Where nothing is like it should be or ever will be or ever has been
Where everything should and could and would and where you wouldn’t but you would and you should but you shouldn’t though you could and you couldn’t
Where coffee is clay and day is night and day, night AND day I say! Dodilodiday
Where the peasant has power and the precious pristine powder of the priest pollutes the prickled pickle of Parnassus. The particle of Parnassus! It’s another story, it’s another story the particle of Parnassus. Listen audience the particle of Parnassus is a complete other story. …That I will not tell tonight.
Where snot is spit, spit is sperm and sperm… is… is, sperm is, sperm is. IN THE LIFE OF SPIKE, SPERM IS!
In that world… there is… a garden and it’s not the one of Eden. Not the one of Eden!
Audience, it’s the garden… WITHIN THESE FOUR WALLS! WITHIN THESE FOUR WALLS!!!
My garden! Made out of sofas… and things.
With a table! LOOK A TABLE! And a chair and look!
Look into it!
WITH A MICROSPOPE CALEIDOSCOPE, LOOK INTO IT, WITH A TELESCOPE, LOOK IN TO IT!
Look into this life
And be amazed
Look for truth and lies, lies that lay under the lies, that lay, that lay under the floor and swim, swim through reality, swim all over reality
Drowns reality in itself!
Welcome to that life.
The well-spoken, well-written, well off and well bored …Spike Raquette
Where molding is healing
Where everything grows to great… gherkins! Great Great Gherkins! Gherkins made out of gold!
Where the sofa has a scent of sentimentality and sincere, severe self-pity
Where space and time…
Where space and time tend to send… tend to shine…
Terror on each other…
Send terror towards each other!
SEND TERROR TOWARDS EACH OTHER. WHERE TIME AND SPACE TEND TO SEND TERROR AND WAR UPON, AGAINST EACH OTHER!
Taken from the timeline of me friend Derek. Writer/Artist/Owner of Leeds Gallery &Model
"After being asked by an art student visitor to &Model the other day what our curating policy was, I said, "we show what we like!" - "Yes", she said, "but what do you like?" I’ve been thinking about that. So, here’s my answer. I like work that is: funny - incisive - crafted - knowing - informed more than informative - conscious of its relationship with the rest of the (non-art) world - as sharp, clean and elegant as it can be or as rough, dirty and awkward as it can be (not some half-arsed in between) - still funny the second time around - devoid of explanation - not up itself …"
An ant mill is an observed phenomenon in which a group of army ants separated from the main foraging party lose the pheromone track and begin to follow one another, forming a continuously rotating circle. The ants, caught within this loop eventually tire themselves to exhaustion and die.
So it is the duty of the artist to discourage all traces of shame/ To extend all boundaries/ To fog them in right over the plate/ To kill only what is ridiculous/ To establish problem/ To ignore solutions/ To listen to no one/ To omit nothing/ To contradict everything/ To generate the free brain/ To bear no cross/ To take part in no crucifixion/ To tinkle a warning when mankind strays/ To explode upon all parties/ To wound deeper than the soldier/ To heal this poor obstinate monkey once and for all/ To verify the irrational/ To exaggerate all things/ To inhibit everyone/ To lubricate each proportion/ To experience only experience/ To set a flame in the high air/ To exclaim at the commonplace alone/ To cause the unseen eyes to open/ To admire only the absurd/ To be concerned with every profession save his own/ To raise a fortuitous stink on the boulevards of truth and beauty/ To desire an electrifiable intercourse with a female alligator/ To lift the flesh above the suffering/ To forgive the beautiful its disconsolate deceit/ To flash his vengeful badge at every abyss/ To HAPPEN/ It is the artist’s duty to be alive/ To drag people into glittering occupations/ To blush perpetually in gaping innocence/ To drift happily through the ruined race-intelligence/ To burrow beneath the subconscious/ To defend the unreal at the cost of his reason/ To obey each outrageous impulse/ To commit his company to all enchantments.
Welcome to my bin! Of leisure and lethargic sin Where there’s boozing every night but bring your own, I’m sorry I’m unemployed. BYOB and if you’ll bring a can for me every cigarette be free, rollies though if you don’t mind, Kornet on orange rizla – 6 millimetre filters, I’m sorry but it’s what like and can afford. Euroshopper would be the beer of choice and I got neighbours so not too much noise, at least after 11 but then again if you get me pissed enough I might change my mind then.
Welcome to my bin! A distasteful and depressing inn With a dirty double bed properly propped up on pallets, black sheets to see the cum and a white duvet to cover it, white pillows too. You can choose the bed if no one’s there, otherwise I’ll get a matrass from my mate downstairs or another option is the floor, you’ll might get stepped on or banged on by the door but I got comfy carpet found on the street which is quite rank but the colours are neat and also a blanket of course.
Welcome to my bin! Where losers kind of win There’re umbrellas hanging from the roof, a desk, a bed, a mirror and me. Things are hanging from the wall and there’re suits on the hangers, swagy ones. I got a pretty Pachira plant right by the window and if you feel suicidal or so at all, I live 8 floors up, the fall will kill you definitely, and also the view is very pretty, Amsterdam south with its skyscrapers and a few trees and council flats.
Welcome to my bin! I will greet you with a grin And show you poems I have written and maybe my mates will be around and we’ll talk art and be profound, play Lennon and Vimeo videos, I can show you my scrapbook collection of artefacts from the day I went to the clinic. You’ll feel welcome here where if it’s broken it won’t be fixed, in duck tape world of masking tape and functionalism only exists in the walls just by Dutch default.
Welcome to my bin! The dungeon of dada din Where ABC fulminates 123 and wasted workshops are on going, you’ll find condoms under the bed but rub out your luxury in the bathroom, that’s unsaid. There’ll be coffee at 3 PM in the morning and TV-series mixed with dubious discussions at 3 AM in the evening, you might also join a podcast made my me and my wifey don’t be scared it’s bla bla dada and you can only but avail and also if you want you can only stay for a little while.
To realise what I care about.
To remember the job at Wijk Aan Zee and know the horror seen there optimized all I hate.
To make art without lies or cracks but art that is unabridged and honest.
To stake direction, run towards it and accept all that is found.
To believe that ‘everything else’ will sort its self out if art and its making is put first.
To see value in the drunken state and other states of excess.
To put the message first and myself second.
To educate myself in the past and present of my interests.
To accept the insignificance of self for only then can my intentions be fully realised.
Oh, and to stop making fucking boring art.