by Annabel Port
With this in mind, I come up with my title, Silencing the List – how long is a moment? I don’t really know what I mean by the second bit but I think that’s pretty standard in this world.
I get to work. I’ve got an A4-sized wallpaper sample that I sent off for when there was a six-second period of my life when I thought I had the energy and enthusiasm to redecorate my living room. I take this and clip a small reading light to it. Then I write on it: sort mortgage, register at doctor’s, council tax, gas bill, pay in cheque, sort accounts, get bed sheet.
Then I stick some things on it. An AA battery, a penny, a travel sickness band, some tinfoil and a rice cake, which I’ve glued some M&Ms and painkillers on. Then I attach it all to a free magazine to make it a bit sturdier.
I show it to Geoff. While he’s looking at it, I blow in his ear as that’s part of the whole experience. He mistakes the tinfoil for some wraps of heroin and says that it looks like what a GCSE student would do if asked to create some conceptual art. I wasn’t good enough to do GCSE art, so this is a big compliment for me.
I want some more feedback so I take it out on to the streets of London. On Oxford Street, there a man standing outside John Lewis. I ask him if I could show him some art I’ve created.
He reluctantly agrees. I pull it out of the bag. Unfortunately, several painkillers and M&Ms have fallen off the rice cake.
As he’s looking at it, I start to blow into his ear, or rather the side of his head as he’s wearing a woolly hat.
He doesn’t respond, so I blow harder. Still nothing. I ask him what he thinks of my art.
“It’s nice,” he says.
I can’t get anything else out of him.
I decide to try someone else. I need to try and fix the art first though. I don’t know if you’ve ever been down on your hands and knees supergluing painkillers and M&Ms to a rice cake on Oxford Street in the run-up to Christmas, but it’s not great. I wonder if Tracy Emin has ever found herself doing this.
Once I’m ready, I approach a middle-aged woman with a blonde bob.
“Oh, I don’t know about art,” she protests. But she takes it and starts to really stare. I begin blowing towards her ear. It’s covered by her hair but I can see her hair moving. I do about five blows in a row before she turns to me and says, “What are you doing?”
“It’s part of the art experience,” I tell her.
“But what is it?” she asks.
“It’s my art.”
“But what is it?” she asks again.
I’m not getting anywhere so I say, “How does it make you feel?”
“What is going on?” she says.
I wasn’t expecting this level of confusion. She tells me now that her daughter is much better at these things and then, right on cue, and I suspect much to her relief, she spots her.
The daughter has a better response. “Well, for me it’s about drugs. The pills and the tinfoil for crack cocaine and then there’s the energy for the battery and penny for the cost.”
“What about the travel sickness band?” I ask.
“Oh, I thought that was a doorbell,” says the mum.
I’m starting to worry that it does look a bit druggy. I rip the tinfoil off. And give up trying to glue the M&Ms and painkillers on to the rice cake. I feel like it’s missing something now so I add an audio element. I record the sound of me crying on my phone. Now it’s ready to be seen by the wider public. At a gallery.
It’s important to find the right place. I spend quite a lot of time researching all the different galleries in London and which ones would be the best suited to my style of artwork, and then I pick the one that’s closest to my work with free admission. The Tate Modern.
It takes me a while to find the best floor to display my art. It wouldn’t look right with paintings. It needs other conceptual art. On the fifth floor, there is an exhibition called Energy and Process. This could be a great fit.
I’m in a room with about five other exhibits. They are quite big ones. There’s a large bit of canvas draped round a glass. Some long twigs leaning against the wall. A black foam sculpture. Between these two last things is a gap. There’s just white walls and grey floor, crying out for something special.
I try to lean my work against the wall but it keeps slipping down. I put a plastic bag under it. Then I realise a sign would be a good idea. I rip some paper out of my notebook and write: “Silencing the List – how long is a moment? by Annabel Port.” I step back and wait for the crowds to flock.
In no time at all, a man is coming over to have a look. I press play on the sound of me crying then start blowing in his ear. He gives me a bemused look but tells me it’s “nice”. It’s clear you can get away with a lot in a modern art gallery.
Then it goes very quiet. Nobody else comes over. Perhaps as they’re put off by the ear-blowing. I’m forced to say to a girl looking at the art next to mine, “Come and have a look at this one.”
“Interesting,” she says. “It’s like from school.”
I’m worried she means primary school but she goes on with, “Yes, like emotions from school.”
This is a very deep reading into my work.
I make someone else come and have a look. This man says, “It’s very different to everything else here.” I take that as a compliment.
It’s still really quiet. Then I realise why. All the other works of art are roped off, while mine looks like someone’s just dumped some of their stuff there for a bit.
