ALWAYS COCACOLA

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So, there we were, a couple of gorgeous fools, vaping out front of Carnegie Place Grade II listed building, laughing away in the sunshine, drinking our Coca Colas.

Can you imagine.

Do you remember.

The once symbol of corporate capitalist viral mind brain fart oppression.  You’d never drink a coke. EVER. Beyond the perils of a generation destroyed by the myth of happily ever after prince farming, Coke was the grease that turned the wheels of capitalism, that threatened drought and deforestation in far off lands, the gods of consumer manipulation, we were the angry young men aware of a future yet imagined.

Anything but a brand.

In a small town, belted by the bible and head strong in the super ego mantras of the ways a good life was supposed to unfold, young adult choices between the army, the factory or the university loan sharks that were foaming at the mouth to set you up for, buy the dream, get a degree, work hard, die.

You weren’t punk nor poor by choice, but by something within, a rage against a machine, a rage at what is now referred to as the Matrix, (written and stolen from a black woman), but you didn’t drink Coke, or go cruising, you found late night radio stations that played music that transported you out of a doomed future you had yet to discover.

Have a coke and a smile.

That probably hits a little different now.

I’d like to buy the world a Coke and keep it company.  I remember the bronzed beautiful people, singing arm in arm. I thought they were in L.A, because everything that wasn’t in my small town was in L.A, my aunt was in LA, there was a beautiful young woman in the commercial, I thought it was my aunt, so I would press my face next to the cathode box hoping to get an essence of her, maybe she could see me, maybe she could feel me, maybe she would come and save me.

I’d like to teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony, then a news report. They found the 8-year-old girl that had gone missing. She was inside an abandoned refrigerator in a landfill. Her school picture on the TV. Girls went missing and girls were put in refrigerators in landfills.

This was news to me.  No one said anything at school. The laws were changed, so doors had to be taken off refrigerators before being put in landfills. Her face, that moment, permanently imbedded in my mind, amongst the green shag carpet, the brown corduroy of my dress, the suppression of my small person hardships, all with god, the holy spirit and Jesus, just sitting around, watching and judging and probably allowed to drink Coke.

Soggy whole wheat sandwiches, another new school, being locked into bathroom stalls. The kids drank Coke and had white bread and bright orange cheese. My father snuck things into my pumpernickel lunch, so I could trade with the other kids, when they weren’t throwing pudding at me.

You weren’t punk or poor by choice.

And then the wall came down. ACT UP stood up and American went to war with the world, again.

Smoking a Marlboro light, drinking a diet coke, the freezer coolant that made pilot’s brains zap out like grease from an egg in the war on drugs. Your days are already numbered, live fast and leave a good-looking corpse.

You grow up. Life has a way of kicking you in the head. Like the fabled Orwellian boot.

You put on new hats, new roles, new bills, new ways of being. You look after small beings that have been lent to you, in hopes of doing more good than harm. You learn and then unlearn, learn and unlearn and learn again.

Once you go clean and sober, drinking a Coke feels a little rebellious. Maybe because of the tyranny of evil, and culture wars, and fighting just to breath and trying to make sense of the post-truth, post-trust, endless god damn fuckery of the world, sometimes the old comfort of the devil you know, just hits the spot or maybe it’s the sugar.

There was a time, when we thought we knew our enemies. There was a time when the revolution would not be televised.

There was a time, when evil didn’t seem ubiquitous. That’s a lie, I just had the wrong hashtags.

Time stamps.

The OJ chase and 24/7 live feeds.

Computer are coming your way.

The war on terror.

The war on drugs.

The war on humanity.

We are beyond satire, beyond meaning. Beyond the days of truth and ethics. Beyond the symbols of white on red as a signifier of which side of the fight against corporate you stand.  For now, it’s a fight to save the world or save our sanity, or just try to have a moment of connection.

Of presence.

Of communication.

One human face to another.

A sharing of stories.

On a sunny Thursday evening, on an East London high street, outside a library smoking our fruity flavoured vapes and drinking cokes, and for a moment Coca a cola brings us together.

and the world is not so dark.

