Fuck the floor
I’m talking about the fucking floor of the studio I share with fucking Beiron, a fucking painter from the Netherlands. It has a surface of about 250 square meters—more precisely: 11.5 fucking meters wide and 21 fucking meters deep—and it is located in an old industrial complex in the fucking north of fucking Antwerp. In fucking Belgium, of all places. This is where we, Beiron and fucking me, myself and I, spend our fucking days and weeks and months; this is where we invest as much fucking zeal and energy as we can in making fucking good stuff—that is, stuff of which we say to one another: fuck, yes, this is fucking worth looking at!
While making these fucking superb things, Beiron spends most of his time half-asleep in his fucking sofa, and I walk around. I don’t have a fucking sofa, I only have a lame wooden folding chair. So I fucking walk miles and miles on this fucking floor. Day in and day out I fucking walk on it. And no matter how many more fucking miles I walk on it, nor how hard I try to come up with something that is better than simply fucking good, nor how much fucking inspiration I get from somewhere to increase the odds of making that happen, there is always that fucking tinnitus-like annoyance, that fucking squeaking little voice that keeps saying: “I haven't the slightest idea of what the fuck the workers were doing here way back when, but one thing stands tall above any doubt: they were great fucking artists!” Each time I accidentally glance at the floor—actually, I do nothing but glance at the fucking floor while walking on it—that little squeaker says it again and again. And I suspect he goes on with it for only one fucking purpose: he wants me to admit that I’ll never succeed in making anything that can match this fucking floor.
It is fucking unbearable. No kidding—so fucking unbearable that I have been very close to fucking hanging myself. But while standing on my lame chair—I was pleasantly surprised to have found a way to fucking use it—with an electric wire noosed around my neck, I couldn’t help but glance at the floor one fucking last time. Instantly, I heard the fucking voice again, but at the same moment an alternative solution popped into my mind. That was good for fucking Beiron, too, for I counted on him to find me when he would have switched his fucking modus operandi from half-asleep back to half-awake.
To come to the point: this prize offers me a way out. Fuck the floor! I’ve had it! Who were those great artists? Fuck off! Here, take a look at the pictures. Okay, they are of questionable quality (they are taken with a quite fucked up device) but they definitely show what that masterpiece fucking looks like. And as you can see: it is just a dirty floor. I even say: a very dirty floor, with a lot of fucking filth on it. Nothing fucking special, not even when you look closely. I mean, I’m wearing out my fucking shoes on it, right? Then we understand each other. Hence I request all parties involved to not select this fucking project for the exhibition in London. Fucking reject it. That should be enough to finally shut up that fucking squeaking motherfucker in my fucking head.
Much obliged.
While making these fucking superb things, Beiron spends most of his time half-asleep in his fucking sofa, and I walk around. I don’t have a fucking sofa, I only have a lame wooden folding chair. So I fucking walk miles and miles on this fucking floor. Day in and day out I fucking walk on it. And no matter how many more fucking miles I walk on it, nor how hard I try to come up with something that is better than simply fucking good, nor how much fucking inspiration I get from somewhere to increase the odds of making that happen, there is always that fucking tinnitus-like annoyance, that fucking squeaking little voice that keeps saying: “I haven't the slightest idea of what the fuck the workers were doing here way back when, but one thing stands tall above any doubt: they were great fucking artists!” Each time I accidentally glance at the floor—actually, I do nothing but glance at the fucking floor while walking on it—that little squeaker says it again and again. And I suspect he goes on with it for only one fucking purpose: he wants me to admit that I’ll never succeed in making anything that can match this fucking floor.
It is fucking unbearable. No kidding—so fucking unbearable that I have been very close to fucking hanging myself. But while standing on my lame chair—I was pleasantly surprised to have found a way to fucking use it—with an electric wire noosed around my neck, I couldn’t help but glance at the floor one fucking last time. Instantly, I heard the fucking voice again, but at the same moment an alternative solution popped into my mind. That was good for fucking Beiron, too, for I counted on him to find me when he would have switched his fucking modus operandi from half-asleep back to half-awake.
To come to the point: this prize offers me a way out. Fuck the floor! I’ve had it! Who were those great artists? Fuck off! Here, take a look at the pictures. Okay, they are of questionable quality (they are taken with a quite fucked up device) but they definitely show what that masterpiece fucking looks like. And as you can see: it is just a dirty floor. I even say: a very dirty floor, with a lot of fucking filth on it. Nothing fucking special, not even when you look closely. I mean, I’m wearing out my fucking shoes on it, right? Then we understand each other. Hence I request all parties involved to not select this fucking project for the exhibition in London. Fucking reject it. That should be enough to finally shut up that fucking squeaking motherfucker in my fucking head.
Much obliged.
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