tramduck

On the banks of the River Kenn, just half a mile from Europe’s third largest paint factory, a shabby old mallard was rejecting the contents of last nights binge. A steaming pile of dark red vomit pooled up in the long grass and dribbled slowly down into the river. His feathers, once emerald green, were now filthy; stained irreversibly by years of high strength lager. The bird was known as Trampduck. He covered his head with a wing and let out a painful caw. “Waaaaaaaooouuch! Waaaaaaaooouuch! My head, my poor, poor head!” Trampduck had experienced some hangovers in his long tragic life, but this was definitely the worst. What had lead to this squalid scene? The bird could not remember, his mind was too raw even to think. “Must remember, must remember what I did to deserve this.” Thought Trampduck, his head throbbing like an angry Chaffinch.

He raised his beak and poked it through the reeds to gain some bearings. The duck was in a park, one that he knew quite well. About 10 metres away a family of four humans scoffed down a picnic as though they were spending their last seconds on Earth. Pork Pies, ham sandwiches and boiled eggs were being dumped down their throats with such speed a passer might only discern a giant pint blur. “What greed!” thought Trampduck, “What disgusting greed! Stuffing their faces with not one crumb left for poor old Trampduck.”
The smallest of the four humans was no more than a baby. Sprawled on a red tartan rug, it’s mother filled his belly with apple sauce while she tucked into a fat chocolate éclair. As she bit into the cake a blob of cream spilled out, saved from spoiling the rug only by the baby’s greasy chin. Neither mother or child seemed to care, and carried on with their lunch. It had now been some time since Trampduck’s last meal, and the mornings vomiting had left the bird’s stomach empty and swollen. With a head still ringing with booze, Trampduck tried to concentrate, carefully considering the available options. After about thirty seconds the bird had made up his mind. “If I were quick enough, I could eat that little fucker for my lunch!”

He was a stubborn old duck, and even though the plan had numerous ethical and legal complications, he was certain it was fool proof. With a horrendous scream- like a pig treading on a landmine- Trampduck charged towards the child, his wings flapping with ugly, violent rhythm. It was the biggest human, the father, who first saw this terrifying sight. “Kate, get the children! It’s a mallard, and I think it might be rabid!” But it was too late, and the mother human could not get to the baby before Trampduck. He snapped his beak shut on the child’s fat arm and jerked it off with the clean efficiency of a Olympic weightlifter. “IN THE NAME OF CHRIST NOOOOOO!!” Yelled the human dad, too busy protecting his other child to save the baby from a less than peaceful death. The mother had managed to grab a jar of pickled onions from the picnic spread, and was throwing them one by one at the murderous duck. “Leave my baby alone you vile, despicable creature. What the hell are we going to do James, it’s killing baby Daniel!” she screamed. Her hysteria was badly affecting her aim, making most of the onions go wildly astray. The human dad had now given up on his smallest child and was running towards the car park. “It’s no use Kate, we have to get out of here or that fucking duck will kill us too!” Wailing like a scalded cat, the mother turned from the bloody scene and dutifully ran after her husband. Trampduck chuckled with satisfaction, and tucked into the wholesome flesh of the mewling child. It was soon to be in the stomach of a very naughty duck.

biog1

Let’s trim our hair in accordance with the socialist lifestyle

Formed: Chertsey, Surrey, 2005…by James Bedford-Ynez, Bjorn Framm, Vincent Rainbird, and Jackson Stellak. Influenced primarily by Surrey’s hardcore power-violence scene ltohiawtsl created a sound resembling a quiet family day at the zoo being spoiled by a otter eating a child. After building up a strong hometown following they were signed to Wee Records and released their debut LP I’m being frank you, please accept my sincerity. Thanks in the spring of 2006. This bizarre set of songs divided critics in the music press, some going as far as labeling the album as “the worst record to come out of the home counties since that last fucking terrible Paul Weller one”. It certainly wasn’t to all tastes, something that the group admitted to as a badge of honour, but Bedford-Ynez’s barking vocals and relentlessly pornographic lyrics were more deliberately obtuse than willingly controversial. After a grueling 2 week tour of East Berkshire which almost saw the band split they returned to studio to record their breakthrough second album, le death/(men)ace! . A far more melodic offering than their first effort, the record revealed a tender interplay between Framm’s whimpering guitar, Rainbird’s sexy bass grooves and Stellak’s insistence on only using drum beats invented between 1924 and 1959. The songs were also more mature, perhaps reflecting Bedford-Ynez’s relationship with Hollyoaks actess Fiona Deborah, newsreader Sophie Mews and office cleaner Doreen Yentob. The world awaits their next release with baited traps.

lecture

He felt a numbness steal his finger tips as he reached to adjust the lens of the data projector.

…if Salcedo had got a team of builders to construct a crack in the ground in a sports centre or a school playground, would it have been so appreciated as a great piece of art by both the general public and art critics? No. The only place that this could ever be manufactured is the turbine hall of the Tate Modern. To make it work as art, to justify what in the cold light of day is in actual fact a fairly ordinary thing, it has to be surrounded both literally and conceptually.

In the first row of the tiered theatre, half the faces began to blur.

Firstly, it is conceptually legitimate because the woman who has announced its meaning is institutionalised as an artist. Secondly, it exists in a building that has official status as an art gallery and has been given official endorsement as such from those in power.

There is also a third reason that makes it art; it is subject to critical discourse by those who have been granted official status as art critics, or at least, well known cultural commentators, broadsheet journalists and academics. We could keep our tongues in our cheeks and call the non-critic group “the commentariat” or “the opionatti”.

A bolt of adrenaline coiled upwards through his spinal cord. The ghost of his dead childhood dog transpired at his feet and began to yap.

Let’s examine this quote from Gormley.

“The Angel of The North represents a focus of hope at a painful time of transition for the people of the north-east, abandoned in the gap between the industrial and the information ages.”

Gormley is forced to justify the sculpture’s existence because it serves no practical purpose. The architects of office blocks, sports centres or supermarkets would not be expected to attach similar meaning to their creations.

And does this not beg an important question? If this piece of mega-art had an anonymous author, if it had suddenly appeared overnight, would people come to the same meaningful conclusions as Gormley? Has the artist been able to sculpt it in such a way that its very dimensions are somehow able to conjure his acceptation?

His feet sank into the cheap cherry red carpet. The lights melted in buttery forms and ran down the walls in thick trickles. He saw a blond girl doodle a figure on a lever arch file, the exact number in minutes until she was to conceive her first child.

But anyway, if this statue had appeared overnight the context and meaning would be completely altered. People of the north east wouldn’t be saying “oh yes, I really love how it represents a symbol of hope for us at a time when we’re stuck between the industrial and information ages.” They’d be saying “Where the hell did that fucking big rusting statue come from? Who put that there?”

Just like the Shibboleth at the Tate Modern this was a commissioned art work which the artist was paid for and was officially endorsed and financed by centres of power. It’s only with this as a base that it’s possible for both Gormley and Salcedo to invoke meaning for their creations.

His mind unplugged from his body and astral projected to the back of the theatre. It was here that the Professor watched his physical home complete its final lecture.