Epitaph

On the final day of the residency, there was a small closing event. Some friends and family (not mine) attended and some gallery patrons returned.

I wavered over the fate of Box People until ten minutes before closing, and then started to snip threads.

A gallery staff member appeared and asked me not to take the work down until after closing. He disappeared before I could explain that taking the work down and destroying it in public was a crucial part of the whole three week performance.  I had a little think about the consequences of disobedience, using my standard process - question to self: will I be fined, imprisoned or beheaded? if answer is no, then proceed.

We proceeded.  The invisible tape had become one with the parquet-esque lino.  A woman with red black chipped nail polish explained how she'd quit biting her nails and now they were hard as. Nails. She helped get the stuff off.  I forgot to breathe for a few seconds as I watched motorcycle boots and thongs grind my paper flowers flat. 

"So what was it all about, then?" asked the guy with the boots.

"Birth, deaths, love, booze, crime, travel. The usual," I replied.

"Some stories are not meant to be told, ay." He smiled.  And ground up more flowers.

Seconds before the last bit of manuscript was stuffed into a bin bag, a council officer came rushing over.

"Oh no," she said. "I wanted some of those for the library."

We paused for a second, and then continued to clean up. 

I wanted to apologise to the officer then, and I apologise now.  I couldn't at the time.  I  was too busy choking on the unspeakable irony.