OK so I guess I’m some sort of artist and today I’ve been worried because I don’t have an artist’s statement. But after this it’s going to be ok because I’m going to start writing and I’ll chuck in words from the dictionary and use a thesaurus to compose an artist’s statement that will be a work of art in and of itself. Honestly, I’m not really sure what an artist’s statement is, but here goes:
SIMON PANRUCKER’S ARTIST’S STATEMENT
Imagine, if you will, a gargantuan tower looming gargantically over a diminutive, derelict shed - peasized to the treesize of the tower. The tower’s got loads of gold and jewels spurting out the top into space, like a decadent wang of opulence, but the foundations of the tower sprawl out like grey tendrils across the land, sucking vigour from all things - desaturating whole flowerbeds and deflating hordes of plump clouds etc. The shed’s got just a trowel in it, and a broken pot. But, right, in the pot is a bean, a minuscule bean, but so bright like a laser pointer, just quivering in the bottom of the pot. There is no soil around it so it cannot grow yet.
SIMON PANRUCKER ARRIVES AT THE SHED. He flings open the door like a stern cowboy that knows exactly what to do. The bean quivers with increasingly furious intensity. SIMON PANRUCKER looks at the tower, which is still spunking all the gold spunk and rubies into space without a hoot. He shakes his head, crestfallen, and says quietly, “Enough.”
SIMON PANRUCKER drops his kecks and y-fronts majestically and squats down over the flower pot. The little bean starts ricocheting about, pinging off the pot sides with fevered eagerness. Cinematic strings soar as SIMON PANRUCKER clenches with unbridled glory. His eyes wince and his teeth grit and his knuckles pop as they grip and shake and he takes in the deepest breath of maybe 50% of the entire atmosphere and as he breathes out he roars the loudest roar and the ground rumbles and the earth cracks and from above we see the shed explode to reveal SIMON PANRUCKER squatting over a flowerpot, trousers resplendently around his ankles, bumhole poised heroically above the tiny bean.
The roar continues as the nose of a gleaming, glistening stool begins to poke out from the butthole, timid at first but gaining in resolution with every second as it nuzzles forward. An albatross sees the poignant turtlehead from high up and says something like, “Wow… just… wow…” before it passes out from the beauty and plummets to the ground, only reawakening at the very last moment to swoop up into the sky with a loop-the-loop and a caw that makes all the birds in the whole sky start looping-the-loop all over the place.
SIMON PANRUCKER continues to roar as the turtlehead becomes more like a fat, hanging dogtail, reaching ever more tantalisingly close to the insanely excited bean. The veins bulge out of his marble slab of a forehead like electric eels as the roar rises to a bloodcurdling scream, which is a weird reaction because the turd isn’t even that big but it’s just really dense because it’s completely full of world-changing potential.
Finally the music cuts out and the magical bum-egg plops onto the bean. Without missing a moment SIMON PANRUCKER spins around, grabs the trowel and smooths everything over. He stands back as the wind whistles through the crack in the plantpot. The birds have stopped looping-the-loop and are just hovering in one place. A stillness decends. Even the massive tower has stopped jizzing out gemstones for a second because it knows that everything is about to shift at a fundamental level.
The surface of the smoothed out turd is as flat and shiny as an oil spill; completely placid. Maybe it was all for nothing. But wait! In the middle something is happening… The surface bends and ripples rainbow reflections. Suddenly a green sprout pokes through, tests the air for a split second, then shoots up into the sky, propelled by a thick, ropy beanstalk that blasts powerfully around the opulent wang-tower, wrapping it and squeezing it so hard that it swells and bursts and all the gold and jewels spurt wildly out in every direction, covering each bird in the sky with sweet gold chains and grills and they start looping-the-loop again and the light flashes off them brilliantly as they sing a major 9th chord that shimmers through the air like a heat haze and makes the beanstalk grow and grow, higher and higher, stretching with the sound of a thousand rubbed balloons, and it grows up and up, into space, into the unknown, into the realm of adventure and dreamtime and mild peril and actual peril and then it stops. It is done.
SIMON PANRUCKER looks at what he has made. He nods peacefully. About 30 blinged out birds fly down to clutch at his sleeves. One little bird flies down to help pull his trousers and pants back up but SIMON PANRUCKER looks at the bird with a gentle smile and says, “Leave them.” The little bird nods in agreement and flies up to help the others as they flap in unison to lift SIMON PANRUCKER onto the first leaf of the beanstalk, sunset scattering beams of golden light from just below his balls.
Once they have set him down the birds fly off to be rad somewhere, singing crazy Philip Glass style arpeggios now. SIMON PANRUCKER cranes his neck at the beanstalk that stretches upward for an eternity. In one incredibly slick movement he kicks his trousers and pants totally off and they land on the floor perfectly folded. He is ready to start the climb. The beanstalk sways gently in the breeze, creaking like an exciting pirate ship. SIMON PANRUCKER cracks his knuckles and grips hold of the next leaf. He nods like a big champ and says, “Let’s do this.”
With a grunt he pulls himself up to the next leaf, but the exertion makes him fart and the sound is very clear without trousers or pants on and he laughs a lot. Suddenly serious, he tenses again. This time a fart rings out but with such sphinctal control that it forms actual words and the land echoes with a rapturous blowoff proclaiming raspily, “MY NAME IS SIMON PANRUCKER, HEAR ME ROOOAAAARR!”
And then he climbs up and has loads of great adventures.
ARTIST’S STATEMENT BY SIMON PANRUCKER, AGED 27, JUNE 2013