Head Case
Morris awoke with a headache and a throat that felt like it
had been slept in by the Ukranian State Ballet. As he lay
idly picking tutus from his teeth it occurred to him that
the headache wasn't all his; half belonged to the sleeping
Fine Arts groupie who lay next to him, gently snoring
extracts from Die Fledermaus. He got up and opened the
window, leaned out, breathed in, coughed, sneezed twice,
spluttered, coughed again and brought up a small amount of
phlegm. He swallowed half and allowed the rest to dribble
down onto his stomach. This was going to be the big day.
This was the day Morris would finish his Magnum Opus, that
would earn him recognition as the leading Junk Artist of his
generation. This was the day the head waiter at Le Nez de ma
Grandmere would be made to realise just what calibre of
clientele he had refused admission to. This was the day he
would go to Zita's and order a double turkey and peanut
butter on granary, with extra beetroot.
Morris turned from the window to survey his near finished
masterpiece, a gaudy assembly representing the horrors of
dental malpractice in 18th century Prague, constructed
entirely out of reconstituted cricket pads, stuffed
houseflies and tiling grout. All that was needed now was a
human skull for the centrepiece (representing the Botched
Filling in the External Cavity of the Soul), and Morris
would be ready to bare his genius to the world.
The phone shrieked, rudely interrupting his dreams of
wealth, fame and Wogan. It was Rudy O'Goldberg, Morris's
Sino-Scandinavian agent.
"Hey Rudy, sold any good oils lately?"
"Oils? Have you seen the price of crude oils recently? I
tell you, the bottoms dropped out of the portrait market.
Watercolours, gouaches, that's what they want these days.
Oils don't suit their decor, the lumps clash with the
anaglypta. How's the construction business?"
"Fine Rudy. All I need now is a skull."
"Skull? You need a skull like you need a bone in the head.
You got a name for that dental piece yet?"
"A few ideas. How about A Bridge Too Far?"
"Too derivative."
"Gums Of Navarone?"
"Too mushy."
"Double Indenture?"
"Too legaslatic."
"Dial D For Dentist?"
"Too alliterative. Tell you what. Leave the names to me,
alright? You stick to your cricket boxes."
"Pads."
"Boxes, pads, what's the difference?"
"It's obvious you've never worn one. But listen, have you
found me a venue yet? I'm getting a strong urge to exhibit."
"What you do in your own time is none of my concern. No, I
haven't managed to get a gallery owner interested."
"How about Harvey Oeilpeintingue?"
"Harvey? He knows so little about art he thinks Hockney is a
London borough."
"Okay, then what about Walter Kueller?"
"He knows even less than Harvey. He thinks Picasso is a kind
of rectal floss."
"Rene Charcole?"
"Rene's no better. He thinks Millais ran a chain of camping
shops."
"Matt Fynnish?"
"Worse still. He thinks Andy Warhol was a type of air raid
shelter."
"It doesn't sound too hopeful."
"Nonsense. We're only scratching the surface. Or do I mean
scraping the barrel? You turn out the product, leave the
marketing to me."
"I still need a skull. Any ideas?"
"Try a museum."
So Morris set off for the local museum, with a copy of Art
Attack to read on the bus (in this issue: Was Michelangelo
really Francis Bacon? Plus; Churchill vs. Hitler: who would
you hire to paint your bathroom?) The Curator failed to
interest him in an exhibit of Colostomy Bags through the
Ages and sent him round to the spares department at the back
of the building.
"I'd like a skull please."
"Certainly, sir. Pleistocene or Neanderthal?"
"No, I'm looking for something more recent. Preferably male,
20th century, with nicotine stains and a history of dental
bridgework."
"You realise they come more expensive with a full service
record, sir?"
"How much will one set me back?"
The spares clerk leafed through an ancient catalogue from
the selection on the counter, running his finger down the
column of figures.
"Let me see. Basic price is $199.95, plus VAT, Head Tax and
a full set of spare molars. On the road, I should say
that'll come to around $260."
"That's rather more than I wanted to pay."
