It’s brickells in your undies, in a cyclone, on Pot Rock at high tide. It’s life as art. It’s not conceding to the disease of convention. It’s bric-pics on the Desert Road and energy activated by pots jiggling and grinding together in the back of the van, energising you and your purpose as an outlier, an outlaw, a pirate!
It transcends everything you thought being an artist was. It transcends everything you thought you knew about anything. It transcends the need to transcend. It reinvents the art world so we can stop rubbing each other’s bumholes.
Later now and the flame from the Rollo chimney is coming straight after a mysterious right side smokiness. The chickens are hatching and running loose in there. The Brickell Band kicks in like a potato grater on your soul, but settles into something resembling a real band...
Day 1: Thursday. A chicken dance AI agenda. Can you identify any risks? Let’s go build something with a nail gun. A giant chicken? A barricade? A raft? The palpable relief that comes with purpose. Holly is nailing it. The clouds move in all directions. A bit like us...
