British Artist Nick Hersey explores ideas and concepts relating to consumerism, youth culture, contemporary art and the modern condition.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
I can't help it
He was not unusual in himself of course. True he did not fit the
regular demographic for this particular incarnation of the project, as
he was younger than the average participant- he was perhaps a few years
younger than me- but he certainly was not the first person of general
intellect to drift into the unit. His jaunty goatee and only recently
unkempt hair lent the impression of a creative, or liberal, or somesuch
type, and his fairly well disguised midlands accent seemed the natural
auditory accompaniment to this demeanor.
He flapped a B5 envelope in his other hand, between thumb and index finger, as he mused on what might be the best way to pin down the amorphous idea that was clearly crystalising quite nicely in his mind. It had always been a refreshing interaction when a passer by would encounter, digest, understand and then participate in the installation without needing prodding or goading by me. Most would, at some point, need confirmation that what they were doin was right- was permitted, or expected of them. It is part of the creature that we have become, to need assurance or security in the fact that we are doing it as expected, by the rules, to form. There is indeed a term for the 'fear of freedom' - but it escapes me now. Our envelope flapper needed no introduction or encouragement, no shepherding or cues. He got it right away... he knew exacty what he had to do- he just needed to get it, well, just right. It was almost as if, in fact, this whole exercise had happened upon him at just the right moment- that if circumstance had been different, and he had not wandered into this operation, he might have spent the next forty minutes looking for some equivalent vehicle that could alleviate him of this burning idea. After some rather embarrassed smiled exchanges, some chin rubbing and, I think, a little finger wagging to his unseen conscience or mental spirit, he finally filled with the confidence that he had got it right.
He humped his rucksack higher onto the one shoulder that carried it, so that it should not slump awkwardly as he leaned forward to write, and he placed the paper on the desk and quickly scribbled the words onto it. After a brief pause, looking at them on the page, to check that they were, in fact, a fairly accurate representation in written form of the conceptual miasma that had taken so long to condense, he nodded to himself (or his unseen conscience once again) and slid the paper across the desk to me, a look of satisfaction on his face that just about resisted becoming an expression of smugness.
I looked at the phrase that he had written, and turned it over once or twice in my head, making sure that the concept that had been so lovingly wrapped in words and then written on paper, would be as diligently recreated by my own cognitive processes. I smiled politely as I had trained myself to after so many diverse contributions. It had become a polite ritual to acknowledge vulgarity, racism, stupidity or perceived wit with equal measure as a way of thanks for at least bothering to participate in the project. Genius and Hideous were treated with zen-like equal measure in this house.
In themselves, the words were a commendable effort, but especially so in the context of the project. The phrase would have stood in its own right had it simmered to the surface of his consciousness of its own accord, without being teased out under the duress of participating in the project, but it seemed even more vigorous when considered as a manufactured response stimulated by the unit. I had come to expect a yield of perhaps one or two real crackers for every two days spent within the installation, and the statistics had not deviated from form on this day. The better responses were not the very best I had ever seen, but they had that immediacy, resonance and sparkle that I knew would translate fairly effortlessly into something visual. This one, however, was a stand-out winner. They had a weight or gravity because of the person from which they had come, rather than in spite of him. The words read 'I know I shouldn't do it, but I have to'.
Their power was augmented substantially a moment later, when the young man paused on his way out of the unit and turned to me, envelope once again flickering between thumb and finger... 'is there a post office very near to here?'.
He flapped a B5 envelope in his other hand, between thumb and index finger, as he mused on what might be the best way to pin down the amorphous idea that was clearly crystalising quite nicely in his mind. It had always been a refreshing interaction when a passer by would encounter, digest, understand and then participate in the installation without needing prodding or goading by me. Most would, at some point, need confirmation that what they were doin was right- was permitted, or expected of them. It is part of the creature that we have become, to need assurance or security in the fact that we are doing it as expected, by the rules, to form. There is indeed a term for the 'fear of freedom' - but it escapes me now. Our envelope flapper needed no introduction or encouragement, no shepherding or cues. He got it right away... he knew exacty what he had to do- he just needed to get it, well, just right. It was almost as if, in fact, this whole exercise had happened upon him at just the right moment- that if circumstance had been different, and he had not wandered into this operation, he might have spent the next forty minutes looking for some equivalent vehicle that could alleviate him of this burning idea. After some rather embarrassed smiled exchanges, some chin rubbing and, I think, a little finger wagging to his unseen conscience or mental spirit, he finally filled with the confidence that he had got it right.
He humped his rucksack higher onto the one shoulder that carried it, so that it should not slump awkwardly as he leaned forward to write, and he placed the paper on the desk and quickly scribbled the words onto it. After a brief pause, looking at them on the page, to check that they were, in fact, a fairly accurate representation in written form of the conceptual miasma that had taken so long to condense, he nodded to himself (or his unseen conscience once again) and slid the paper across the desk to me, a look of satisfaction on his face that just about resisted becoming an expression of smugness.
I looked at the phrase that he had written, and turned it over once or twice in my head, making sure that the concept that had been so lovingly wrapped in words and then written on paper, would be as diligently recreated by my own cognitive processes. I smiled politely as I had trained myself to after so many diverse contributions. It had become a polite ritual to acknowledge vulgarity, racism, stupidity or perceived wit with equal measure as a way of thanks for at least bothering to participate in the project. Genius and Hideous were treated with zen-like equal measure in this house.
In themselves, the words were a commendable effort, but especially so in the context of the project. The phrase would have stood in its own right had it simmered to the surface of his consciousness of its own accord, without being teased out under the duress of participating in the project, but it seemed even more vigorous when considered as a manufactured response stimulated by the unit. I had come to expect a yield of perhaps one or two real crackers for every two days spent within the installation, and the statistics had not deviated from form on this day. The better responses were not the very best I had ever seen, but they had that immediacy, resonance and sparkle that I knew would translate fairly effortlessly into something visual. This one, however, was a stand-out winner. They had a weight or gravity because of the person from which they had come, rather than in spite of him. The words read 'I know I shouldn't do it, but I have to'.
Their power was augmented substantially a moment later, when the young man paused on his way out of the unit and turned to me, envelope once again flickering between thumb and finger... 'is there a post office very near to here?'.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
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