Pandemic3 (Para-social media & the acceleration of a divised society)Pandemic 3,

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Portraits of three young adults dressed in costumes made from the residues of the pandemic, a Victorian powdered wig made from loo roll shells, a pill box hat made of lateral flow tests and a repurposed dunce hat, made from many of the sensationalised news clippings of the time. I wanted to create a work that documented some of the deeply entrenched issues of divisiveness, misinformation and propaganda that were accelerated by social media during the pandemic. The impact of lockdown on the education of children, the righteous indignation of the media and the celebration of front-line workers by the public.

I feel we are nearing the beginning of the end of a paradigmatic shift in perception. The foretold horrors of singularity under the guise of globalization, where in fact a neofeudalistic system is under way, if not here already.

But enough of those half thought out things, for now, here’s a painting, oil on canvas, 100 cm by 100 cm. Some thoughts on the politics of the pandemic.

Wag Me, Tag me, liquidate and gag me.

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There’s a lot of talk on Twitter about the ‘bear market’ and whose still here? There’s an assumption that once the possibility of normies and degens throwing caution to the wind again, that sales in crypto art or NFT’s is going to boom again and we are all going to make it,

yeah…

The art market is known for its gatekeeping. The global ART market consists of America, London and Hong Kong. Under a dozen galleries decide who is actually gonna make it and who is not. The art market is unregulated and used to launder money and evade tax.

The Web 3 WAGMI digital dreams were sold under the ideology that there would be accessibility to all, that artists across the globe would finally be able to access a global audience, that generational wealth could be made. The days of gatekeeping were over.

This was going to be revolutionary.

But Web 3 does not exist, yet.

I grew up in an analogue world, coming to age when the KLF burned a million pounds to make a statement, Artists with their dead sharks were celebrities, and the AIDS crisis and crack epidemic was in the hind mirror of the world’s future. We had access to global digital communities, the bonds that electronic music created were going to change the world. The World Wide Web was coming your way and computers too!  There was hope that these advances in technology would enable a brighter future.

Although imperfect, the NFT communities felt like a flashback to the rose-tinted glasses of more altruistic times. The new generation, coupled with digital degens were creating ways to distribute wealth, give opportunity and make change. But where there is money to be made, there is greed.

Crypto was sold hard to the public. Celebrities endorsed monkey jpegs and tech billionaires proclaimed dog alt coins were going to the moon.

Such heady days.

The digital cart was truly before the horse.

In the last month, several NFT projects imploded, Projects with NSFW content with a stooge pretending to be a sexuality deviant 13-year-old at the helm, we’re selling for 20 eth (roughly £25,000), the tokens were given free access to those in the know, it was the same people over and over again, getting the gains, onboarding new people to the digital dream and making bank, the rest of us, having seen this scheme over and over again, grew weary.

Much of this get rich quick hype can be attributed to a collection of Monkey JPEGs, so when successful capitalist projects prevail, the model will be repeated, without much thought or foresight. I can’t name the countless low effort art projects backed by paid digital twitter celebrities that sucked liquidity and hope out of the market and left those who were pawns falling from the rug pulled out beneath their feet.

Now anyone could be an artist, like anyone can be a model on Instagram and the ability to creatively express our visions or inner emotions is present in all of us. But being an artist takes time, skill and dedication. There is no single set pathway to becoming an artist, success is measured on a personal level and in the view of the public by the financial attributes said artist can generate, it is subjective. Art has no real intrinsic value.

As an artist you will have periods of no sales, so much is decided by cultural forces beyond our control, but that makes you no less an artist.

Many digital artists have had careers spanning over several decades, so the evolution of digital platforms where their art and efforts could be celebrated felt as though a new era in art had begun.  

But to think that a branch of the art market was going to behave any differently than the unregulated Art market itself was utterly delusional.

There is no Web3, there is no decentralised dream come into life. What we do have is some great advances in tech and some nefarious folk making a shit tonne of money off folk that want a better life for themselves, artists that dream beyond the confines of their bedroom or studio walls.

