Three pictures of work included in the show, one you might’ve seen already, two you probably won’t.
And just for SEO kicks, here goes nothin’
candice tripp, not banksy, tiny drama, november show, joshua liner gallery, new york, arrested motion, interview, preview, preview photos, preview pictures, i love bubba, ah-ha
plus shits and giggles.
My house feels like a completely new space. I’ve had canvases propped up against every upright piece of furniture, lining the walls of the place with bears and children and trees. It’s been a horrible place to live in. All movement has been in a sideways fashion. Poor Ideal Brown.
Yesterday 18 selected canvases were collected, wrapped and carried away.
It’s weird to see the summary of almost a year’s work neatly reduced to this:
But it’s even nicer to see it all gone, like this:
I can hoover again!
Included are some photos of the work going in to the upcoming show at the Joshua Liner Gallery this November.
Thanks, chaps!
Really? I feel like I skipped a beat.
“can you hear those wankers?” I slurred into my pillow.
Of course he could. He was lying next to me. I’d bet that the house two doors down could hear them too.
They were playing some sort of rough bedroom boy game of tag. From what I could hear (which was rather a lot) there was a lot of running and slamming of doors between two rooms, where an attack of some sort was launched that reduced someone to delirious fits of screaming laughter. Cute if you’re 6 years old. Not if you’re 20.
I’ve never had such noisy glee drag me from what was already a thin night’s sleep and I’m thankful it wasn’t that of a child since I immediately gave myself over to imagining the sorts of things I could do to change the nature of the noise from delighted to agonised.
It was 4 am and our own floorboards were rumbling as our next door neighbours carried out their game- which I might say for the record, sounded very gay. “I’ll run to your room and tickle you until you wet your pants with laughter and then you can do it back to me” was the gist of it.
Gay. I would rather listen to sloppy sex because after all, there’s only so long that can last.
I’ve never really had a problem with neighbours. Sure, we get loads of drunk students ambling down our street and a little bit of abuse from a window hushes them for at least five steps as someone shout-whipsers “shit, guys, c’mon, guys, shit, shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, ok? Shhhh!”
There’s no part of me that wants to wage a petty war with students. They have a lot more free time. I’ve had a fried egg through the letterbox just because the thing can open. I interact with nobody. I’m as good as dead on this street, which has worked out well for everybody in the three years that we’ve been here. Come the new uni year, there’s a mass exodus and summer is quiet while the houses get repainted in preparation for the next wave of Prada adorned leafleters.There’s no point in trying to develop relationships here.
I considered getting out of bed and calling round to offer a hasty knitting needle lobotomy, but thankfully I had the presence of mind to picture myself doing this. The imagined laughter at my appearance (eyes closed, pants forgotten, one breast lolling out of a free-with-magazine tank top) kept me in bed.
Still, I might pop over and thank Tom. The champ, whoever he is, strode into the room next to our own and did something that abruptly ended the game. We heard “Tom? Tom, No! No! No, Tom!” I pictured Tom threatening to break something and then following through with it.
All the noise ended although one last scream of genuine pain might’ve polished the incident up nicely. I like to think Tom broke someone’s arm or neck, but I think it might’ve just been something easier to replace.