Through the window I see Carl. We lock eyes and he winks at me. The world feels as if it is closing in on me, I cant breath. How could I have been so stupid. “Carl is your partner?”, I say with a sense of disbelief. “Were you never curious as to why Carl has such an extensive Marylin Monroe dress up collection?” My god, how could I have been so stupid. “You see detective, it wasn't I who killed the girl, it was Carl. I needed Marilyn to sit for me but that was no impossible, so Carl and I struck up a deal. He could live his dream of being Marilyn and I could paint her. It was a win win. So I’m sorry to say this detective but you were wrong.” Everything I had worked for, over so many years was wrong and for nothing. Yes he will still go to prison but I will be the laughing stock of the precinct. I have given too much to this case for it to end like this. In one swift motion I stand up and grab my pistol on my belt. With the gun pointed directly at this beady eyes he smiles one last time. “Capitalize of this, Andy!” As my finger squeezed the trigger I felt no regret for I knew my case was finally closed.

words: 1038

[andrewppurdon]

Interview with the pope

Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X

Oil on Canvas

Francis Bacon

1953

I meet the painting, Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X by Francis Bacon in a small artisan cafe off Bree Street, The Papal State; it is known to be it’s local go-to when it is in town. The Papal State is known for it’s  stain-free flat whites, museum glass-cladded windows and it’s current barista, Francis, a staunch ally to the queer community and swears to hold his position at the cafe until death. 

The study sits down and orders a black coffee, an interesting choice given it’s current colour palette. It remains rigid and stationary as the questioning commences.

Mr Pope, May I call you that?

Yes, that is fine, I prefer Innocent, I suppose. “Pope” is so entitled.

Okay, Innocent. What is your background?

I am adapted from a 1653 painting by Velázquez, Portrait of Pope Innocent X, known to be the finest portrait ever made.

Well it was regarded in that era as the finest portrait ever made, maybe not anymore (Innocent clearly hasn't been to many art fairs recently).

Back in my day, I signified a drastic stance on the Catholic Church and religion at large.Oh well there’s another nail in my coffin.

What do you mean?

I sit the Centre (Des Moines Art Centre) all day and all I hear is “how ugly?”, “that’s a really shitty painting”, “ it’s so dirty”.

Oh don’t be so hard on yourself! I don’t think Bacon created you to be very pretty.

Well that helps, doesn’t it? Thank you. Myself esteem is through the roof.

(I move on swiftly)

Tell me about your contemporaries (excuse the pun). You find yourself to part of a body of work by an artist that has shaped non-representational painting, What are the other pieces like?

On the whole they're pretty mangled, they all think I'm rather ghostly and unapproachable, but you know I think Velasquez is just marvelous. The three studies of Freud are ghastly, and you know he “has the smallest cock in England”. (He laughs at the tired quote).

So I have heard. How do you feel about where you sit geographically in relation to your “siblings” as it were?

Well, as you well know, the American’s were never a fan of dear old Francis, and he was never a fan of them either! You can quote me on that, while sitting in the studio, Francis and I used to discuss at length. So I am less than to pleased to be sitting in a back alley gallery in hillbilly country when Francis’ other works are shown at the most prominent galleries in Europe. Francis would be furious if he was alive, and could stand on his own, and form a sentence without slurring.

I sense that you and Francis were close?

Oh yes! We used to go everywhere together. You know they used to say I was his only one true love. Our conversations would last hours, he would rant and I would listen and then reply with just a look that would just bring him to tears. There isn't just a pretty face behind this, you know!

(I snigger)

(The study is getting increasingly frustrated) I can see you clearly do not take me seriously, I will go then, I have a restoration at four and a varnishing at 5. Good day. (he tries to get up to leave, but appears visibly frustrated as he realizes he is actually just a painting and bound by two dimensions. He is carried out by two men dressed in purple and orange onesies - the cafe bouncers apparently). 

Oh, don't look so dragged down Innocent! (impressed by my joke, I cackle to myself the whole way home).

While interviewing study proved fruitless, one thing is clear from our discussion, he is a painting with one too many chips on his frame.