"Did sir particularly want such a recent model? The
Prehistoric versions are much more reliable - more rigid
construction, easier to service, and more economical on
fossil fuel. Of course, replacement parts are harder to come
by, but at only $29.95 for the basic skull I'd recommend you
buy a second hand one to use for spares."
"Fine. I'll just take the one."
"Certainly, sir. That'll be $29.95 plus our standard
handling charge of $3.75. May I see your Penis?"
"Come again?"
"Your Proof of Enrolment in the Neohistoric Institute of
Study."
"Uh.Um..."
Morris pretended to fumble in his pockets, in case by some
happy chance he happened to have his Penis with him.
"I seem to have left it at home."
The clerk eyed him suspiciously, and returned the skull to
its polystyrene case with a sigh that said more than
Interflora ever could.
"We'll keep it for you, sir. Anytime you're passing. I'm
sure you understand."
Morris stumbled out into the street, knowing that all that
stood between him and fame was a piece of paper. He beat his
brow with his fists, and listened to the dull echo this
produced. Where could he find a skull to finish his
masterpiece? Morris became despairing, and beat his brow
again. Unless...wait a minute...the realisation struck him
in a flash of inspiration. He had access to a skull all
along.
Amazed by the staggering combination of ingenuity and
erstwhile stupidity, Morris headed for home, pausing only at
the hardware store (tenon saw, chisel, rubber mallet), the
electrical shop (20 yards of strong flex) and finally the
chemist. This was the hardest part. Deep breaths, count to
ten.
"I'd like some crepe bandages, Vaseline, and a bottle of
strong rat poison," he said confidently, staring the
assistant straight in the eye. "Oh, and a five pack of
condoms," he added, so as not to appear socially
irresponsible. The assistant returned his cold gaze, and
surreptitiously moved her hand to the alarm button under the
counter.
"Vaseline? You'll have to sign the Controlled Lubricants
book for that."
Once back at the studio, he set to work. The Fine Art
Groupie was still snoring Strauss, and had reached the heart
rending aria 'Ach, aber ich habe Donner und Blitzen fuer
Dich, mein Oberleutenant' when he tiptoed in.
The rat poison did its job quietly and efficiently. When he
was sure that she was dead and not just asleep (she broke
off in the middle of the line 'Ich habe Kartoffelnsalat in
mein kopf...') he began the gruesome task of removing her
skull through her left nostril.
Tying her head down with the electrical flex, he began
chiselling away at the bridge of her nose. He was soon able
to insert a small scalpel and sever the olfactory canal; a
few more cuts released the eyes, eardrums and vocal cords.
The nostril had to be stretched out of shape to accommodate
the bulk of the skull but it wasn't long before he held it
in his hand, a gory anatomical model complete with facial
musculature.
A few deft cuts with the tenon saw enabled him to slide out
the brain, which he wrapped in clingfilm and put in the
salad compartment of the fridge. The muscles peeled away
easily after the skull had been immersed in boiling water
for a few minutes (this technique is also useful for
removing the skin from tomatoes) and it took only a few
drops of superglue to fit the trepanned portion of the skull
back in place.
He turned back to the body still lying on the bed, a perfect
specimen of female anatomy saved for the marked lack of
cranial structure. Gathering together all the old newspapers
he could find, he made up a small bowl of papier-mache and,
inserting this strip by strip up the nostril which had so
recently discharged its load, began to press the mixture to
the inside of the head.
While the papier-mache was still wet Morris took a balloon
from the bag left over from his New Year's Eve party and
pushed it up the same nostril, leaving the blow tube hanging
down. A couple of lungfuls of tobacco stained air were
adequate to inflate the head to approximately life size.
Tying a knot in the balloon, Morris stepped back to admire
his handiwork, while the papier-mache dried around its
rubber mould.
He had to admit that she had lost some of her more endearing
characteristics; the high cheekbones, the strong jawline and
the delicate brows had all been replaced by the somewhat
spherical features of someone born with congenital syphilis.
It would have to do. Morris had never been strong on
portraits.
