Right now that title seems pretty melodramatic, right? Or at the very least unsettlingly ominous…
But don’t worry: my health is good, I have no debt, my sordid affairs are still top secret (except the one with Julie K) and I’m not legally allowed to drive on public roads. Safe as houses!
But I hope someone digs out this post again once I’m worm food. Let me give you some context…
Earlier this week, I left the safety of the house to visit a local Henry Moore exhibition with my sister. If you’re not familiar with that name, then you might recognise some of his sculpture work from Yorkshire Sculpture Park. Mayhaps?
His work is what I call an abstract delight, you can lose a good few minutes seeing the world through his eyes when you look at it. This exhibition “From The Land” is in Lincoln at The Collection until the middle of May. Very inspiration, much insight. This is the weirdest advertisement for that exhibition ever, but it’s important to my thought process.
When my sister (Rosie) invited me over the phone, the sky was a glorious blue and it lured me out without an umbrella. As soon as I left the house I was hit with a torrential downpour which pelted me horizontally for a good twelve minutes. So when we arrived, we were windswept, wet-through and instantly overwhelmed, but never-the-less determined to absorb as much culture as two culture-sponges can before catching pneumonia.
About half way around the exhibition, I wiped the water off my phone and Googled how old Henry Moore was today. For some reason neither of us knew this fact. Then it washed over me – a big wave of gloom. Moore died in 1986 (at the age of 88), two years before Rosie or I was born. We hadn’t ever shared the same air as him. A strange thought. Perhaps it was the silence of the room, the thought-provoking artwork, or the three coffees I downed prior to leaving home, but I stopped solemnly in my tracks and announced in the most dramatic voice possible: “Oh no, Rosie… did you know he’s dead?”
I’m not entirely sure why this discovery hit me at a deeper level than usual – I’ve been to plenty of other exhibitions by artists who are no longer with us. Perhaps it’s because I considered Henry Moore one of the more modern artists of this century, at least in my mind? Whatever the reason, for the rest of the exhibition we found ourselves followed by a definite cloud of sadness. We also took a little bit longer to appreciate each piece of work.
What made the exhibition particularly special is that the curator had included other artists who continued Moore’s study of the effect of humans on the land, even after his death. One artist contributed a beautiful poem, written this year, and I thought: what a fantastic way to honour someone’s passion once they’re gone.
Then I left before the pneumonia kicked in, so that I would have time to write this post.
What I’m hinting at here, reader, is that when I’m gone I would like a similar exhibition please. Can you do that? It’s important to me that this happens. It kept me awake last night. I’m not a visual artist and I have no sculptures, so you may have to filter through each one of my mundane Tweets until you find something hilarious. Then I need you to carve each one into a marble plaque and all reply to it directly on the wall beneath the marble. That’s what I need, OK?
You’ve heard the saying “dress for the job you want”? Well I “spend for the bank balance I wish I had” ✊🏻🙌🏻
— Spadge ✍🏻 (@Spadgerina) March 10, 2018
Get creative with it. Take every photo you have of my double chin and print it out on canvas. I want people to really study it and feel both emotional and confused. Are you in?
I also hope somebody continues to pay my web-hosting, otherwise you’ll never read this post. But if you have found it – thank you. This burden rests entirely in your hands.
I’ll save you a good seat. X
P.S. Why not write your own public death wish. It’s strangely therapeutic.