The collective delusion of ‘you are gonna make it, build for the next bull run’. Lies in the assumption that this Ponzi scheme isn’t going to be rinsed and repeated, with new players or those with short memories and broken moral compasses at the helm.  I don’t think the public trust will be regained after the billions recently lost on exchanges. Their monkey jpeg pictures no longer a sign of wealth, but ties to racisms and Nazi dog whistles.

I will continue to make art, both physical and digital, I’m an artist, that’s what I do. Maybe once the ashes of ‘Web 3 Wagmi’ have cleared something better and decentralised will grow from it, but for now, if ‘making it’ is at the cost of moral corruption and art no longer pushing the boundaries of ideas, skills or reflections upon the world, you can count me out.

Just kidding. But we have to do better. TBC

ART MADE IN THE BELLY OF A WHALE

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My studio is a little out of the way. East London, Stratford city, not the part that tourists or hipsters go. The part next to the court, the rehab, the beauty shops, the children’s centre and the empty sushi café that’s certainly a front. 

You will see the impact of a decade of austerity cuts, my friend that dances to his own tune by the benches, the lady that sings gospel that we are all blessed to hear. The shitty drummer, that never seems to get better, the kindness of people, just getting by with getting by. 

I’ve only recently got windows into the sky. Gargoyles top the building. Rumour has it, it was a TB hospital after the war. It’s one of the last few ‘affordable’ art studios left in the city. That’s changing quick, rent hikes disguised as increased energy costs. 

It has no heat. 

There are no lifts.

It’s my sanctuary. 

It’s where I processed all the hospital with the bubs. 

The passing of friends & family. 

It’s where I learned to paint. 

Where I learned to funnel my rage, into a calmness to face the world. 

It’s one of the few places, I don’t question whether I am an artist or not.  Or if Im good enough, or if i should keep going. 

It’s what became my focus when I thought my existence had ended. When the mind barely returned with body broken it was part of the chalice of meaning. 

Looking after bubs, making art. 

Gone were any other goals or gods. 

ART MADE IN THE BELY OF A WHALE

OPEN STUDIOS

Saturday, October 8th, 2022

Essex House, Stratford

375 High street, E15 4QZ

11AM-4Pm

Me with 4 of my 6 GINA’s in new studio.

Long Covid Fever Brain and the supplement band wagon

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crack weasel fever brain

So here I am. 29 months after my first Covid infection.

6 months after my second.

I’ve been trying to write a succinct and hopefully entertaining & informative account of the last 28 months. I’m at 10,000 words and none of it is funny or even coherent, actually it’s just down right depressing. Talking about medical gaslighting for a disease that half the population is unaware of as numbers increasingly go up, is not on the ‘things to do to bring joy into your life’ list. But I wanted to have some kind of account of things. The trouble is, most of it I wrote when my brain was on fire. Looking back on the notes I made, as my short term memory was blown, I took daily notes of symptoms, so if i ever did get a hold of a specialist I could try to explain what was going on. (I am still on the waiting list to see a Long Covid clinic)

So in the meantime, I’m going to vent here, try to make sense of things, until my super polished and incredibly informative, hopeful and helpful long format cheery article is ready.

But the problem is, many of these notes just consists of the word BAD scribbled in marker over an entire page, or BAD, ZOMBIE LEGS, BRAIN DROWNING. Also, can’t say I’ve had the most positive experience with the medical community over the last 2 years. Fair enough, I am a total OG when it comes to LONG COVID and research is finally moving along, but the thing about being really ill, is it takes all of your energy just being really ill.

Covid is a full body shit show, and going from one specialist to another will just give you the diagnosis that they see within their field of expertise. But what made me chuckle the other day on some #LongCovid thread I responded to, was someone asked me if I had tried TUMERIC & PEPPER? Fuck me. I have been in and out of hospital for over two years, my brain is inflamed, I have 24/7 tinnitus, my heart sky rockets if i stand up, my memory has been wiped, yes as you can read some words are coming back (well maybe, who knows but this is currently the best it’s been in a very long time and I can’t tell if i am making sense or not).

