Friday, July 14, 2006
A day in the life of a Fluxus artist
A typical day for me is when I wake up and fling open the widows of my thirteenth floor apratment block in Bergen and breathe deeply the wonderful Norwegian mountain air. I say a few mantras to the spirit of Fluxus and fill my Fluxus pipe with some Thrimpton's Olde Percilier Ready Rub that I get sent over from England. I believe Kurt Schwitters used to use the same when he lived there. (Ofcourse he never smoked but used the packets for his collages.)
Then its breakfast of prunes and sennapods and a quick sprint to my ablutions. I fling open the windows again ( who shut them?) and breathe deeply the marvellous nose tingling mounain air and puff happily on my trusty Fluxus pipe glowing in the morning sunrise. I bound three stairs at a time down to the ground floor and peddle my Fluxus bike to my studio. I fling open the windows and breathe yet more gorgeous Norwegian mountain air which assaults my nostrils as we are not far from the fish canning factory. I quickly close the windows and begin to compost my daily doings. I fill my pipe once again with Thrimpton's Olde Perculier and contemplate the small stain on my studio wall and wonder what it can be. I have been meaning to incorporate it into an artwork for many months now and the tricklings of an idea are beginning the circumvent my imaginations. Ahay! I will use this stain for the new elevated prose poem in the lift later. My good Fluxus friend Thoebold Trump Von will accompany me on the electric tuba.
After lunch of dried quails we meet other Fluxus artists in the town square to fill our pipes with Thrimptons Olde perculier for a performance peice dedicated to Roadrunner and Coyote. We blow smoke rings that link up and resemble the Olympic symbols of unity and peace. We break some bollards with dry bread I had been saving for such a purpose and race down to the docks to dive naked into the wonderful frozen waters of the North Sea.
In hospital that evening I reflect on another successful Fluxus day and puff contendly on my trusty Fluxus pipe and fall, into a deep untroubled sleep save only for the smell of burning bed linen.