Exquisite Shame an unexpected journey

What the fuck am I doing? Ok so my bleed has arrived 2 days before the turn of the decade. MY BLEED IS GOING TO CROSS OVER THE DECADE. WTF. It is going to go from 2019 to 2020. I have to mark this right?

What will people think? What do I think? I will keep it a secret. Is this the art I am being ask to do? Uh god! I haven’t even touched it. EVER! Ok, cup removed. NOW WHAT? Throw it on the fabric you tried to dye with leaves. Uh man, I am going to get the carpet wet.

Ok if I hang the fabric over the shower I can then just pour the blood from my cup over it. Oooo look at it run down. I have never taken the time to watch it drip and swirl like this.

NOW WHAT?

Where am I going to put it? Will it smell? Bundle it, tie it and stuff it at the back of the airing cupboard, no one ever checks there. Not even me! It’s like I am hiding a dead baby.

I will come back for it tomorrow.

19th May 2020 day one of bleed Bedroom Laying on bed.

I am a fuck up. A failure. I know I am a bloody brilliant artist. But here I am lost my business and now a fucking egg flipper. I bet Damien Hirst has someone flipping his fucking eggs. How as a woman and a mother will I ever make it as an artist. It’s bullshit, it’s all bullshit. Salvator Mundi sold for $450 million. WTAF. Why has no woman ever made it to this. God I am so bored of myself. I am so bloody ANGRY

‘Voice of my God’

SOPHIE. Listen. I shall say this only once; Go and take a selfie of you as Salvator Mundi. Swap the Celestial Orb for a wine glass and in it put the blood from this bleed. Put on the blood stained Stepford wives dress you have made. Adorn your lips with lippy. You don’t need a fancy set up. Get crafty. Use your phone and selfie stick. Oh and price is as the highest priced artwork in the world.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

Dress up as Jesus? Oh and when you’re done, you need to take it to the streets. OK I will do the selfie part but the rest can wait.

I am going to a protest. In London. Trafalgar Square The National Portrait Gallery is there. I wonder how many women artists are in there? There are lots of portraits of WOMEN. I’ve never been to one before, a protest that is. Someone said I hope you have a placard. I know exactly what I am going to take. A FUCKING HUGE POSTER OF; WE ARE ALL SALVATOR MUNDI 2020. I will use clothes pegs to attached it to the board. Clothes pegs, a memory of walking with Nanna to the washing line with her washing barrow.

Why was it so far from the house? Why was it hidden at the back of a meadow? I can see those orange and yellow pegs now. All these things which keep coming through me; The rolling pin. The spatula. The tea towels. The clothes pegs. The thread. The blood. All these unseen things in our lives. All these undervalued things. Just like WOMAN.

1 WEEK LATER

So here I am. Standing in Trafalgar Square. With a giant portrait of myself as Jesus Christ on my shoulders. I can’t believe I am actually doing this. I was so NOT going to do this back in May. And yet here we are. A man approaches me. ‘WHO’S THAT? ‘Who do you think?’ I ask. ‘Looks like Jesus. I am from France. I LOVE red wine. What wine is in the glass.’

‘It is isn’t wine, it is my menstrual blood.’

‘I enjoy red wine with every meal……’(he continues on about his love for red wine) I continue to tall him it is my menstrual blood. It can’t even be seen in plain sight. I am feeling orgasmic. My body is so alive.

Soph (Sophie Léone) captures the most exquisite moment of me standing outside The National Portrait gallery. An iconic photo of an iconic artwork of a landmark moment in my life.

I am thirsty for more.

RAGE is dripping from my chest. My blood is rolling over my skin. Don’t stop it. Don’t touch it. Don’t interrupt its path. RESIST.

Let it create. Can I get a picture. Ooo I like this angle. A bit of nipple, how edgy. What would Michael Lumb make of this? It wasn’t performance art unless you are naked according to Michael.

Here I am. Standing in my bedroom. Kids at school. Tim at work. And I am dripping in blood. I wonder if anyone else is doing this? I am getting use to the smell. It is sweet and musty. I get the scent of post birth. I loved that smell.

PARFUM WOMAN. Imagine. This feels so…..EROTIC.

SEX SEX SEX SEX

I fucking hate this spatula.

How have I ended up here.

Flipping fucking eggs.

I’ve lost my business.

Tim gets to go to work.

I’m stuck at home with the kids.

All the fucking greats had an egg flipping flipper for them so they could go and contemplate, have space to think and make their masterpieces.

Here I am, a failed fucking First Class Artist. Flipping FUCKING EGGS.

I feel like this spatula. Just waiting in the draw to be needed. I’ve got myself here. It’s all down to me. I can’t blame anyone else. Overworked and undervalued. That’s what I have achieved for myself. WELL – FUCKING – DONE SOPHIE. Slow clap.

But where are the fucking women who flipped eggs? Where are they in our galleries and on our book shelves? What’s their story?

If you are not on the wall you are not on the FUCKING WALL.

I am actually beginning to love this spatula.

I love You, spatula.

I am going to spray You, gold and hang you in the most audacious frame.

You are going to be celebrated for all you do.

You will no longer be kept in the drawer.

You are free.

I AM the spatula and I am going to be on the FUCKING WALL.