the artist's sink/Little & Light/Slippy the Dream Dog   Leave a comment

I first developed the concept of the artist’s sink after seeing some skanky, paint-filled sink round some artist’s studio, and being impressionable, it struck me that this was what artists’ sinks ought to look like. It followed on that if I was an artist, which I thought I might be, then my sink ought to be a scum-filled utility apparatus too. I don’t paint, generally speaking, but I thought that at the very least I ought not to ever clean my sink again. Recently, which is several years later, I realized that water has been leaking from my artist’s sink onto the large pile of dirty washing underneath the sink, and onto the carpet and the bare concrete below it. Because it took me some while to realize this, and to arrange to get a plumber out, there has been quite extensive damage to one corner of my room involving mould and filth and general grimness. It is manky and minging, and it smells awful. However, I have had a brand new shiny sink from Armitage Shanks installed and I’ll probably give it a scrub now and again. Artist’s sink indeed.

A few weeks ago my mother-in-law made the gift of a pair of goldfish to my young son, who was chuffed to bits (because he’s into living things at the moment). I was less chuffed, because I don’t believe in goldfish. Well, I believe in their physical reality, in so much as we can ever be totally sure about anything, but I don’t think they ought to be kept as pets. I take this view from my late friend Sean, who reckoned that whereas things like dogs have been domesticated over thousands of years, fish ought to live in rivers or the sea. He may have been influenced by the Coppola film Rumblefish, which is a fucking great film. It’s got Tom Waits in it and has a score by Stewart Copeland, so, y’know. Anyway we don’t have the space for anything like a decent size tank, because Sam’s tiny pink flat is crammed with crap already. A while ago we were talking about getting a cat, but we decided that we didn’t have the room to swing it. So, Little and Light, as Syd dubs his new goldfish, have to sit on the windowsill next to the sink, swimming forlornly around their tiny space like a pair of metaphors. For about a week anyway, which is how long it takes Light to decide to pop his clogs and float to the surface. For some reason this strikes me as the saddest event in the universe, but Syd, bar a bit of wandering round the flat going “poor little feller” in doleful tones, essentially remains largely emotionally intact, thank fuck. One day, when I’m rich, or maybe when we get a council flat, I’m going to get Syd a bloody great dog. We’re going to call him Slippy.

Still some copies of the Um 7″ available…

Posted September 22, 2004 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

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