[vicmunley]

Mitchell’s Tut - Creating a Narrative for an Artwork

Joseph Beuys

Felt Suit

Felt and Wood

1970

Felt Suit has a deep yet mesmerising voice, they sound extremely sophisticated with their strong British accent.Felt Suit and I are having a conversation in the back of an uber on our way home from a beautiful event, after eating a delicious meal and having a good dance. We have a long ride ahead so we both get comfy, the radio is on low, it is the perfect setting for a much-needed conversation. Felt Suit is draped over the seat, looking very relaxed.

Felt Suit has quite a reserved personality and often feel quite insecure. However, they compensate for this by acting overly confident and outgoing. They are having quite a tough time at the moment because Kiki’s Seeds of Gold Dress recently has left them. Felt Suit tries not to show their feelings and barely speaks about the hurt and sadness they feel. They avoid any conversation about it by quietly singing along to the radio. Their favourite type of music is blues or jazz, but they’ll pretty much sing along to anything.

We quietly chatter about our beautiful evening and then Felt Suit begins to tell me a story, they wriggle around as if they are beginning to feel a little bit uncomfortable but that soon passes. They had been invited to a party at the Kunsthalle Dusseldorf, Felt Suit was very excited and wanted to show off how good of an art work they were. However they never arrived. They roamed the street for hours on a cold winters evening desperately looking for where they were supposed to be. At this point Felt Suit wished they owned a hat, scarf, shirt and especially wanted to own a pair of shoes! This event caused a lot of trauma for them, constantly being ignored and pushed around by passers by. The artist Joseph Beuys eventually found Felt Suit and decided to send them off to London to keep them safe. Being transported to London caused a lot of anxiety and fear for Felt Suit but they wanted to make a good impression as they were desperate to be liked. 

As Felt Suitis telling me this story in the uber their colour starts to fade, the emotion is overwhelming them. They try to fight against the feelings, but this causes the hems start to fray and disintegrate. I asked them “so what happened next?” Even though this a difficult conversation to have and the mood of the night has definitely taken a dramatic turn, it seems to be therapeutic and I thought it would be helpful to encourage them to carry on.

They go on to describe their journey from Germany to England. They were transported in a large box, they had to stay as straight as they could for the duration of the journey. “I ached for days” they exclaimed. They were enclosed alone, in a dark space, sometimes their box would slip a round which made them feel unsafe and confused. Upon landing in Heathrow Airport, Felt Suit wished to see a familiar face they missed their friends Sled and Fat Chair. Felt Suit’s coping mechanism is to push down their feelings and put on a mask of being over confident, so that’s exactly what they did. When they met all the new art works at the Tate, they portrayed themselves as the best artwork Joseph Beuys had ever made. They did’t really believe it and actually have very low self-esteem. 

Whilst we are having the conversation Felt Suit’s hem is threading more and more, the conflict of emotions is get too much for them. They suddenly break into song, singing along to “Hey Ya!” by Outkast which is currently playing on the radio, as a way to distract themselves. I quietly join in as it is such a catchy song! 

We are coming to the end of our uber ride as Felt Suitstarts to reflect upon some of the good times and realises everything will turn out as it should. Their colour starts to return, and they sit up straight, as if they have truly gained some confidence. They tell me about the time that everyone celebrated them and threw a party. At this time, they felt so appreciated and pretty proud of who they are. They proudly stated “I started to see myself in a completely different way”. Another great tune comes on the radio “I Want It That Way” and instantly Felt Suit breaks out into song and also does a little dance.

They ask me “how can I make sure this void inside me doesn’t grow anymore?” I don’t’ have the answer, although I wish I did. I just tell them to keep talking and to truly be themselves. We sing one final song together another famous Backstreet Boys single this time it is “Backstreets Back Alright”

Felt Suit leaves the uber, they seem to be in high spirits, but I’m worried. I hope they’ll be okay. I will definitely check up on them soon.

Word count: 818

[nazeerjappie]

Meeting of Thirty-Five Heads of Expression

Louis-Léopold Boilly

1825

Oil panel painting

 In all my years of talking to artworks, none have been so obnoxious, so impertinent, so incredibly boisterous and annoying as the Meeting of Thirty-Five Heads of Expression by Louis-Léopold Boilly. I had the misfortune of stumbling upon this painting on a wet Tuesday morning in the Zimmerli Art Museum. This was the last artwork I was given a chance to talk to before my flight back home, and I was in such a hurry that I didn’t bother to wipe the dirt from my feet at the entrance so I ran in, tracking muck all over the museum floor! My, how embarrassing!