Have I tried Turmeric & Pepper? To me is the equivalent of the first neurologist I saw, who literally patted me on the head and gave me a prescription for PROZAC. I could barely speak, I couldn’t stay awake for more than half an hour at a time, I couldn’t read or watch TV as it was too taxing on my nervous system, my inner dialogue had completely disappeared, it was literal a soft breeze of white noise tumble weeds going thru my mind and my heartrate kept jumping up to 180 while i was just sitting down staring at the wall. Have I tried Turmeric? Fuck me, I’d give myself turmeric enemas if I thought that would help!

That’s the problem with EVER asking a GP for help if you have depression/anxiety. It is forever a red marker at the top of your file that every other medical person you ever see for the rest of time, will be the first and often only thing they see. Yes, I had a wee bit of depression in the past. I was in and out of hospital with a child that required over 60 operations and procedures in a 10 year time span, not including the weekly trips to ER when we were out of hospital and the endless post surgical infections they had and a surgery that went very wrong and caused stomach paralysis. So yeah, I am familiar with anxiety and depression but this wasn’t fucking it.

So there seems to be an entire cottage industry of ‘wellness’ advocates luring the desperate into ‘treatments’ for Long Covid. That’s what happens when people are desperate, gaslight and have lack of societal support. They will try anything. Anything to give any hope or even a tiny bit of relief. That is why so many of the medically vulnerable were pushed to getting the Astra Zeneca in March 2021, the narrative was that is was curing #LongCovid folk. Flash forward a year, and 70 percent of people reported a negative reaction or vaccine damage to the AstraZeneca vaccine. (I am not anti-vaccine, I am pro-information). I got this from a GP I spoke with a few months ago as I needed to see if my heart acting like it’s running a marathon every day was doing any permanent damage, as I have a kid, and would like to make it until they are at least 35 years old.

So, as I didn’t want to pile my rage on some well meaning internet bystander. I thought i would go through all of the things I have currently been diagnosed with and all the things I have tried to get me to some kind of putting the fun back in functional level.

Overall symptoms: (at the time of writing, I do not have all of these) Shortness of breath (SOB), exhaustion, no appetite, brain fog, lack of concentration, weird heart spikes, tinnitus, my body is on fire, insomnia, killer fucking headaches, zombie legs, weird arm spasms, serious paranoia, inability to form words, inability to understand what people are saying. Dizziness, vertigo, the barfs.

So far I have seen 2 neurologist, 2 cardiologists, pulmologist, vestibular dude, cranial person, functional medicine doctor, 1 shrink. I am still on the waiting list for a Long Covid clinic.

I have been diagnosed with:

auto-immune disorder, vestibular migraines, POTS, tachycardia, adrenal damage, orthostatic intolerance, tinnitus, fatigue disorder ME/CFS, dysautonomia, MCAS. All of these file under the standard Long Covid umbrella.

I have been prescribed:

modafinil, benzos, all 3 of the histamine blockers, anti-sickness drugs, propanol (beta-blocker), a brief attempt with prozac, the one that tightens your blood vessels but makes your head feel like it’s covered in ants, sodium pills, zolmitriptan, famotidine, fexotidine, ketotidine, whatever that anti-viral for humans not horses drug was.

On a non pharmaceutical vibe, I have tried the following. Some of which I am currently on everyday.

Turmeric & pepper shakes, turmeric in everything, fasting,16:8, no wheat/dairy/gluten, no processed foods, no sugar, no caffeine, (I don’t drink, so obvs no alcohol) Alpha Lipoic Acid (game changer for brain fog), Vit D, vit C, L-theanine, NAC, Vit B3,Vit D3, Magnesium, Iron (because I’m anaemic anyway), irish sea moss, multi-vitamin, candidastat, banderol, liver detox, chlorophyllin, energy plus/adrenal optimizer, pro greens, 5-lox inhibitor, curcumin elite

Acupuncture, that helped. I was getting my period 20 out of 30 days a month. That helped that. I did a Dyanmic Neural Retraining Program, which tbh was good for not feeling like the world was ending everyday, however it’s claims to be able to cure POTS, imho was a little overstated. But it was good to help retrain the brain. As my biggest issue has been admitting that I am unable to do things, trying to do things, making myself worse and on and on and on.

