"I think I'm done with the sofa, I think I'm done with the hall, I think I'm done with the kitchen table, baby"
-George Michael, 1998
Photography isn't it, bit sculpture. Jonny Mainley Goldsmiths and that 2004-2008. Teachery practice 2012 onwards. Previously occupied with playing records for other people.
Remember when your mate drew a diagram of some kind of hierarchical system on the back of an unpaid bill and for a spilt second it made perfect sense? But on reflection it was ambiguous at best (and he was as high as fuck.) Somewhere there is a conspiracy theory swilling cocktails on a li-lo, learning its lines to its latest on-screen bust up with Bet Lynch. I'm not sure if the conspiracy theory is a man but I'm pretty sure I read on its profile 'masc4masc only.'
When I was a kid my dad worked for an insurance company and my mom was a housewife. They decorated the home in aspirational veneers, faux Victoriana. She had one of those chipboard tables that had a lacy skirt, she used to hide things underneath it so that the fabric wouldn't hang straight but bulge slightly. And then Ikea told them to chuck out their chintz and so they did.
Colour coded problem solving. A party popper as a marker of something. High camp, late capitalism.
An old satellite dish, out of use but still receiving (half hard.) There is an internet A.D.