I was told this painting had thrusted on its viewers such a great wave of nausea and anxiety that I simply had to sit down and have a conversation with it. Just a pleasant conversation. Over some tea, perhaps. But oh heavens, I was not prepared for the vile and repugnant attitude of this painting so early in the morning. It damn near drove me into madness. Imagine, if you would, being in my position – one that otherwise involves relatively intelligent conversation and normally results in the culmination of greater knowledge and enlightenment – and to come across such a disastrous abomination of, not one, but thirty-five exhausting personalities! I can recall the very way it happened, too! There I was, trudging through the museum, fatigued already by the weather when I approached it. It seemed to be frozen, which is of course how everyone else would have seen it, but unfortunately I have been cursed with the gift of being able to communicate with artworks. In retrospect, I’m actually surprised that I’ve been able to maintain my sanity for so long. Slowly it began to come to life. All together. Faces started morphing in hideous expressions. Hands were pointing and pushing and clasping and grabbing and strangling. Eyes bulged and tongues flickered and then… Then came the noise. Such tumult! Like the screams of brass instruments and highway cars. Laughing, wailing, sobbing, hissing, screaming, choking – the clamour was unbearable! Then, one of them spotted me.

“You there!’’

“Oh god, no.”

Soon in their laughing and wailing and sobbing and hissing and screaming and choking, the many voices began to talk all at once. I tried to focus on one, but another would quickly interrupt. It was so very difficult to make out even a simple sentence but soon it came together.

“What on earth is he doing looking at us like that?!” One man asked.

“I’ve just come… to talk,” I said in utter vexation, now aware that I’ve made a horrible mistake.

“Good god,” a fat man gasped, “Who sent you?”

“No one,” I replied in a raised tone, trying to speak over all the rest.

“Right then. I’d like to see your credentials please. Merely just a customary – “

“To hell with him!” An old bald man yelled.

“Yeah, get this stranger and his snooty demeaner the hell out of here!” Another shrieked.

“I beg your pardon?!” I began to suspect that perhaps I was not very welcome here. Gallery-goers started to watch me with concern. It was only when I decided to step back and let go of the situation that I truly began to see the awful nature of this painting. Once again, they all spoke over each other and I just tried to listen to what it was they were going on about. I started making out parts of different conversations all over each other. Some were still angry at me.

 “Hey! Where’s he going?! What’s he doing?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, just forget it already.”

“How could you do this to me?”

“Listen… With this, you’ll be in possession of all their wealth in no time at all.”

“Ohohoho my, that does sound delightful, doesn’t it?”

“Just deal with it, darling. That’s just the way it is now.”

“Don’t get too worked up!”

“What the hell is that?!”

“Stop! Stop you idiot!”

“Oh my god, you’re right!”

“Where is she? I can’t find her anywhere!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“My eye!”

“There’s no way we would be able to get that much butter by noon.”

“Out of my way you lowlife!”

“I heard she’s been cheating on her husband.”

“Never have, never will.”

“Ow! Get out of the way!”

“I can’t breathe!”

“I hate each and every one of you.”

“I’ll kill you!”

“Please get me out of here, I beg of you…!”

“Exactly!”

“Let go!”

“I don’t care about your goddamn family!”

“I always knew he was a disappointment.”

“My head! Oh, my head!”

“You little whore! I hope you rot in hell!”

“Yes, I suppose that could work.”

“Imagine all that gold!”

“Really? Well that was unexpected!”

“Take your flag and go! We no longer need you!”

“Yes, she may have gone that way.”

“Your service is pathetic, you hear me?! Pathetic!”

“I swear, if I get my hands on him…”

“God, it just makes me sick to my core!”

 I must agree. I indeed felt the nausea sweep over me. What a horrible decision it was to come here. I could have been having breakfast.

I stepped closer again.

“Oh, you’re back.”