He took her down the the underground, bought her a two zone
ticket and put her on the train to Aylesbury. He sat with
her as far as Baker Street, where he changed trains and
returned to the studio.
Fixing the hard acquired skull in was a delicate operation.
A wooden stake concealed behind the jawbone slotted neatly
into the hole formerly occupied by the cerebral cortex, but
it was necessary to drill two small holes in the back of the
skull in order to wire it firmly to the main construction.
As he worked, Morris dreamed of the world acclaim his
construction would bring him. A retrospective at the Tate,
interviews in the Sunday Times ("I get up at six every
morning, jog twice around the North Circular before settling
into a bowl of Wheaticrunch"), the Observer ("Yes, I do have
an interesting loo, don't you think. The seat actually
belonged to Clive of India, you know, and you can see the
spear marks to this very day") and the News Of The World ("I
have sex at least four times a day, sometimes in the
bathroom and sometimes on the kitchen table"). Perhaps -
even greater than these - the highest accolade, the Medal of
Conspicuous Malpractice from the Society of British Dental
Art Critics.
There was still the brain, of course. Morris considered how
best to cook it as he added the finishing touches to the
skull. Fried? Grilled? Poached? Poached brain. Sounded too
disrespectful. Stewed would be more appropriate, he mused.
Or pickled.
The phone rang, Morris started. Surely...they couldn't have
found her already. Would the assistant at the chemist
recognise him? ("I thought it was suspicious, the way he
only bought five condoms...") Morris reached gingerly for
the receiver. It was Rudy again.
"Morris? You finished yet?"
"Yes, Rudy, The Work is complete."
"Good. Listen, I've had some luck. I've found a gallery
that's doing a series of husband and wife exhibitions, only
in your case it would be artist and groupie. What do you
think?"
"..."
"Morris, you there?"
"Sure, Rudy"
"So I was thinking, how about it? You still hanging around
with that girl? You know, the one that was into Strauss?"
"No, Rudy. I had to let her go. She'd gone soft in the
head."
Morris awoke with a headache and a throat that felt like it
had been slept in by the Ukranian State Ballet. As he lay
idly picking tutus from his teeth it occurred to him that
the headache wasn't all his; half belonged to the sleeping
Fine Arts groupie who lay next to him, gently snoring
extracts from Die Fledermaus. He got up and opened the
window, leaned out, breathed in, coughed, sneezed twice,
spluttered, coughed again and brought up a small amount of
phlegm. He swallowed half and allowed the rest to dribble
down onto his stomach. This was going to be the big day.
This was the day Morris would finish his Magnum Opus, that
would earn him recognition as the leading Junk Artist of his
generation. This was the day the head waiter at Le Nez de ma
Grandmere would be made to realise just what calibre of
clientele he had refused admission to. This was the day he
would go to Zita's and order a double turkey and peanut
butter on granary, with extra beetroot.
Morris turned from the window to survey his near finished
masterpiece, a gaudy assembly representing the horrors of
dental malpractice in 18th century Prague, constructed
entirely out of reconstituted cricket pads, stuffed
houseflies and tiling grout. All that was needed now was a
human skull for the centrepiece (representing the Botched
Filling in the External Cavity of the Soul), and Morris
would be ready to bare his genius to the world.
The phone shrieked, rudely interrupting his dreams of
wealth, fame and Wogan. It was Rudy O'Goldberg, Morris's
Sino-Scandinavian agent.
"Hey Rudy, sold any good oils lately?"
"Oils? Have you seen the price of crude oils recently? I
tell you, the bottoms dropped out of the portrait market.
Watercolours, gouaches, that's what they want these days.
Oils don't suit their decor, the lumps clash with the
anaglypta. How's the construction business?"
"Fine Rudy. All I need now is a skull."
"Skull? You need a skull like you need a bone in the head.
You got a name for that dental piece yet?"
"A few ideas. How about A Bridge Too Far?"
"Too derivative."
"Gums Of Navarone?"
"Too mushy."
"Double Indenture?"
