How To Marry A Millionaire

Five years ago, Martin Creed won the most prestigious award in art in the UK, the Turner Prize, for a work that consisted of a room with a light that turned on and off. In an interview, he said that the idea came to him when he was trying to figure out what to exhibit, and he couldn't decide if he should exhibit in a room with the light on or the light off . . .

Last night he gave a performance at the Royal Scottish Academy, which was not particularly impressive. He did show a really nice video of a pretty girl in cowboy boots and a short skirt vomiting large amounts of glistening red liquid onto a hard floor. The sound of the vomit hitting the floor was a highlight. Do I sound sarcastic? I don't mean to, I did like the video, and one of the songs he sang was nice as well. Other than that, he gave a sort of stilted, uncomfortable talk, which I guess was the point, but it mostly bored me and I caught myself dozing at more than one point.

Later I was introduced to a couple middle aged men, one a charming musician and the other an incredible (ugly, vulgar, immature) millionaire. At one point, the millionaire made a comment about feeling most sorry for the poor saps stuck in the middle class, as it is only those with everything or nothing that have true freedom. He went on to define the "poor saps stuck in the middle class" as those making £100,000 a year… Shortly after this, he was wagging the limp end of a pockmarked-flesh colored frankfurter in my face, claiming this was the closest he would ever come to being in a porno movie.

I think that must have been the exact moment I turned the bitch on. It might serve me well to be more pleasant to crass millionaires, but I just can't imagine how.

Funny thing, later at the party, after a few more drinks, the millionaire became a bit more eloquent and tolerable, had some decent and even thought-provoking things to say. According to this man, the amount of success and joy in one's life is directly related to the amount of risks one takes. This is a very simple and very brilliant observation, and it was at this exact moment that I began to regret turning the bitch on.

The Christmas season here is all mince pies and mulled wine and ice skating and hot cocoa and Santa hats and Christmas parties and German markets and fruitcake and furry slippers. When they put up the Ferris wheel and the merry-go-round in the last week of November, I thought everybody must be completely mad. Who wants to go on a Ferris wheel in the middle of winter? I'm beginning to understand the appeal; the cold makes everything more exciting, more intimate, more immediate. People gather closer, sipping on hot rum and mulled wine, rubbing shoulders, wrapped tightly in gloved hands and wooly scarves. The talk faster and laugh harder, clap louder when the young men juggle flaming sticks for their amusement. The desire to keep warm feeds the warmth that grows, until walking through the market on a Saturday evening two weeks before Christmas, you feel you are part of something.

Je ne parle pas français . . . (?) I'm going to Paris on Wednesday. Alone, which I'm quite looking forward to. The musician I met last night had never been to Paris, because at a very young age (17 was it?) he had promised himself that he would only go to the city of love with someone with whom he was in love. Twenty years later, (more?), he has never been to Paris. I considered inviting him along with me, but I didn't.

Oh, there's a new cut and soundtrack for my squirrel video HERE, as well as a cleaned-up and very low res version of my first animation. I'll try to have a second animation up before Christmas, but I'm not sure I'll be able to swing it with all my globetrotting . . .