“Yes.” I sighed, squeezing into the painting. I had decided that I’d much rather stay in here for eternity than be on that plane and to hear those insufferable people applaud when it lands.

[han-nm]

EKPHRASIS - MITCHELL’S TUT

Nighthawks Edward Hopper 

1942

Oil on canvas

After a night out at dinner, the newly-wed couple decide on a nightcap to compensate for their already mundane and boring lives. John is an accountant and Lisa just kind of waits around I guess. Their names are especially boring. It was the beginning of spring and Lisa has waited all winter to wear her favourite (not John’s, John doesn’t like much in general) red dress. The man across from them at the bar looked distracted and exhausted - much like John and Lisa’s relationship as of recent.

Lisa’s family has recently requested that John and Lisa spend a bit of summer at them; up in the countryside. Of course, like most things, John does not like this. “I don’t want to spend the entire summer there” he says, indifferent with a hint of desperation. Their drinks arrive. All Lisa wants to do is throw her drink at John as an attempt to WAKE HIM UP and notice her red fucking dress. She also does not want to upset him as she’d like to purchase a pricey concealer as hers is nearing to its end; due to her triple-layering her under-eye and this is because of her lack of sleep. John lights a cigarette - Lisa doesn’t mind this, if anything she could smoke all night as this point. John obviously does not like it when Lisa smokes, as he thinks it is “unladylike” and doesn’t enjoy the lingering smell on her red dress which he never notices. The bartender gleans the uneasiness between them, actually the uneasiness in general… the air is warm and the fluorescent light beaming down. It is a Tuesday evening, typically quiet. The man across the bar orders his third drink; John notices and thinks “mood”.

“But we have never spend summer in the countryside” Lisa replies, with a heavy hint of desperation. “In actual fact, we have never spent a summer together. We have been married for four months, and saw my family last at the wedding.” Lisa is sad - she has been sad for a while now. She drinks her drink cautiously, holding back the insistent and urgent lump in her throat and avoiding eye contact with John (not that he looks at her much anyway). John takes a while to respond to this and takes a large sip of his drink. “Lisa,” he slowly says. Lisa finds it extremely difficult to hold back that lump in her throat now. “I just don’t think I want to spend so much time away from work, darling… you know the rush in summer.” Lisa takes a large gulp of her drink and submissively, for the sake of concluding this mind-aching conversation, responds: “I understand,” the only two words she ever seems to fucking say. “I will tell them we will not be coming” she finally lets out.

John excuses himself for the restroom. They are both relieved. The man across the bar looks up slightly, and catches Lisa’s sad eyes. He is not bad, she thinks. She soon finds a smile creeping across her warm face and subsequently finds herself walking over to this stranger. He is calm, as if to expect this. Completely organically, Lisa says, “do you want to go out and dance with me?” the man is taken aback, but responds with a polite nod followed by a cute chuckle. Lisa immediately feels a wave of fresh, long-lost excitement run through her.

[lovenicksherlock]

Michealangelo’s, The last supper

What we have here, is a classic case of “how are we splitting the bill?”

Being it the first Thursday of April AD 33, all of these boys knew that there would be a mad drinks special at the local watering hole, The Thirsty Hebrew. Sipping on that sweet Noah’s-drift red, planted by the OG vineyard planter Mr. Noah himself, JC’s closest man Simon, or known amongst his friends as Sudzy Ballz, knew that the brew-tang-clan were in for one hell of a piss-up. And although they were all there celebrating JC’s run as the incarnated son of Christianity, Sudzy knew that they were really here for the cheers. James, son of Alphaeus, the young gun amongst the group, yet to spend all his money on the devil’s lettuce AKA Blaze AKA Jerusalem Gold, still cared very deeply for the sacredness of this dinner and offered up to pay his portion of the bill, but claimed he didn’t have enough data to log onto Uber and split the fair back to the confession box.

“Refresh me with some of that red stuff, sustain me with raisin cakes, for I wish to get lit,” said James, the current record holder for stealing bibles out the nunnery. “Pop a bless my guy” responded Jacob. “Boys, boys, my sandals grow heavy, for we need to settle this bill, and all I’m saying is that space in heaven is getting tighter now that I’m going to be opening the gates.”

