The artist climbs. Each rung, each ledge is covered with razor edges, sharp glass.
The artist stands, one share of Coca-Cola, outside the trader's door of the NYC stock exchange.
The artist prances in pristine school girl dress, a picknik of pig blood soaked blankets laid out before her.
The artist writhes drenched in oil, sado-masochistic orgasm sound track playing while they remove their underwear.
The artist mumbles from behind grotesque animal mask, breathing life into a satanic homunculus made of vegetable parts.
The artist lies on a flag on the roof of a new york building, squirting red and blue ink from toy guns. The damage to the rubber roof covering may have been in the millions.
The artist simulates a 100 gallon oil spill. The perfect storm of blame and diverted culpability mirrors the larger world frame for frame. Two days later the underground infrastructure repairs came up miles away, multiple gallons of carbon black dosed oil shorting out conduits throughout the area.
The artist writhes in a tub of vegetable matter, pungent, iodine laden. Where this slug of natural concentrate went, what effects it may have had are washed into oblivion.
The artist, livid, demands a review be re-written, it is not the subject they want. The demand is met. Another micrcosem of the larger world.
The artist, covered in mud, demands that they be rescued from their self imposed frigid condition.
Brandy helps. For a while. The thought of brandy helping, that helps. The aftermath, this will be seen later.
The artist. The boy. Life. Help. HELP.
