Sloth

Last night I went to the opening of my friend Dave's new solo show at the 91 Aro St gallery. That's him over there in the Drinking buddies. (There are links to his blog and his website).

The show is a series consisting of a very reasonable number of works featuring Dave's creation, the somewhat obviously auto-biographical Skeleton Guy. Skeleton Guy is ostensibly a painter, and appears again and again with the tools of the trade - studio, paint, easel and so forth - but seems to spend very little time actually painting. He rather uses the 'studio' as a private space into which he retreats to do whatever the hell he feels like - and frequently does, with characteristic torpid insouciance. Any suggestions from us that this is less than reputable behaviour and even downright duplicitous are challenged with a deapan stare that a Maltese mafioso would be proud of. At the very least we can expect to have cigarette smoke blown into our faces in a less than respectful fashion if we don't shuddup.

I am reminded of the (good old?) days when I would head for my studio at every possible opportunity to thwart the cloying mawkish clutches of my annoying girlfriend. Popular culture would have us believe that this is a common male behaviour - retreat to the den, the shed, the workshop, the garage, the local bar etc. to avoid the shrill girlfriend, the shrewish wife, the responsibilities of a family life - but I am left wondering what it is that prevents us from confronting the issues head-on and acknowledging our apparent need for solace and escape.

I know in my case the annoying girlfriend would accuse me of outright abandonment if I dared to express my desire for some "solace and escape", hence the utilisation of the convenient 'studio' justification. This is clearly weak, but for the sake of a decent night's sleep, worth it. I hope for everyone's sake situations like this are not common; I fear they may be. We're all doomed, aren't we. Go on, admit it - we're doomed.