The clinging of tiny pieces of silver and bronze broke the awkward silence after his speech, as each disciple dug into the bottom of their pockets for shekels, it was as though they were mining deep into the souls of their robes.

“Bible I did not skip service last Sunday, boss! I was just at the back you didn’t see me!” “Cuz going to church makes you a good Jew just as much as standing in a stable makes you a horse!” “Oh, you post bible quotes on community rock? You’re definitely getting into heaven!” The Apostles were shouting over one another, trying to squeeze in as many brownie points as they could before the end of the dinner. “By Jehovah, I swear if you do not shut your…” Cling! Cling! The man of the moment hushed his crowd down. “A Toast” JC spoke over his boys. They all turned to him in silence, “In my time amongst you peasants, many a squad goal has been reached. We’ve given the salty Romans a good run for their jewels, but now I’m afraid, the hour has arrived, and we must settle this bill. And before I ascend the stairway to heaven, I want you to all join me in the recital of our most treasurable verse.” He continued, “And after he made the starts and the earth, on the seventh day he said…” They all joined in, “Let us be lit!”

The crowd went wild as they celebrated their final cheers. As the beer tang clan scurried and spoke amongst themselves, through the spilled wine and soggy bread, progress with the bill was being made. And by the end of the hour, after the poor waiter who had been back and forth several times, praying that one of these drunken sods would mistake a fifty for a hundred, had collected everyone’s part.

In the drunken smelly aftermath of the night, the Thirsty Hebrew cleaned the holy mess. And the night was documented thereafter as The Last Supper.

Leonardo da Vinci

The Last Supper

1495–1498

The Last Supper is a late 15th-century mural painting by Italian artist Leonardo da Vinci.

Image found here: http://mentalfloss.com/article/64372/15-things-you-should-know-about-last-supper

[lucajpeg]

Aperol Spritz with Starry Night

I arrive for the interview early. I’m feeling kind of nervous, I’ve only been working for this art publication a couple of months and this guy I’m interviewing is pretty famous. I kill time outside MOMA: watch a pigeon, buy a hot dog, feel sick, throw it away, light a cigarette.

 I head up to the MOMA coffee shop and buy a $9 ice tea that makes me kinda depressed. I pick a table near the middle of the room, then change my mind and move to a table by the window. He’s 10 minutes late. I open the Words With Friends app then close it again without playing any words. 20 minutes late. I take out my notebook and run through my questions, they seem okay. I hope the one about the mental asylum doesn’t piss him off. I’m sure he’s sick of ear questions, so I’ve tried to frame it differently.

 45 minutes late, he swaggers into the room with the energy of someone walking into a surprise party they already knew about: “wow guys! Oh gee! For me?”. I recognize him straight away. He’s tall, with dirty blond impasto hair and a broad grin. He kind of reminds me of Mr. Peanut Butter. He’s wearing Timberlands, and a lime green LiveStrong bangle.

 I wave shyly and he bounds over. I reach for a handshake but he deflects it, grabbing my waste and kissing my cheek with a “hi angel!”. I bristle. “I’m Starry, Starry Night”.

He swings his chair around and straddles it, like this:

 For a second I’m knocked speechless by this wildly bold/ obnoxious gesture in a coffee shop. I take in his face. He’s strikingly handsome in an Australian-in-Bali kind of way. He looks like Thor, but not 2019 Thor like 2011 Thor. For 130 years old, he looks fresh.

 Despite myself, I’m kind of affected by his blond magnetism. I drop my pen and as we both reach for it our fingers brush. My ears start burning. We glance up and lock eyes for a moment and I get a boner. His eyes are midnight blue, with swirls of pale green and flecks of bright yellow. I’m flooded with mingled lust and shame – I wish I was more put off by his wanky demeanor.

 He cracks his knuckles and raises his eyebrows at me. Awkwardly, I fumble through some small talk before clearing my throat and bringing up my notebook to begin the interview. He raises a finger to shush me, then clicks his other hand at the waiter to come over.

“Do you guys have Monster?”

“No…”

“Any energy drinks?”

“No”

He looks at me and shakes his head in a “what’s with these people” way. I shrug in tepid agreement.