So yes, well meaning person on the internet, I have tried turmeric and pepper. But thanks.

Dog bless.

x x x

ANGER

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Woke up feeling like my world is completely crumbling into dust. Such extreme hopelessness.

Epic Fuckery.

A month ago, I got an email, inviting me to enrol into the accreditation level of my counselling and psychotherapy course. I’ve deferred for the last 2 years due to health issues due to #LongCovid, I manage my life in such a way, that I thought it was a possibility. I’m seeing a new functional medicine man, whose looked at my blood, seen my misshaped red blood cells and says I’ve now developed an auto immune issue.

I have been given a bucket of supplements, larger than the skip it’s gonna take to get rid of all of Carrie’s wallpaper. So I had about a week, where words, big words, came back to me. Where I could participate in twitter spaces, I could engage in once lost resources of the brain. I could think deeply and remember those thoughts. It was like breaking through another glass barrier between myself and the world. That parts of the old me were re-emerging.

The thing is, when your brain gets wiped, your new state of consciousness isn’t aware of the missing parts, its working with what its got. So to see a flicker of what once was, the person friends claim to miss, was pretty great.

SUTU face thing

So being all brave, I went to an daytime NFT conference thing in LDN. I emailed the venue to see if there would be seating and lifts. I contacted the organisers. NO response. It’s a few talks, I can do this right? Me and my better brain can handle going out in public, by myself in a environment that is just the IRL version of the weird and wonderful shitstorm I’ve been participating in the last 16 months? Right?

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

There’s a reason I think I can function on a day to day basis. I keep my environment very controlled. I don’t have to stand.

Getting there, there is a line. I take a knee. Staff get me a chair. There’s no lift. I slowly get down the stairs. I go to the conference area. it’s loud. Really fucking loud. There’s some crazy decibel fans going on, and sound checks, and music and lots of people talking. I have my earplugs, but forgot the BIG BETTY cans, (the construction style & very attractive noise reducers I have come to depend on). First time I have left the house without the cans AND ON MY OWN, WTF WAS I THINKING?

My arm starts to twitch, i try to breath my way out of it, the lady next to me is also not digging the sound, she explains she is autistic, she is going thru some masking rituals, i feel like i am in good company, i keep my bag on the chair next to me as I can’t control my arm and i don’t want to hit someone in the face.

My system is on full red flag warning, i should have got up and left. really. But I don’t’ think I could have made it back up the stairs.

The loud fans turn off. Calm. But my system is now overtaxed and I just want to go to sleep. The talk is ok. I was expecting a little more in-depth discussion. I need to move.

I’ve totally forgotten that I get audio/visual overload and when that happens my body doesn’t respond to my brain. Whether it’s the POTS, dysautonomia or what, I don’t know, but now my balance is fucked and so is my depth perception so I have to cling on to walls to get around the venue. This feels as embarrassing as fuck. I want to cry. I find places to sit. I talk to a couple of dudes. (I didn’t hear the word BRO once during the 2 hours I was there). We talk decentralised vs centralised, PFP’s & that by being early, means that Web 3 is at the dial up modem stage of the early 2000’s and that this shift in technology and accessibility is totally in it’s larval stages although currently being seen as just crypto-gambling for jpeg playing cards.

The SUTU, NEONZ exhibition is beautiful. A fully immersive beautiful vision of what many of us oldies thought Tron and the promise of the metaverse may be. But there is nowhere to sit and I am done sitting on the floor.

In some fantasy, I was hoping to find human connection to many of the people that I engage with on the internet. Those that unknowingly have kept me sane and distracted. One lady i spoke with was cool, but wouldn’t give me her IRL or twitter name, out of fear of doxing, so we just refereed to ourselves as Jenny1 and Jenny2.