"Too legaslatic."
"Dial D For Dentist?"
"Too alliterative. Tell you what. Leave the names to me,
alright? You stick to your cricket boxes."
"Pads."
"Boxes, pads, what's the difference?"
"It's obvious you've never worn one. But listen, have you
found me a venue yet? I'm getting a strong urge to exhibit."
"What you do in your own time is none of my concern. No, I
haven't managed to get a gallery owner interested."
"How about Harvey Oeilpeintingue?"
"Harvey? He knows so little about art he thinks Hockney is a
London borough."
"Okay, then what about Walter Kueller?"
"He knows even less than Harvey. He thinks Picasso is a kind
of rectal floss."
"Rene Charcole?"
"Rene's no better. He thinks Millais ran a chain of camping
shops."
"Matt Fynnish?"
"Worse still. He thinks Andy Warhol was a type of air raid
shelter."
"It doesn't sound too hopeful."
"Nonsense. We're only scratching the surface. Or do I mean
scraping the barrel? You turn out the product, leave the
marketing to me."
"I still need a skull. Any ideas?"
"Try a museum."
So Morris set off for the local museum, with a copy of Art
Attack to read on the bus (in this issue: Was Michelangelo
really Francis Bacon? Plus; Churchill vs. Hitler: who would
you hire to paint your bathroom?) The Curator failed to
interest him in an exhibit of Colostomy Bags through the
Ages and sent him round to the spares department at the back
of the building.
"I'd like a skull please."
"Certainly, sir. Pleistocene or Neanderthal?"
"No, I'm looking for something more recent. Preferably male,
20th century, with nicotine stains and a history of dental
bridgework."
"You realise they come more expensive with a full service
record, sir?"
"How much will one set me back?"
The spares clerk leafed through an ancient catalogue from
the selection on the counter, running his finger down the
column of figures.
"Let me see. Basic price is $199.95, plus VAT, Head Tax and
a full set of spare molars. On the road, I should say
that'll come to around $260."
"That's rather more than I wanted to pay."
"Did sir particularly want such a recent model? The
Prehistoric versions are much more reliable - more rigid
construction, easier to service, and more economical on
fossil fuel. Of course, replacement parts are harder to come
by, but at only $29.95 for the basic skull I'd recommend you
buy a second hand one to use for spares."
"Fine. I'll just take the one."
"Certainly, sir. That'll be $29.95 plus our standard
handling charge of $3.75. May I see your Penis?"
"Come again?"
"Your Proof of Enrolment in the Neohistoric Institute of
Study."
"Uh.Um..."
Morris pretended to fumble in his pockets, in case by some
happy chance he happened to have his Penis with him.
"I seem to have left it at home."
The clerk eyed him suspiciously, and returned the skull to
its polystyrene case with a sigh that said more than
Interflora ever could.
"We'll keep it for you, sir. Anytime you're passing. I'm
sure you understand."
Morris stumbled out into the street, knowing that all that
stood between him and fame was a piece of paper. He beat his
brow with his fists, and listened to the dull echo this
produced. Where could he find a skull to finish his
masterpiece? Morris became despairing, and beat his brow
again. Unless...wait a minute...the realisation struck him
in a flash of inspiration. He had access to a skull all
along.
Amazed by the staggering combination of ingenuity and
erstwhile stupidity, Morris headed for home, pausing only at
the hardware store (tenon saw, chisel, rubber mallet), the
electrical shop (20 yards of strong flex) and finally the
chemist. This was the hardest part. Deep breaths, count to
ten.
"I'd like some crepe bandages, Vaseline, and a bottle of
strong rat poison," he said confidently, staring the
assistant straight in the eye. "Oh, and a five pack of
condoms," he added, so as not to appear socially
irresponsible. The assistant returned his cold gaze, and
surreptitiously moved her hand to the alarm button under the
counter.
"Vaseline? You'll have to sign the Controlled Lubricants
book for that."