“I’ll have a matcha green tea”

He pulls out a fidget spinner like it’s 2017, and tells he about his ADHD (“you know Terry Bradshaw has ADHD?”).

 With grim persistence I return to my questions but he seems uninterested. I ask about his permanent residency at MOMA, and the New York art scene.

“Bunch of idiots” he says dismissively, “I’m done with the whole art scene it’s just a whole lot of guys pulling on each others dicks”.

When I bring up the move from Holland to New York he sighs dramatically and tells me he’s bored.

“What I’m really keen to talk about is my acting career. Every journalist I talk to wants to ask me about art, but really I consider myself more of an actor these days”

“Yeah?” I ask, giving up on my questions and closing my book. I glance at the page: how did Van Gogh’s suicide affect how you were received in the art market?

“I’ve been acting since the 80s and still people want to bracket me as a fine artist. It’s bullshit.”

 “Tell me about the movies you’ve been in”

His face lights up, and he goes off telling me in detail about all his movie appearances. He needs no input from me, and I lean back, responding with a “wow” or “oh yeah?” every couple of minutes.

“In 1972 Don McClean wrote a song about me, and that put me on the entertainment map. Then in 1999 Starry Night the movie came out. Imagine a movie named after you! It only got 4,3/10 on IMDB but they don’t know shit. Transformers got like 5/10.”

 He clicks at the waiter again and orders 2 Aperol Spritz’ without asking if I want one.

 “Now that I’ve worked in cinema for a long time I’m itching to move to stage. It’s more visceral, you know? But most of the shit you see on Broadway is so crumby. I’ve actually been working on my own script; I’m hoping it gets picked up soon. Not to boast, but its gold. People act like writing’s so hard but this is the first thing I’ve written and it’s fucking genius. I guess you know that, you’re a writer”

“Yeah, it’s really easy?”

“I’ve written the play with myself in mind for the lead, and I have some ideas for the rest of the cast. I’m keen to get film actors rather than stage actors. I’ve partied with a few stage actors, they’re too serious. I’d hate to work with them. I take my craft seriously, but I’m also having a good time with it, you know? Life’s short, you need to milk the now”

I smile to myself and write that line down.

“What’s your play about?” 

“It’s not like anything you’ve ever seen on stage before. It’s like sci-fi meets action meets romance. It’ll be a massive production.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s set in New York in the future. The protagonist is this shy guy who works in an art gallery, but at night he’s a genius hacker working under a secret alias, Hunter X. Such a sick name. Anyway so Hunter X starts getting these weird messages on his computer, and then one day this mysterious guy shows up at his door and tells him he has to follow him. They go for a walk and the guy says something like ‘have you ever felt like you’re part of something bigger, like there’s something else going on? Well you are, and there is – you’re part of something huge’. Doesn’t that line give you shivers?!”

He grins at my excitedly and I nod.

“The guy asks if he wants to know more, and Hunter X says yes. So this dude plugs him into this weird machine and swoosh! The scene changes to this huge room full of robots. There are pods all over the walls with people in each one, plugged into the wall. It’s all really creepy. ‘What is this place?’ Hunter X asks. ‘This is reality. What you see every day is a virtual reality. The world you know, the house you live in, the job you work, it’s all a simulation’. So Hunter’s mind is fucking exploding at this point. The dude explains that the robots are using people as organic batteries, and then simulating reality to them in their pods.”

I start frowning, and am about to interject when the waiter appears.

 She sits down our drinks and he picks his up. Holding a finger at the waiter not to leave he downs his drink in one, then slams down the glass and tells her to bring another one.

“Bring me a panini. Something with meat on it” He looks at me, “You hungry? Bring her one too”.

I shrug, realizing increasingly how ineffectual my responses are on this person.

 “So after this totally mind-blowing opening, the play is all about them coming after the robots who run this whole system. Hunter X learns how to fight in the virtual reality world, and gets super buff. Then he meets one of the evil robot chicks and falls in love, it’s a whole thing. The wardrobe is going to be fucking future. You’ll see when it comes out, I’m sure it’ll get picked up soon. It’s gold”.

“Not to be rude, but this sounds exactly like The Matrix…”

“The what?”

