Bacon & the Gift

At the side of one of Frances Bacon's Pope paintings:

- Awww. He wasn't a happy soul, eh.
- No no, not the happiest...
- I mean, there's no happiness here.. with him.. this one. Poor chap.. what's he doing?
- It says .. Pope. Well he's in pain...
-He's happy now though.
-Who?
-Bacon. In the sky.
-Ah yes.
-Yes...
-depression ...nasty business...
-my cousin's still got it...

and so on...

It felt like upmarket Jeremy Kyle. I don't understand the drawer with Bacon's work. The early work.. the preparatory early drawings he said he never did... all good, interesting, but the meat of it all? Basically: big paintings of lamb chops with razor-like rows of teeth in sunsets. The equivalent of. Decorative. Yawning, aching symbols of pain yet I couldn't feel anything save the pull to buy a little trinket, T shirt or limited edition print from the gift shop. Why does the Tate still STILL STILL chastely call George Dyer his 'closest friend'? Bacon used to be my guilty pleasure .. now he's not that. There seems still to be a hidden narrative that would perhaps raise questions about the work ..if it wasn't so neatly defined, framed, boxed in ... while the boxes - those psychological cages -he paints seem to want to run off the walls and take to the hills. So is it another curating dumb down? I don't know. People seem to love it. It just felt like watching Hellraiser number ten millionth with the nightclub owner who screams at his cupboard begging for the pin guy to give him some pain relief after some uneventful sex. And of course, the portrait of the artist as a miserable screw up, with alcoholism and violence loitering in the wings, falls slap bang into that tired romantic myth.

Still. It let my mind run and start darkly playing with "The Gift", December 23rd. A one off re-enactment performance, probably invited audience only as it will be a challenging piece for me. Post Spank in November and post a trip to aktionistik faschistik freudischtik Vienna. The first year anniversary of my accident. And instead of the op-the MUA - the physios want me to have, I shall be having (doing) this. I nearly died (four seconds between me and Bacon in the sky). Will try to get The Whipping Rooms, Cable St, E1 for it.

Justin Bond at Soho Theatre is dynamic!! Now that is cabaret, or rather, deconstructing cabaret in a trans space. Each song worked as a monologue, beautifully crafted texts aided by the pianist who shook her head like that drummer from the muppets. That is theatre, dripping with all its errors, guts, dark emotion, shimmering dresses, false black eyelashes and edge.

I'm liking the deconstruction vibe ... it gives me some intriguing ideas about Eating Secret - the series of one to ones with lovely Mertle I am launching early next year. But my mind at the moment is on Spank and its forthcoming showing at Rich Mix on November 21 for Gfest. Each time I show Spank it's different and knocks right into what's going on with me. This time will be no different, but as recent events have been electrifying or as the medics say: 'acute' either with PTSD or CPS (I'm collecting these words - they all occurred at the same time - they all cancel eachother out - or will do, at some point), Spank will mirror that. Maybe I will come on as a bolt of lightening. Or a plug socket. I might kickstart it with a brief aside on physiotherapy and the necessity of bullet points. I might wear my black velvet leg brace. I will most certainly be wearing something terribly glamorous and divine - for deconstruction purposes, obviously. Spank - if it is its last natural showing to make way for Eating Secret - is leaving that east end building in style.

Onwards with the day. Or OWTD as the medics would say.