Once back at the studio, he set to work. The Fine Art
Groupie was still snoring Strauss, and had reached the heart
rending aria 'Ach, aber ich habe Donner und Blitzen fuer
Dich, mein Oberleutenant' when he tiptoed in.
The rat poison did its job quietly and efficiently. When he
was sure that she was dead and not just asleep (she broke
off in the middle of the line 'Ich habe Kartoffelnsalat in
mein kopf...') he began the gruesome task of removing her
skull through her left nostril.
Tying her head down with the electrical flex, he began
chiselling away at the bridge of her nose. He was soon able
to insert a small scalpel and sever the olfactory canal; a
few more cuts released the eyes, eardrums and vocal cords.
The nostril had to be stretched out of shape to accommodate
the bulk of the skull but it wasn't long before he held it
in his hand, a gory anatomical model complete with facial
musculature.
A few deft cuts with the tenon saw enabled him to slide out
the brain, which he wrapped in clingfilm and put in the
salad compartment of the fridge. The muscles peeled away
easily after the skull had been immersed in boiling water
for a few minutes (this technique is also useful for
removing the skin from tomatoes) and it took only a few
drops of superglue to fit the trepanned portion of the skull
back in place.
He turned back to the body still lying on the bed, a perfect
specimen of female anatomy saved for the marked lack of
cranial structure. Gathering together all the old newspapers
he could find, he made up a small bowl of papier-mache and,
inserting this strip by strip up the nostril which had so
recently discharged its load, began to press the mixture to
the inside of the head.
While the papier-mache was still wet Morris took a balloon
from the bag left over from his New Year's Eve party and
pushed it up the same nostril, leaving the blow tube hanging
down. A couple of lungfuls of tobacco stained air were
adequate to inflate the head to approximately life size.
Tying a knot in the balloon, Morris stepped back to admire
his handiwork, while the papier-mache dried around its
rubber mould.
He had to admit that she had lost some of her more endearing
characteristics; the high cheekbones, the strong jawline and
the delicate brows had all been replaced by the somewhat
spherical features of someone born with congenital syphilis.
It would have to do. Morris had never been strong on
portraits.
He took her down the the underground, bought her a two zone
ticket and put her on the train to Aylesbury. He sat with
her as far as Baker Street, where he changed trains and
returned to the studio.
Fixing the hard acquired skull in was a delicate operation.
A wooden stake concealed behind the jawbone slotted neatly
into the hole formerly occupied by the cerebral cortex, but
it was necessary to drill two small holes in the back of the
skull in order to wire it firmly to the main construction.
As he worked, Morris dreamed of the world acclaim his
construction would bring him. A retrospective at the Tate,
interviews in the Sunday Times ("I get up at six every
morning, jog twice around the North Circular before settling
into a bowl of Wheaticrunch"), the Observer ("Yes, I do have
an interesting loo, don't you think. The seat actually
belonged to Clive of India, you know, and you can see the
spear marks to this very day") and the News Of The World ("I
have sex at least four times a day, sometimes in the
bathroom and sometimes on the kitchen table"). Perhaps -
even greater than these - the highest accolade, the Medal of
Conspicuous Malpractice from the Society of British Dental
Art Critics.
There was still the brain, of course. Morris considered how
best to cook it as he added the finishing touches to the
skull. Fried? Grilled? Poached? Poached brain. Sounded too
disrespectful. Stewed would be more appropriate, he mused.
Or pickled.
The phone rang, Morris started. Surely...they couldn't have
found her already. Would the assistant at the chemist
recognise him? ("I thought it was suspicious, the way he
only bought five condoms...") Morris reached gingerly for
the receiver. It was Rudy again.
"Morris? You finished yet?"
"Yes, Rudy, The Work is complete."
"Good. Listen, I've had some luck. I've found a gallery
that's doing a series of husband and wife exhibitions, only
in your case it would be artist and groupie. What do you
think?"
"..."
"Morris, you there?"
"Sure, Rudy"
"So I was thinking, how about it? You still hanging around
with that girl? You know, the one that was into Strauss?"
"No, Rudy. I had to let her go. She'd gone soft in the
head."
