Letter 1. Can I get some coffee before we begin?





C: Ok.

T: C’mon Chris. You have some thoughts!

C: I was just listening to “S town” this morning, and I don't know if it's the direct translation here…. well, I think it’s a waste of space in your writing.

T: It’s more about randomly composed stories that have almost no logical connotation for a naked eye. They don't have a direct link  to my studio practice.

You only hear the particles of the stories, like talking to all of these strangers from S town, some people from my hacked email address, Leonardo da Vinci, bolsheviks through a broken phone and then hopefully the reader will…


Let me start again.


It‘s about noticing the combination of insignificant differences that irritate your life on a daily basis like sitting in this grey jam pot of a greater compost.


My book has been already written long before I even thought of its title. All I need to do is to gather the broken parts that now inhabit in a random collection of manipulated podcasts and recordings, half-baked stories and overbaked facts that are mostly taken from my time being in London. In the process of repositioning them I wanted to curate a different kind of plot.


This is exactly how I paint. Instead of drawing the line you can just rub against the old hotel wooden parquet floor with a piece of cake and some paper in between and just let yourself to notice things. If you replace the lines with words -  frottage is my typewriting machine. Even if all that is left to do  is to stare at the piles of shit, after a while ‘you will be able to see in them resemblance to various landscapes adorned with mountains, rivers, rocks, trees, plains, wide valleys and hills.’


C: I’m not interested in reading a bunch of copied podcasts.

(spilled coffee all of over the table, it touched a corner of my notebook and now the byro is dripping.)


T: You said the notes, the “raw material” is already there and now I need to reflect on it. Julien is helping me on this. He is my new music teacher. But actually that's not entirely true. Though he is a music teacher. But I don't know any Julien. He asked me to mention him in my thesis. Yesterday.

Do you see what I'm doing here?  


Perhaps by facing the life’s boredom and eventual failures in the studio that are encapsulated within the Instagram Help desk one sided correspondence, within the incomplete gestalt of the first love haunting, ”I Love Dick” reading,  visa mood fluctuating, international fees rising and canned tomatoes for dinner eating - all of these broken experiences make me want to commit into something so removed, like painting.   


Do you like queueing? Cleaning your shoes before you leave to school? Watching bake-off knowing your proposal was unsuccessful, waiting for your roommate to vacate the toilet, living with your roommate? I don’t. I was brought up on Mayakovsky under my blanket. Naively, I always aimed for non-triviality to its radical extent: smartie-pants London living, organic juice drinking, Labour party voting, American politics vomiting. I can't stand the routine. I can’t make a use out of it apart from waiting until this bland giant compost expectorates all these squashed narratives...

Maybe than I could see more clearly why I paint.


(stop music)


(bells ringing)


T: Oh, and before you leave - all of these letters don't really ever evaluate towards being called “experiences”, as they never reach their logical conclusion or bring in certain good-looking resilience, they just lie there like sea junk debris , or rubbish engaged in hair in some carpeted apartments.


It’s a very subjective piece of writing I'm not gonna lie.