 |
 |
I've just had Andrew Graham-Dixon on the phone, droning on and on about how Alice Rawsthorn was chosen to take part in the discussion about the Turner Prize at Tate Britain rather than him. 'And that bloody Tim Marlow...' he blabs on (he's the guy doing the interview). I thought it the prerogative of the artist to be such a self-centred egotist not that blood munching parasitic insect, the bloody art critic. Jeeeesus! I only became a conceptual artist so that I could play my own oedipal fantasies out in public. Take my, 'Mummy, mummy, why don't you look at me?' (Various crash-test dummies in a wide range of sexual positions.) Really, that was just my way of saying: 'Me, me, me!' What's the point of putting myself on the line if some bloke with a smart suit, a PhD and a fine way of talking to camera is going steal the limelight from yours truly by the way he deals with (my) awkward subject matter through his own erudite & witty chatter. Damn your eyes, Marlow, Dixon, Robert Hughes, poking your noses into my own self-abuse! - AB 15/10/03 _________________________________________________________________ Get Hotmail on your mobile phone http://www.msn.co.uk/msnmobile