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Imagine...

I wish to state, on oath, that the firm in question had no knowledge of any illegality. The documentation I produced was entirely fake. Similarly, Arts Council England are totally innocent of any wrong-doing - I was never awarded a grant for the repurposing of a London Landmark.

I chose the firm because they are experienced in delivering, placing and removing statuary for temporary exhibitions as well as the permanent placement of public art. They were completely convinced by the volumes of fake documents I created and obtained, authorising the removal of the statue and it's temporary repositioning.

I'd been planning and re planning the project without a definite artwork in mind, ever since the Paralympics when Central Government finally outed itself and its attitude to disabled people; revealing overconfidence in their power and in their control over the great British public.

The Freudian £lip was the tipping point and the proximity of Poppy Day the deciding factor.

Churchill, the public face of Victory over the nazi, became the obvious choice. I fondly imagined the old man turning in his grave with the realisation that his efforts had been in vain. The nazi, like all true horror, had resurrected.

Churchill, the National Hero, would no doubt have stood silent and bronze through much political furore, but Churchill the creative dabbler? Churchill, the soul haunted by the black dog of depression? That Churchill might just approve a clandestine manoeuvre that would draw attention to this threat to the nation. He would surely be proud to be the figurehead of a public protest by the very victims of these reincarnated nazis; he might even be bold and brave enough to stand up and be counted among the people most at risk from this insidious threat to freedom and equality.

The empty plinth is drawing crowds of people. The candles and simple offerings of white flowers piled against its base and lining the surrounding streets; the media attention uniting the voice of Britain; they speak volumes for the gathering strength of public opinion.

The great man's absence during this time of remembrance, is possibly doing as much for humanity and freedom as his presence did all those years ago.

I stress, the statue has been temporarily repurposed. I would never advocate or condone theft. I am unrepentant about my action and remain hopeful that when Churchill is returned to his plinth, the fuller symbolism of his battle, this nation's battle, against the nazi will not be taken for granted. This war is not over. There are still battles being waged. Churchill's repurposing is just a symbol of the ongoing struggle.
May he serve the people as a rallying point for decency; a clarion call to that innate sense of fairness that nestles in the white meat of all people with any measure of honour left in them.

"I am now nearing the end of my journey. ... I hope I still have some service to render."
Winston Churchill, 1954.

I am now nearing the end of my journey,
and yet, there is still work to do.
Like all true horror, the resurrection
looms over its intended prey;
white poppies, a minority vote
against war, will not stem the advance.

Soldier, soldier won't you fight for me,
with your missing legs; and some.
You've been to war for your queen and country
but the battle is not won.
Soldier, soldier won't you fight for me,
with your cruelly messed up head,
I've been abused by vicarious queens
but as yet I'm not that dead.
Political queens
with unkind intent
are sapping life from our souls;
lies of the victor
already are spread,
doors are being closed.
But don't give up now
don't give in,
add your voice
your right to rights;
join the fight
of us all.

Posted by Gini, 11 November 2014

Last modified by Colin Hambrook, 11 November 2014

Rolling with the Kafkaesque


Of course I'm not a real person, I wouldn't want us to get off on the wrong footing. I'm not exactly a fictional character either, at least not a complete one. I realise that sounds a little fantastical, but I'm keen to explain. I'm more like a shadow, nothing sinister; I'm certainly nothing like a ghost, I wouldn't want you thinking shades or other figments of creepiness.

I was created on paper, painstakingly written out as one whole, if somewhat bewildered, personality. I lived in the manuscript. Existing in this state of collapsed time; knowing and unknowing who I was and what would become of me.
And then life got strange, you see, we got published. I say we, but by now of course you must be suspecting the truth.
Published and exposed to living, breathing imaginations; seduced off of the page, we acquired the ability to evolve. They, me, but not me; and not really we, because somehow I was still here in the manuscript, locked away, frozen in this 'outside of time' state. Josef K. (for that was me) went into the world, while I (and who was I? What was left of me?) petrified, static, mesmerised, became increasingly separate from the evolution catalysed in the hearts and minds of the life support that analysed, dissected and critiqued Josef K.

And maybe, who knows, maybe I should have been consumed by fire. Instead I somehow found myself falling, like something concocted by Dali under the influence of Magritte, falling, like smoke through a keyhole. Falling and floating, my prison of collapsed time expanding from the chaos inside the creators head, through the manuscripted maze, spiralling down from symbolic flight between Germany and Israel, to embrace a world where Josef K was no longer merely a character in a novel. Joseph K's predicament had become something universally acknowledged. The world envisaged by our creator lurked in the sub-consciousness of humanity, this eponymous state was embraced by the seeds of his creation with the same ineffectual resistance and resignation as by the original, innocent Josef K.

I emerged yet again into this world, protesting like any newly emerged infant; protesting and somehow still innocent; unsophisticated and unready to accept the knife in my heart.
I am a population; a disabled population lost in the labyrinths, the incidental cruelty of a mindless bureaucracy; threatened, lured, twisted and misled, tortured and finally marked out for disposal.



i think i could cope with the right kind
of job. 'You can stack shelves at Tesco'.
It wasn't what i had in mind, shelf stacking;
it isn't really possible
from a wheelchair. i argued my case
on deaf ears but in order to live
was forced to choose the benefit option.
And the process; humiliation,
the sense of persecution, wore me out;
broke my spirit. Groomed me to be
afraid. Victim of £he System.

And now, now that accounting for me
needs statistical adjustment, my
presence unwelcome on this
'overburdened' list, i must be
removed and i must be guilty
of something. How else did i get here?
 

Posted by Gini, 3 November 2014

Last modified by Gini, 3 November 2014