Crossroads

Sometimes I wonder what I am. Am I an artist or a driver? A live artist or a drive artist? A student or a lecturer? A performer who writes or a writer who performs? I am sitting in a car talking to strangers about a loss I can't expect them to understand. Sometimes I am the only person I know. The problem is the only person who was anything like me is dead and that's the reason for the journey. I don't even know what he would think. I'd like to think that he would approve of the journey I'm going on. That's sometimes the only thought that keeps me on The Long and Winding Road. Sometimes I think he would say it was 'different'. Which is the sort of thing people say when they don't understand what you do but don't know what else to say. I can only hope there is an audience of passengers that want to sit with me for a while and listen to what I want to tell them. I hope there is. I think there is. The steering committee exists to guide me on the journey but I don't even know what they think. A collection of email addresses from a time when I was high on previously locked up emotion. In some ways I have become the car. Broken down. Broken into. Run out of petrol. Parking ticketed. Towed home. When we brought the car back from London I waited for the auto-recovery vehicle like I was waiting to see my brother again. When we pushed the car back into the garage I felt I was tucking my brother in to bed. The driver said 'It's been on its little adventure.' And I smiled. Because that's exactly how it felt. The car has a life of its own. My brother's life. My life. And everywhere it goes, everywhere it sees, everyone who sees it becomes a part of a car history. His story. The breakdown was why it took me two years to work out what to do with the car. The breaking into was how I felt when people told me I was insane. The running out of petrol is how I feel when I lose the will to talk about the project. There are times when it doesn't even make sense to me so I can't make it make sense to other people. Non-believers. Non-drivers. The parking tickets are prescriptions for the anti-depressants I have taken. Penalties for the mistakes I have made. The towing home is the process of auto-recovery I have been undergoing ever since. I have been doubted and I doubt myself. Every day. Is this art or therapy? No pun - no reference to car-tharsis can help me. I am bound to the road. I am making myself do this. Wake up to this. Sleep with this. Live with this. Because if I don't I let my brother die again. Every day. This is how I keep him alive. If art is my religion. This is my candle. Lit every time I take the car out of the garage. Every time I talk to a passenger I am bringing the car and my brother and what we've been through back to life. Back to Liverpool. Back to me. The car is my brother. My brother is me. I am the car.

The lock up

The homecoming

National Express

Dear National Express,

I am writing to complain about the standard of driving I experienced on the above service travelling from London Victoria to Nottingham on 17 May 2007. I paid for a Fun Fare ticket but it wasn't very fun.

There was an unnerving confrontation between the driver and a passenger seated behind him regarding the passenger’s use of a mobile phone. The nature of the confrontation was unclear but the driver attempted to resolve it by contacting the controller and complaining audibly about the passenger’s behaviour. Though this may be National Express protocol this tactic seemed to inflame rather than subdue the conflict between the passenger and the driver.

When the controller reassured the driver that the passenger should stop using his mobile phone if it was a health and safety concern or a distraction the driver hung up but continued to speak to the passenger in an agitated manner. Though the passenger was contributing to the argument it seemed that the aggressive discussion was affecting the manner of driving and we began to feel unsafe. The discussion became more of a health and safety concern than the mobile phone.

The driver seemed to make incendiary comments like ‘Are you a driver sir?’ and ended the discussion by stating ‘You’re really beginning to annoy me now’ and continued to drive in silence. We set off slightly delayed and it seemed that towards the end of the journey the driver was keen to make up for lost time. However this led to persistent reckless driving in excess of the speed limit and repeatedly tailgating other traffic from the A607 to the centre of Nottingham. I know because I have recently attended a speed awareness workshop.

On arrival in Nottingham my partner was violently ill and we were shaken for some time about the dangerous driving and manner of the driver’s behaviour. I would be grateful if something could be done to warn the driver against this in future and to reimburse us the cost of this traumatic and regrettable experience.

Yours faithfully,

Michael
Driver

Tonys' House Hotel

Dear Tony,

I am writing to complain about the standard of your hotel. My partner and I stayed for one night on Wednesday 16 May 2007. We were not impressed - it was like waking up in a Martin Amis novel.

• The wallpaper was gathered in the corner of the room indicating damp
• The plaster was falling from the ceiling
• The windowpane was cracked
• There was scaffolding outside the window – with no warning or notice of whether we would wake up in the morning to find builders looking at us
• The shower head holder was broken and kept falling off
• There was no hot water from the shower
• There was no cold water from the sink
• The bathroom was so small and wet that toilet rolls were soon sodden
• The continental breakfast was a tray of items from Lidl
• The TV and kettle were plugged into a splitter that did not work
• The other plug socket did not work
• The TV had a very bad reception
• The walls were very thin and we subsequently found it difficult to sleep

I have photographs of the above items that I can forward to the relevant authorities if required but would be grateful if you could reimburse us the cost of this unfortunate experience.

Yours faithfully,

Michael
Driver

PS The apostrophe in your name is in the wrong place

Post-show blues

Patronised by the ICA