The ART was displayed really really well. The Poetry AI section was good. The other workshops although good, required standing in line, so not something I could participate in.

The ART on display was of really high quality and deeply inspiring. Most of it far removed from the top 100 trending charts on OS. Also being sponsored by TEZOS, which is currently the most carbon friendly blockchain. So as far as an artistic experience went, it was inspiring.

But the reality of it, left me a little heartbroken. I’ve been living in a stage of total denial. I am not well. I am partial disabled and that really fucking sucks. It’s maybe the 2nd time I’ve been out out in about 2 years and i did it on my own. That was a huge mistake. There’s a reason I spend most of my time in bed or at my studio.

What I’ve realised is that there is no way I can go back to school yet. That little 2 hour jaunt cost me 2 days in bed. I can’t process that much information. So yeah. But hell, I made it out. l pushed a boundary and now after a couple days of brain damaged exhaustion, after 2.5 years, I am maybe ready to admit that I am unwell.

I think i have been through this stage before. But I can’t remember. So going to talk to the enrolment advisors on Monday, might need to defer again and go back to trying to figure out how to get myself out of this ever evolving state body and brain limitations.

and to keep making ART but staying off Twitter. If I’m going to scream into a void, I’d rather do it with a higher character count.

Dog bless.

Sinister Covid Island

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Your body becomes this island. Layered in a deep fog. There may be other inhabitants around you. The slow terror buzz dismantles any way of communicating with them. You can recognise shapes and light. Your body is this loud island, every cell, every pulse like a small army scretching across what’s left of your once beautiful fields. Your legs when not on fire, are made of lead, when not made of lead, they are like an old time game of telephone. Your brain is telling the can on the piece of string to make the legs move, but the piece of string is a burnt out conductor.

All of your senses are overwhelmed. The idea of you, has long slipped into the darkness. like a potato sack being pulled over your head, a potato sack that has sat by the bomb fire too long. Everything smells like it’s on fire. Maybe you’re on fire. Light comes through the burlap. This is your world.

You would be sad. If you could. But there is nothing. The emotions left with the rescue boats a long time ago. Only fear and confusion remain. You cannot speak of this fear, as you cannot remember words. So you stare out the window. There is no more time on the island. But there is routine. Wake up, make the child food, get the child ready for school. Go back to your quiet cave. Look at trees, maybe sleep, maybe have a psychotic episode. Leave the cave, attempt to help child with things you help children with. But you cry, because you can’t remember the words, or the order things should be done in. So you sit in the kitchen and stare, and maybe cry a little. You go back to the cave. Get up make dinner. Eat food that no longer nourishes your body, as your body has forgotten too. The more you eat, the more you shrink. You are wasting away. People are worried. My heart beats so fast, I have become a time machine. I have been on the island for years; the army of sound and confusion have not only conquered but have started this doomed two party system.

Over time, the high speed chases your heart is involved in becomes normal. You spend your time on a race track in a cave. Parts of you return. Those parts tell you something is wrong. But then you forget. But then you can’t breathe. The crowd at the racetrack is taking all of your air. The crowd is screaming. No that’s just the bathroom fan. The bathroom fan is screaming. Why is the bathroom fan screaming?

Parts of you have been erased. But you don’t know that yet.

You’ve spent a lot of your life pretending that everything is ok. You remember how to do that. So you pretend. You don’t want the child to cry.

The island would be lonely, if it wasn’t so loud.

BUY A PRINT

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My second oil painting this century, created especially for this exhibition is available to view and purchase along with a limited run of only 20 prints via adrian@ukcolab.com or the chopperchunk gallery site.

UK COLAB 20/20 OFFICIAL LAUNCH SHOW

WWW.CHOPPERCHUNKY.COM

10 SEP – 10TH OCT

Please contact ADRIAN directly via email adrian@ukcolab.com for more information about print or purchasing the original one and only piece.

Drone War Babies
Oil on canvas
100 cm by 100 cm