...we get up every day, walking sometimes, reading rarely, eating often, thinking always, smoking moderately, enjoying enjoyment, looking, relaxing to see, loving nightly, finding amusement, encouraging life, fighting boredom, being natural, daydreaming, travelling along, drawing occasionally, talking lightly, drinking tea, feeling tired, dancing sometimes, philosophising a lot, criticising never, whistling tunefully, dying very slowly, laughing nervously, greeting politely, and waiting till the day breaks." Gilbert & George
On waking he thought of how we get up everyday, 'we' being all of humanity rather than he, himself an individual feeling no connection with anybody else. Everyone gets up at some point, himself included. Well, apart from the dead he supposed but he was worried enough about feeling a connection with anyone living to concern himself with that. They (the living that is) would be getting up at some point even if it was before he went to bed or while he was dreaming. But he felt out of sync with the rest of the world, as though he existed in a time-zone of his own. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and thought about how walking sometimes his feet were out of step with every other person he passed and no matter how he might try and change his pace, the speed and rhythm of his footsteps, he could not align himself to his fellow man.
This was his life. Reading rarely because reading made him feel dizzy and who was he anyway to understand whatever words whoever author had committed to print. Eating often because eating made him feel a little less dizzy. But apart from this, thinking always, that was life for him. Thinking thoughts of isolation such as these. He would roll himself a cigarette and think where once he had chain smoked, he was now smoking moderately or least at a rate that meant he was less likely to get a sore throat but that still, thankfully, his demise would be hastened. It was rare to find him enjoying enjoyment, but he took pleasure in looking at the fronds of smoke curl out around the room. It was relaxing to see them dissipate. And although he knew that probably out there were others loving nightly, finding amusement in each other and generally encouraging life, this seemed far away from him. Indeed the only way he could possibly think of vigour was as something that was required in fighting boredom, and that was something he usually succumbed. To think of being filled with any other passion was not him being natural in his mind. These feelings which he supposed other people must feel felt alien and unhealthy to him. He was thinking this, daydreaming, as travelling along, he took in the streets of London, moving to burn off excess energy rather than to get anywhere. Drawing occasionally on his childhood he tried to think why he felt this way but again this felt alien and unhealthy. He could just about hear himself talking lightly under his breath, but again, it did not feel like him talking.
He occupied his evening at home tea drinking until, feeling tired, he contemplated going to bed. He wondered whether there had ever been a point in his life when he had gone out of an evening and looked forward to it and had gone to parties where he might have even been dancing sometimes and feeling happy with it. He could not remember. All he knew was right now he was philosophising a lot but criticising never the reasons why he was such. He went to bed, whistling tunefully, his mind filled with songs he may have danced to at a party he could not remember. In bed it struck him that he was dying very slowly. This amused him and laughing nervously he turned off the light. He woke early before he had intended to and lay staring at the ceiling. It was dark so he could not see it but he lay there, staring and waiting for its blankness to appear. Lying, and waiting 'til the day breaks.
Notes on the text: I wanted to create a narrative for this artwork by Gilbert and George. People perhaps even more than objects project narratives. It made me think of the differences between artist and artwork, human and sculpture. A person will exist in cycles that fit with other peoples or if not that then is at least ones defined by biology. Even human sculptures get up at the beginning of the day and go to bed at the end. An artwork perhaps only exists when someone is viewing it, or when gallery lights turn on. An artwork is always disassociated to some extent from its creator in that it has its own relationship with the world, with the viewer, in that it will exist even when the artist does not. Maybe, to become an artwork the artist must disassociate himself. It is interesting that the one overtly artistic act in the statement "drawing occasionally" takes an alternate meaning in the story and seizes to be creative. When I tried to fit in all the actions into a short story, it makes sense to have it as a day in the life. I let each statement determine how the story would evolve. It is interesting how disassociated the protagonist feels. Perhaps the artist always feels like this. Perhaps I always feel like this. I certainly did not intend the story to be this depressing. Partly it is the tense of the original statement by Gilbert and George, the adjectival verbs are oddly passive and difficult to fit into a narrative. Even doing the best I could they are somewhat clunky and oddly passive especially given the active tense needed to make them sensical. I tried to fit each phrase in with a minimum of 'padding' around it required to make sense. I had no idea how it would develop from sentence to sentence. The statement itself really drove what I wrote, and hence the style is very different to how I usually write. It is not necessarily successful but I found it very interesting to work within such set boundaries.
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