L’art d’attirer

Monsieur isn't freaked out when he opens the fridge and a wax sculpture of a human mouth is sat on a silver platter with salad. In fact, monsieur says he'll donate his moustache. I smile and show him the scissors, but sadly he isn't being serious. How can I convince him?

1) Seduce him
2) Steal the moustache whilst he sleeps
3) If this plan goes horribly wrong, I’ll simply have to grow my own

My pearl necklace is heavy with haste, hovering above his skin like a sparkling sky of stars that dream of falling to earth whilst my red lips roll restless, flinging themselves like flames yet falling short like sparks. When he wakes in the middle of the night saying that he’s hungry, I tell him there’s a salad in the fridge that he can eat. This makes him laugh but alas! the moustache is still not mine. I didn’t have the guts to steal it and so I will have to grow my own.

L’art de l’absence

There’s a gristle-grey now that he’s gone, better than the bleached-black loneliness of a sky stripped to the spine, shivering at the side-window as the stars slip through its cracks. At most, the sky has spat out the sun, the sunlight snags on a branch and a wisp of light is lost with each of the wind’s caresses. I scoop up a splash of sunlight and smear it on a canvas to express the art of absence:

I am a prisoner to the ache of time, held hostage to its hours. Time is heavy as an anchor dragging the weight of an ocean across the ocean floor. Even the clock doesn't know where to place its hands, and so each tick is the click of the chain tightening around my wrist. As moments bleed into more and memories fade with the moonlight, change their colours and peel at the sides, I become so bored that I fear I might rip out my own heart and eat it. In the end I just eat olives.

I am left as lonely as the leaves of salad in my fridge, sagging the stem of their spines closer to the cold-silver skin. This may simply be the standard interior of almost any student fridge, but it may also suggest a symbiosis between artist and art that is both symbolic and spectacular. If your fridge is shared, I dare you to leave a similar note on your half-eaten nibbles: the philosophy of art has a power of persuasion almost impossible to dispute.

L’art de s’amuser

As a distraction, I try artistically turning all the furniture in my apartment upside down but gravity is far too insistent, its pull frustrates me so I flee. After a little flaneuring I rummage in a bin with my bare hands to retrieve a beautiful bottle, its elongated neck boasting an elegance belonging to girls not glass. As a finishing touch, I toss a banana skin on top as a statement on female sexual objectification. Though maybe it’s just because I was eating a banana at the time and the bin felt a billion miles away, I cannot be certain.

This ghost of a grasp, with its fragmented pieces of plastic flesh, was posted to my pigeonhole in finger-sized individual packages. I’m still waiting on two arms and a foot though, planning to build myself a man.