Art enthusiasts, there is a bold new installation in town – and to my shame, I am currently kneeling on it. Surely if Jackson Pollack’s paint splattered floor can be considered art, my carpet in an equally distressed state has just as much right to the title. As with Pollack’s famous final work, my carpet tells a story. Each slight stain, for which I am now searching desperately to understand the cause, depicts a fragmentary moment in time. This is then profoundly juxtaposed with its power to erase past mistakes, as many years of wear make it increasingly difficult to ascertain the origins of the species now growing within. If you have ever read Terry Pratchett’s ‘The Carpet People’ you can imagine how emotionally involved I was in the creation of this piece. Indeed everytime the scout comes in, I feel a sense of solidarity with Sara Goldschmied and Eleonora Chiari, two Italian artists whose installation ‘Where Shall We Go Dancing Tonight?’ was swept away by cleaners at the Museion in Bolzano. Honestly, sometimes it feels like no-one respects modern Art.
But this may be about to change. Brilliantly reviewed by many (not to fan my own already petrol-fed flames), the eminent art critic Dr P. Einlich spoke to Cherwell earlier this week. He made the following profound observations; ‘The underwear strewn in an adhoc fashion across the piece add a certain human element to this masterwork. There is a very real sense that one is walking over the tatters of a human life. Comically the artist herself doesn’t hesitate to include a mass of slated translations and failed essays to demonstrate the cataclysm her life has become. I personally admired this honesty, evident throughout her work.’ I must admit however that not all critics were so positive. Ms Susie Gee was heard to whisper as she walked into the exhibition; ‘isn’t it like…just your carpet.’ Dear reader, we cannot expect all to understand the intricacies of artistic thought.
Thus to avoid similar reviews, I have decided to write this exposition. The thick layer of dust in the corner and the pile of recently ripped off backs of double sided sticky tape, are not just evidence of my own lack of self motivation, but beautifully present the transition of time and is proof of my own considerable commitment. The splatters of mud covering the floor, spread Oxford geographically throughout the square entity, providing a new spacial dimension. Indeed this is not a static installation, but one fixed in temporality. This is not just my finest work; this is my life’s work.
I invite you dear reader to come visit this cultural revolution. Tickets £3 on the door. All proceeds will go towards my latest installment, cryptically named ‘the wall’.