Muffled footsteps crossover a rug, broken up by the occasional clattering of heels as surfaces change between carpet and wooden floors. Stoic expressions, figures featured in seated portraits bound within baroque frames, watch on as Gregor, Dorise and Little Sylvie march towards an elevator. As they approach, we see Gregor hesitate momentarily before stepping across the threshold of the capsule. Small inside, capacity is restricted to accommodate up to six persons weighing no more than 85kgs each. Upwards they are travelling, up to the third floor of the museum and to the new exhibition where a larger entourage awaits their arrival. Read more
Twelve minutes later, we see Gregor stood in front of a three-quarter length mirror checking out his appearance. The tightness of the fit, suggests the real Mr Kooons possesses a slimmer frame. Having abandoned a belt he’d selected, a weathered pair of braces accomplish an adequate job of holding up the jet-black coloured trousers a little below the waist. He has selected a thin, shiny black tie. This lays across the contour of a bulge permanently positioned around his midriff and apparent beneath the crisp white shirt. Spinning around, he draws a hand up. Thumb and index finger play gun, Gregor ‘kapows’ his reflection and freezes, focusing sharply on the image before him. The ‘Little Ben’ door chime sounding downstairs, summons him away from this frivolous moment of fantasy. Read more
Gregor and the mistaken identity situation, part i
Unfortunately for us – but critically for Gregor, we join him sat on the toilet, part way through his morning routine. Earlier, he’d groaned while reluctantly rolling off the mattress and up onto his feet. Stumbling down the winding staircase, task two had been to feed his cats, two of whom had devoured their breakfasts, while the third had turned his nose up and walked away. Coffee had been prepared, milk warmed, a fluffy pancake re-heated in the toaster. To this, he’d adorned with slices of banana, a spoonful of thick double cream and finished with a generous drizzle of maple syrup. With caffeine well on its way to being fully ingested and his appetite sated, Gregor had returned upstairs to the bedroom. Once there, he’d opened up the window to a chilly spring morning and lit his first cigarette of the day. Just like nearly everyone else in his life, the birds sung disapprovingly of his smoking. It’s not many times a day I do this small pleasure! he’d imagined himself shouting back at them. Read more
Oh God I feel so rough this day
Too much of food of smoke drink drunk
Last night consumed inhaled, I pray
To blow right through this cloudy funk
An arachnophobic look said
With nails drawn deep into her knees
Old man what has entered your head?
Rather you do not tell me please Read more
Gregor Samson, this morning the luckiest man alive. We watch, as he sits up in bed, home-created latte coffee in one hand, his phone in the other. Two cats have joined him on the bed and one other sits upon the window sill, staring out through an open window and across the back garden. The sun is out. It is early enough that Gregor’s appreciation of birdsong is only occasionally obscured by cars passing along the road, on the other side of his modest cottage. Read more
Working hard, I gesso out a canvas
Sausages and pittas bake in oven
Segovia plays loud from the corner
Smiles broadly arpeggio ‘Romanza’ Read more
“I’ll miss you Jezebel!” Gregor shouts through the closing doors of the elevator, “I truly believe I was beginning to fall in love with you!”
“Yeh, for sure. Don’t get so hung-up Gregor!” Jezebel shouts back, “We hardly spent twenty minutes together; just saying!”
His stomach flips as the elevator lurches upwards into its journey. “Damnation!” says Gregor out loud to himself, “Hell really doesn’t seem such a bad place. All those times people growled Go to Hell Gregor! – if only I’d known back then what I know now.”
I take small bites,
with speed all around the circumference,
What do I find beneath the skin and flesh?
Hope, victory, riches, escape?
Only the seeds of a disillusioned generation.
The Journey Down
We watch Gregor Samson staring vacantly ahead as the elevator doors close in front of him. He remembers being somewhere else, somewhere familiar, eating his favourite dinner and settling-in for an entertaining evening of television. He remembers sitting in his beloved armchair penning red circles around a programme list, knitting together a schedule through until bedtime. Read more