My feet are so awful I have condensed them down to the point of two lines, like a highway that ends in a stalactite.
My hands are globules that morph into utilitarian objects of blunt force.
My faces are bulged craters for eye sockets.
I began to draw a penis and realized I had never drawn one before. What kind of a schoolboy was I???
There are sketchbooks buried throughout my house like little treasures to be found. Each contains a maximum of ten pages before I gave up on whatever project was "exciting" at the time. Some even have fanciful titles that betray the grandeur of which I had hoped to obtain with a few magic strokes. Some are jammed with additional sheets of paper to make them seem more full. Some contain burned pages, because it seemed like a good idea at the time. Some have cutouts that reveal other things that I was going to draw, but instead just reveal the next blank page. And one is a copy of a religious text half destroyed by my hand, an unfinished masterpiece that is now a nice place for a hideaway key.
|Installation by Damien Hirst|
I've now begun a third page. The faces are ridiculous unborn fetuses. The feet are shit.
But I like it.