The morning after.

After opening night and a deep drunken sleep, it was time to scuttle back to the Union to check on everything, make sure that my work hadn't been moved and generally clean up. I arrived to a beautifully clean room, Beech was also pootling around the place making sure everything was in order. The space in which my piece was once held was empty, and on the table to the left of my pre-existing piece was a till roll. An empty till roll. Neatly placed upright in the sunlight.

That's weird.

It would appear that my thoughts have left the building. Commence sinking feeling in my stomach. I frantically faffed around the place trying to find the remainder of my work, all kinds of crazy thoughts are running through my mind, has someone stolen it? Stolen it out of malice? Taken it to bumper for a little dance? SET FIRE TO IT? As my over thinking gradually sends me into a frenzy I decided to pick up what was left of my work and flee to University to get advice from my tutors as to how to deal with this new found predicament. Miguel advised me to use this experience and respond to it for the remainder of the exhibition, and I did. I escorted my bleak looking till roll back to my space and unrolled it completely. I wrote at the end of the roll, where it had been ripped, 'Some funny fat twat has thieved my work, this is what is left of it'. I don't believe the 'fat' adjective was necessary but I was highly pissed off.

So how do I go about trying to deal and break this occurrence down? It's irony more then anything else, the drive behind my work is based around my concept of control, my own struggles with power and lack there of. So the idea that someone has interrupted my creative channelling for this particular issue completely ruffles my feathers. It was extremely unnerving to try and cope with this, it's completely out of my control and power. Whether someone had chosen to party with it or try and decode it smashes my trust with the paper. That paper knew things about my own thought process that nobody else living knew, so to think that it was gone and out of my hands is a real bummer.

To put this into another context, maybe I could look upon this act as something positive, a way of grappling with my own moral code. Someone has forcibly (whether intentional or not) made me reflect on my process by removing it from me. 

A day or two later it came to light that a cleaner had accidentally binned it thinking it was rubbish, a little careless but nonetheless, I can't cry over lost thoughts, but I can moan about it in Blog form. Nutty cow.