An installation that can be set up in any well-known gallery. The installation is all the artworks that are already there.
A painting of The Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus, but Jesus has a Dr Pepper™ in one hand and is smoking a joint with the other. The Virgin’s eyes are watering, presumably from the smoke.
A detailed oil painting of Kim Catrall as Samantha from “Sex in the City”, dressed in a nun’s habit.
Titled, ‘Everybody’s doing it (Tony’s bride).’
A massive, photorealistic charcoal drawing of my penis.
Titled, ‘An extension of the self.’
A piece of performance art in which a painting is surrounded by a dense crowd of people, all facing it. The painting is completely obscured.
Keith Flint from the Prodigy performing free liposuction on anyone who volunteers themselves. The removed deposits are poured into a massive mould of two running shoes.
Titled, ‘Fat of the Land.’
A fucking beautiful landscape that makes people weep.
My bed, neatly made with pillows plumped, faithfully set up in a gallery.
Titled, ‘Get your shit together, Tracy.’
A set of plasma TVs arranged on top one another in seven-segment digital display (like what is used by calculators). Up close, the TVs are displaying infomercials interspersed with shots of Clive Palmer running. From afar, the arrangement reveals itself to be a live feed of the funds currently in my bank balance.
A sculpture of a sphere set on a motion-sensitive, rotating platform.
As you attempt to walk around the artwork, it follows you, preventing a view of its other sides.
Periodically, a speaker inside the work releases an ominous, Disney-villain style cackle.
When not working as a copywriter, Rory writes with reckless abandon about whatever manages to hold his attention. For intermittent tweeting, see @RoryKL.