ABOUT Sad Chick FOR SALE The Hobbyist
------Dedicated to the greatest MS Paintist who ever lived------ When I was very young my mother Violet strapped the creative-saddle to my back and rode me off into the sunset. After an age we reached the sunset - but by now it was a dawn...and Mother was dead. I still keep her bones in a wooden box close to an easel where I work. I never want to forget the soursweet inspirations farrowed from that deathly dawn and matricidal episode. Who would?
- “Normal” (click to biggerit)
It was nowish The Artist took (what he felt to be) a well-deserved break. He swanned and he loped round half of Europe hunting bizarre museums of the bawdy and bestial. His favourite being the The Budapest Hall of Horns. A taxidermist’s dream! (Go fetch. I can wait).
Anyway, a cleaner was hired. (Me). I’m a sucker for old bit-bobs - it’s just the dust I can’t stand - so I fetched out my least dressy kagool and got to it. Way dip down in the dark hearts of the old place in New Cross, secret sketches and unfinished blobs were uncovered. I quickly whored blind. The “Leftbehind London” collection exhibited some of The Artist’s more introverted and personal life-stuffs. Like this. IS he normal?
- “Mouth-Breather” (click to embiggenize)
Oh wow. Good crikey…that’s what I said. Disturbey.
- “Sales” (click to enlargenize)
And so I’m reminded of the dome-splittin’ sub-reality that is life with The Artist. You’d travelate the ruff-smooths for months. You’d navigate the narrow escapes ‘n swingy roundabouts and then, quite suddenly…he birth-splat re-emerges all resplendent, carrying an eden jewel so sublime…so heart-wreckingly more precious than anything your eyes had seen previous, you wanna snap time for him. You wanna reach deep down insideward, yank out your souly-parts, hand ‘em unto - and gush, “Full steam ahead, cap’n of my ship, aim for the nearest nine-tenths-under jaggedy ice-boss, I’ll gladly sink my stones for ya!” Ladies & Germs, bend right on over, stoop low with full display, for I give you…”Sales”. Harrowin’ ain’it? Wuhhhuhhhuh!
Toffee sausage lemon cake
PREVIOUSLY ON BLAH-BLAH
Visits became fleeting and infrequent - a good sign he didn’t need anyone around to abuse.
When not working, The Artist could spend entire days happily mounting his beloved rodent cavities with new and fascinating filler. He seemed almost content.
Detail from “Gutlord”
After the tabloid buffeting of Captionism quiesced, he even committed to meeting next-door’s baby. This represented a massive leap of his faith in mankind. Until one day…
“Grave news. Meet me in the Toffee & Sausage in 10”…read a scrawlin’ porch-post pin.
- “Dreaming About The Baby” (click to enlargenize)
I’ll dredge up all the truths - I found this new direction hard to stomach, tuff to tummy, galling right up to mi gills. The Artist seemed more determined than ever to flick a gargantuan flying-v at anyone who’d care to stop n gawk. Deepest down I knew I had to persevere. He had the mark of malefic genius - but now, more than ever, it hung concrete apparent - I was the lone champion and custodian of “a bit of a bastard”.
- “Businessman” (click to bigbiggerize)
Plaintive vagueries and subtleties. I think simple “Businessman” adequately sums up The Artist’s feelings on the matter. Not worthy of my rile nor bile - not even a proper study. More from the Leftbehind London, unfinished sketches, observations, whatever. I get the distinct feeling he’s seeking out new victims…subjects! - during this period. Beautiful nose-work. But moobs and a mallet-leg? Ohhhkaaaayyy…
- “Portrait of The Artist as a Young Boy” (click to enlargenize)
(Unfinished). One day, Joshua Cannock’s normally superb space, “The Rocco” commissioned the new wave - or so they thought. Instead of submitting the requested pieces, The Artist rustled up three more dead-mouse-on-the-carpet donations of stupefying crass-art. He was always happier “surprising” people. I mean, what’s with the secondary groin-mouth? Gross.
- “Sleepy” & “Vampire” (click to enlargenize)
Cursory my way; “Do you know what Musth is, dickhead? Lookidup.” I crossed mi feet, glared as dispassionately as my face would render and opened up both side-skulls. “Well, that’s how I feel about the critics. There’s a blood-horny stampede coming my way and if I don’t hop-it pronts - I’m a turned page, get mi? The long sorrow.” “Do you think it has anything to do with this obsession of yours for harming next-door’s baby?” I offered up. He sat back down. Frenzy drained. “Make me tea”…then back to his damn squirrels.
- “Catching A Baby” (click to enlargenize)
Ok, seriously, stop. Once again, The Artist was sending my peeper-parts into places they didn’t wanna flyin-visit blindfold - much less visit, stare at the ruins, where’s mi camera? click-click-shoot…Then, in a twilight glory of cogency, which I’d learnt many moonshines ago was a time to savour and admire - then scoot like billy-o (‘cept faster)…he cracks, “It’s not that I’m trying to shock. It’s more that I’m trying to be the best I can be - at being a shockin’ great cunt”. If you, or anyone you know, can argue with that logic then please write me and we’ll smack him chops up response-wise. Hmmm…dream on.
