The best thing was a dead rat.
The best thing was a dead rat. You know why it was the best? Because I hadn’t seen it before and I almost missed it.
I’m not a hater. I swear, I’m really not. You know what you’re going to get and you get it. I honestly like it better when it’s in a book that I can flick through while I’m checking Twitter, watching Come Dine With Me repeats, hungover, eating a Snickers.
I laughed. I did. A few times. Out loud. I didn’t love it. I don’t want to think about it. The exhibition made me think how grotty the gallery seemed. I don’t think it was grotty. What was I thinking?
A smile in a dark room. A suppressed urge. A rubbed out question mark.
Shrigley’s personal for me. Like god. I don’t really want to share it with anyone. I don’t want to talk about it. Especially not in a gallery full of people walking too slowly, unblinking, cramming in meaning, projecting onto a taxidermied dog in a perspex box holding a placard – ‘I’m dead’.
We’re not dead.
I didn’t hate it.