“The Matrix? That Keanu Reeves movie.”

He shrugs, “Never heard of it”

“You’ve never heard of the Matrix?”

“Nah”

“It’s pretty famous”

“Whatever, this is better. You’ll see. This is gold”

Starry Night

Vincent van Gogh

Oil on canvas

74 x 92 cm

In the Museum of Modern Art permanent collection

[alil2019]

The Orders of the night

Anselm Kiefer

The Orders of the night (Die Orden der Nacht), 1996

Acrylic, emulsion, and shellac on canvas

140 1/5 × 182 3/10 in

356 × 463 cm

I am walking by myself in a field, where the wind is blowing when suddenly I see a patch of land which is different from the surrounding area. Interested I walk over and after one step I am transformed into the painting. I’m reminded of  a sunflower that I once saw and was enticed to sniff it. Usually Sunflowers don’t have a strong smell but today it smelt of smoke. The smell was strong, it seemed to drift through the plant into the surrounding area and it sent me into a daze. This left me unfocused for a few minutes. When the daze and dizziness faded I found myself in a different environment and it was no longer the familiar mountain path. Instead I found myself in this dreary, dark and unwelcoming place.

There was an oppressive energy which smelt like smoke, swirling around and almost invisible. I am alone until while walking I trip over a sleeping figure. He is lying underneath a structure made from giant sunflowers looming above him. The figure seems oblivious of the world around him. He is either dead or sleeping. I was too scared to check.

The plants blocked the sun so that the area was shrouded in shadow. The  sunflowers are black and charred, their wilting stems and downcast petals seemingly both sad and malicious. Looking up to the sky makes me afraid as there is a sense of emptiness with not even a cloud in sight. It is as if time is suspended permanently.  The ground feels hard, cracked yet vulnerable as my footprints will destroy the already frail surroundings. Looking at the cracks and dried mud makes me aware of the oncoming drought.

Now the panic and and anxiety which has been dormant resurfaces. The towering sunflowers surrounding me seem to transform into big monsters. This leads to a panic which is overwhelming. I find myself lying on the ground, unable to move, just like the figure. I struggled to take deep breaths.

In this state I seem to take on the suffering of the flowers. Suddenly I felt a need to escape from this feeling of suffocation. I forced myself to stand up on wobbly legs, to look away from the scene and move on. I dare not allow myself to feel like the man lying oblivious in the field.

I find myself remembering the Ancient Greek myth of a woman who turned by Apollo into a sunflower. Suddenly a thought appeared which was bizarre or weird, Sunflowers were meant to be stunningly beautiful as they are rich in history and meaning. Sunflowers for me symbolise adoration, loyalty, the idea of happiness and longevity. Much of the meaning of sunflowers stems from its namesake, the sun itself. Yet in this place the sun is very much absent.

Suddenly a voice whispered  besides me, it is the figure talking,  yet his eyes are closed.  It sounds eerie and depressing with a low energy. He started talking what I thought was gibberish. Then later I felt that his whisper now had a slight feeling of hope that had replaced those feelings of sadness.

I will never know what he was trying to say.  Somehow I now felt empowered to escape which I found by chance through an exit. Accidentally, I touched the sunflower closest to me. It felt hard and dry to the touch like a stone. An idea suddenly formed in my mind to climb these overpowering sunflowers.

As I started to put my limbs on the plant, I felt a dizzy sensation but continued to climb the stem until I felt the delicate softness of the petals. It felt almost like cotton to the touch.

Now I sensed the warmth which before felt absent from this place. Was the sun starting to filter through? It  was my chance to see what was hidden beneath the petals and the other world itself. There was a sense of mystery about the place which I could not fathom. Certainly, now feeling the welcoming warmth of the sun, I knew that  I may have already returned to my own world.

Have I missed something hidden in that other world where the man still lies asleep? What was he trying to communicate?

Whenever I taste sunflower seeds I remember the atmosphere of that ruined landscape I visited. The sunflowers-not for the sunny flowers that follow the sun -but for the heaviness, the weight of those seeds. The message of the seeds that I have missed. Perhaps this was about renewal and birth which is trying to grow out of that burned landscape. 

(768 words)