Archaic Expressionism


I hate everyone and everything. Life is a giant lie, fed to us from birth. This reality, our existence, is inevitably pointless; and I should just start fucking people for money, and consume only LSD, and cocaine for the rest of my days.

These are the thoughts which float around my pretty head, as I depart the bus each afternoon. Tired, worn, and poor. Deciding whether I would be better off eating avocado on toast for dinner, or a bowl of muesli. Though this all begins to dissipate, and the weight of life is somewhat lifted. When I return to my flats room, on the top floor of my apartment building. Looking out at banking world’s towers of Canary Wharf, and immersing myself in my art.

Charcoal begins to consume my pale white skin, eating its way up the surface of my arms. As I lay sprawled across my bed, free of the inhibitions of my work clothes – and overgarments altogether. Crafting my empire. Tirelessly, each day I will return to the floorplans of my imagined universe. Micromanaging like an overbearing architect, giving little care to the advice spilled by the project’s engineers.

Forging a legacy, with complete insignificance. For any good or ill that should come from my work; in the grand scheme of our cosmic reality, shall bear no influence. There is a solidifying reassurance in that. For the prospect, that I could grant considerable impact on the universe around, terrifies me. If it were possible for me to affect some small change to the larger universe, that would consequentially require those with far more influence, and power to have the same ability. Potentially, birthing unthinkable ramifications to the fabric of reality.

As the reigning apes of this small sphere, we have somehow convoluted volumes of bizarro shit, which could spell the end of our existence. To think we could bring undue harm to a larger space than our own planet, would be enough for me to volunteer to a lifetime spent in a padded cell. But, given we can only fuck over ourselves, and our children and their children’s children: I will happily settle for an unpadded room in east London. Where I can draw up my psychotic break upon the blank page. Line my room from floor to ceiling, not with cushioned white padding, but sketched out blueprints to my personal dimension. Canvassed for an audience of indistinguishable appearance.

There is no motive behind my actions, other than securing the necessary nourishment my psyche requires. An exploration in the metaphysical to ensure I keep a hold on what is perceived as tangible. A clawing expression of my dissatisfaction with our self-centric existence, upon our blue dot. Unfurled in seemingly never-ending streams, of generified reproductions of those who came before me. My influences subconsciously plagiarized; and at times, intentionally appropriated into banal homages. As if the art world were not already inundated with enough trite twentieth-century transgressive postmodern pastiches.

Yet, I will still climb up those apartment block stairs each early evening. Passing by the families talking in their kitchen’s. While the children play with footballs in the courtyard and chase one another in games of tiggy. Sometimes around this hour, families can be heard screaming after their dog’s, as they are regretfully let off their leashes. I will unlock my front door, and strip off my clothes, and gleefully submit my existence to whatever I churn up in charcoal, completely unfiltered.

London Town, with O