Some people might ask me the reasons
I constructed a throne made entirely of bacon, but they’ll never understand.
Not really. Nor should they. Sure, the piece was entitled ‘The Pig King’, and people would
undoubtedly read some superfluous meaning into it like ‘oh, its an allegory
about how our empires are obtained by being built on the carcasses of those we
have destroyed…’ or some such similar bullshit.
You want to know the truth? It’s
meaningless. It all is really. Everything I do, everything that I am going to do from now
on. You know how crazy that is? To have people laud anything and everything you
do. To praise it as ‘high art’ - elevating it above and beyond anything that it
really is or deserves to be.
It started innocently enough. I
was a young artist, struggling to pay my way, wanting to express something…
anything, to make a statement of some kind, to make a mark on this world. I
guess in hindsight I just wanted to excuse my relative poverty and lack of
success – to justify how I was living my life.
That all changed when I
sneaked into an art installation for upcoming young talent at the Crossroads
Gallery situated up in the affluent area of the city. Drunk and overcome with
jealousy and frustration at those who had been afforded this opportunity, I
just lost it and lashed out in one of the empty booths that was being used for
storage. The commotion caused people to gather around and they discovered me
lying there in a crumpled heap amongst the wrecked canvases and leaking paint
cans sobbing uncontrollably. That's when I first met Fenech.
Lying there in the rubble, drained
from having poured out all the emotions, I heard a loud clap. Once, twice,
three times. Looking up through bleary eyes I saw a man standing there, front
and centre of the crowd, staring at me, slowly clapping his hands together. It
felt dreamlike, unreal - but slowly another person started to clap, then
another and another – until the whole room was applauding. Confused, I looked
back up at him, my eyes meeting his. He stared intensely at me, his gaze
seemingly urging me to act. Somehow I knew what he wanted.
Smile… Smile, damn you.
Slowly I rose to my feet, a weak
smile spread across my face. I took a bow. The crowd started to cheer.
And so that was it. I had managed
to fake my way into the art world. The only one who knew I was a fraud was
Fenech and he always seemed to know what was best for me and what direction I
ought to take next. Having proposed to become my agent there and then, he
issued a press release of what had happened that night explaining my
‘performance’ and my reputation spread like wildfire.
Once it started, there was no
stopping it. I continually created pieces under his suggestion – the tree of
bones, the flayed torture mannequins made from cuts of meat, the giant ant
sculptures peering down into a perspex box that people could walk into… it went
on and on. Each piece was met with critical acclaim, even when I had tried to
produce something meaningless and random, the fans made every detail of it
meaningful and significant.
It was great at first, getting all
this praise and recognition. But as the years went by, the haunting feeling of
my sheer undeservedness festered in the back of my mind. Despite my growing wealth,
I felt worthless. Once or twice I even thought of giving it all up and
disappearing somewhere, but Fenech was always there, carefully watching over me,
prodding and egging me on. He was too powerful and I too weak. He would always
speak for me, make my creative decisions for me – I don't think I could escape
his grasp even if I wanted to. If anything he
was the true artist – one that deals in PR, marketing and manipulation - the art of
bullshit. I was just his pawn in all of this. I had often pondered that perhaps I really had made a deal
with the devil.
And now I found myself, 18 years
later at my own gallery, currently showcasing ‘The Pig King’. It was shut for
the evening but I had let myself in and wondered through the darkness amongst
the various pieces from my life that were laid out on show. The grand opening
was supposed to be tomorrow but I felt no excitement or pride. None of this was
mine – not really. Fenech usually was careful to limit me reading about myself
in the press, but recently I had come across a story on an online blog that
detailed a leaked memo showing how the money that was used to set up this
gallery and exhibition was originally meant for the renovation of the city
hospital, but was diverted at the last minute. What can I say? The mayor was a
huge fan.
Making my way through the
exhibition, I only felt numb. You must think I sound like a total cliché – the
‘tortured artist’. In reality I was just bored. When you get to the point where
you can get away with any kind of bullshit without even trying – none of it has
any real worth.
I toyed with the idea of ending it
all, hanging myself right in the middle of this gallery and putting an end to
this charade. Giving the finger to this career-long joke. But there was always
the nagging possibility that people would just take it as my final work of
art – the ultimate sacrifice of the artist. People would always ascribe meaning
to everything I did from now on - there was no escape from it. I sighed loudly. Unbelievable - they had even robbed me of
that.
Making my way to the centre of the
room I approached the bacon throne. It seemed so ridiculous I couldn't help but
let out a dry laugh. Carefully, I ascended the steps, sat down and waited for the
dawn.
5th September 2012
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