The New Artwork

My most recent work is a performance where I create a fruit cocktail.
Halfway through, it dawns on me that I haven't thought up a punchline or developed a comedy persona so I am not able to be funny.  Still worse, I now see that everything about it is meaningless.

Face Paint

As an "avant-garde" experiment I black up my face then sleep on it.
The next day I do the same with luminous yellow paint.

Despite being the only one to find it hilarious I am convinced this is radical progress.

When Is A Monologue A Dialogue?

I am in a hotel room with the artist twins Jane and Louise Wilson. They are showing me their work- a dialogue in photos, collage and video- but which relates to all kinds of subject matter beyond themselves. It is both intensely personal and universal. My own little drawings pale into insignificance.
"I just feel like I am creating a series of monologues. I wish I were a twin like you."
They laugh because it is obviously not easy being a twin like them- it is fraught with little jealousies. "Yes I know that's nonsense," I add, "we are all capable of dialogues within and beyond ourselves." One jumps on top of me - she is now a curvaceous black woman- she hugs me suggesting we go for a drink. I go to hug the other thinking I should but she shrugs me off, "You don't have to treat us both the same. We are two separate people."

Am I The Defender Or The Prosecutor?

I have clambered down through a tiny doorway over worn grey leather seats into a court room. Seated in rows are various people I half recognise- all here to decide the future of my flat. The council has offered me £3000 to move. I know it is not enough. I can't work out who is supporting me. An old scout is there - I think on my side - but two fat women who I thought friendly are making snide remarks. My helpful solicitor I realise is opposing me and wants me out of my flat. I don't really understand the case. Am I even on the right side myself?

Bicycle Maintenance Book

At last I have completed cataloging information for inclusion in our book on bicycle maintenance. Now I find that the bike doesn't tally with the details on the page. I search for the data on the page again and still the bike does not match. I carry on regardless.

Not The Best Person For The Job

I am running a keep fit class for a group of women in an old church hall. One of the women informs me that Vinnie Jones was doing the job before me. "Yes, Vinnie was VERY good. Maybe you could get him in for a couple of sessions," she suggests. The idea is daunting- he will see through me straight away as I am not particularly athletically fit. "What would be useful," she adds, "is if you could let us have an 8 year plan showing how you intend to develop this course." I have an idea that the women like me teaching them but I just think I am not the best person for this job.

Distant Dog

As I head along the motorway my dog is tagging along behind halfheartedly. He is so far away he has become little more than a black dot in the distance. I have to believe in this relationship and that he will return without my insisting that he sticks by me at all times. So I walk on, miles ahead. Will he follow like a good sheepdog? Have I made a mistake? I so want to see him again.

Bad Publicity

The interviewer is having second thoughts about employing me to run some kids' workshops. "Well the trouble is that you say in your brochure that you have had experience in this field. In fact that is a lie. And you make another claim but that wasn't you either was it? I am really having second thoughts here." My heart sinks. I know I can do the work but I have promoted myself in the wrong way and this woman has seen through it.

The Edited Version

I have just met some enthusiastic teenage students from a workshop I ran a few months ago. Hang on, I say, I have something I wrote about you in my diary - let me copy it out for you. The diary turns into a comic with action hero adventures. I copy the relevant text, furtively editing out the bit about my fancying one of them. As I do so I question the whole process. Why am I giving it to them? Why on earth should anyone want to read these edited notes from my diary?

Lack Of Substance

I am having doubts about the purpose of this dream diary. Maybe I can learn something from the efficient layout of David Cameron's daily photo diary. I look more closely - there is something vital missing - I can't quite put my finger on it.

First Dream Diary Lecture

In a dark claustrophobic room I am preparing to give a talk on my work. I haven't done so for a few months and my disorganised notes are spread out on the trestle table behind me. A woman in an evening gown introduces me after singing a cheesey cabaret number. I feel nervous and unsure of myself.

Cryptic Clue

Two intimidating men and I sit around a small table concentrating on a crossword puzzle. The clues are all meaningless to me. They read out one which is something about our troops on foreign territory. How can I begin to answer when I don't understand the question in the first place? Someone suggests "DEFENESTRATE".
"It could be that. That's a military term to do with blocking in windows," I say, desperate to show a modicum of intelligence but completely out of my depth.


Later on in the day, after I have woken up out of the dream, the correct answer comes to mind: "OBFUSCATE".

General Knowledge Quiz

Only one teenage schoolboy has the authority to pass me. My heart sinks when I see him on entering the book shop - I scarcely know him. Suddenly he makes an announcement. "Is Robin Whitmore here?" I say yes thinking that everything will be ok. He tells me that in order to proceed he needs to ask me ten general knowledge questions and I must get four in a row right. Oh god.
"Which category - science or art?"
"Art."
First question about some Dutch artist on the tip of my tongue. Pass.
Second, "What is another name for a dentist's chair?"
"Alfriston," I think. (Dubious answer.)
Third, "When did Vasco da Gama sail round the world?"
I am really not sure that he did at all but know he was around in the 16th century. No idea of what date.
And so it goes on. Ten questions and I get none right. Hopeless.