Wednesday, 14 September 2011
Then, a few weeks ago, whilst on the way to the bench, I come across this shattered pipe – some kind of plastic tubing – lying in the road. I was on my bike, and at a glance I thought it was a fish, a dead fish in the middle of the road. I picked up the pieces (something I very rarely do) and continued on to see what Bench Cuisine was in store for me that day. But when I arrived I found a nothing but an empty soft-drink bottle and several limes, sucked limes at that. Now, I don’t know whether limes go with fish, but I arranged my tubing, recreated my-dead fish-dish at the foot of the bench. Then I climbed up high into the branches of the tree, directly behind the bench, and waited… and waited. And waited. What I was doing could best be described as, a reverse form of fishing whereby the fake fish was the bait, and all I had to do was wait. Did I hook my artist? No. Did I leave my fish-dish? No. Now, the dead fish, it lives under my bed. And I live in Brighton. Goodbye London, thanks for all the fish. I’m sick of Bench Cuisine, I'm working on a new dish.