I have an idea. I take my scarf off and use it to cordon off my art.
It works a treat. It’s a real turning point. I’ll look back on that moment as when my artwork really took off.
Lots of people are coming to look now. At one point, there are six people crowding round. I don’t see this happen to any other exhibits in this room or in any other room. Maybe the other artists should consider ear-blowing and using a scarf as a cordon.
I’ve been here about twenty minutes now and nobody has tried to stop me from exhibiting my own stuff at Tate Modern.
A young woman with piercings comes to look at it twice. She really studies it. Two women have a really good look and say twice, “It’s really cool.” A man calls it “interesting”.
And then something bad happens. A man in suit comes up to me and barks, “Is this yours?”
“Yes,” I tell him. There’s a small chance he’s a billionaire businessman wanting to snap up my work for a small fortune.
He’s not.
“You can’t exhibit your work here.”
He’s not friendly.
“It’s been really popular though,” I tell him.
“Just take it away.”
“What do you think of it?” I ask.
“I’ve got no opinion, just take it away.”
I’m wondering if he’s in the right job. I’m a bit scared of him though so I don’t say this, I pack up my stuff and leave.
But for half an hour today, I really did have my conceptual art exhibited at Tate Modern.
Q&A 1
Questions you might be asking yourself
You might have some questions at this stage. Other than, Why am I reading this book? Here I will answer them. They are not real questions from real people. I just made them up. So I will basically be talking to myself, but I’ve done far weirder things, as you’ll now already know.
Was your life really that boring before you started doing all these things?
I am pretty boring. But some exciting things happened to me pre-challenges. I counted them and there are seven.
1. I once found a mushroom that looked like ET in a bowl of Thai food. It really looked remarkably like ET. Tragically, I didn’t take a photo of it. This was before camera phones, when you just had to take people’s word for it. So you’ll just have to take my word for it. I was so excited that I called the waiter over to show him. But for some reason he took it as a complaint and took the mushroom away, which was fine as I never could’ve eaten it. But I do
occasionally google “mushroom ET” to check he’s not taken it on tour and made millions out of it.
2. I was once held hostage by a pigeon in the greeting cards shop, Cards Galore.
3. When we were little, my sister and I won goldfish at a fair. (Different times.) My sister called hers Finny; mine was called Fanny, after a character in an Enid Blyton book. This wasn’t the exciting bit (although it might be for some of you). The exciting bit was that one day, Fanny the goldfish tried to commit suicide by jumping out of the bowl. Luckily, I got there in time and was able to tell her (might have been a him) that he/she had so much to live for and put him/her back in the bowl. It’s the closest I’ve ever got to being the angel in It’s a Wonderful Life.
4. I got cautioned for busking when I was twelve. My friend Sally and I were singing on Southend High Street with a hat at our feet. It was during our goth phase so one of us always had a hat. We sang “Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines”. I don’t know how two twelve-year-olds knew this song from a 1965 film. But I do know that it would’ve been nice to hear two pre-teens, dressed as goths, singing about being frightfully keen and going up tiddly up up and down tiddly down down. Maybe this is what softened the policewoman into a caution rather than an arrest.
5. When I was thirteen, I met the presenter Caron Keating at a fete, and she said she liked my cardigan.
6. On holiday in Gozo, Malta, I sat two tables away from The Apprentice’s Margaret Mountford and witnessed her ask for a doggy bag at the end of her meal.
7. When I was eleven, I had my pen-pal request printed in Smash Hits magazine’s RSVP section. If you’re under twenty-five, a pen pal was someone you may or may not have met, and who you communicated with only by letter. It’s like having a Twitter or Facebook friend but involving a lot more envelopes. Smash Hits had a section where you could ask for pen pals. I feel about 100 years old even writing these words. Anyway, I had my request printed. I can still remember it word for word. “I’m a desperate eleven-year-old seeking fans of A-ha, Five Star and Falco.” Desperate! That’s a nice, un-needy word. I received hundreds of letters, including one from someone called Trevor who drew a picture of the female genitalia. A very detailed picture. I flushed it down the toilet. I only wrote back to one of the letters. They never replied.
That’s pretty much it. You see Geoff’s point.
But you’ve worked in radio. Isn’t that exciting?
I’d describe my time working in radio as 90% crying over a blank piece of paper.
Oh. That doesn’t sound all that great. Well, at least you did these challenges. You did do all these things, right? Actually do them?
This is a question that I really have been asked. My answer is that it’s easier to do the challenges than go to the brain-taxing effort of making it up. (See the Introduction for how lazy I am.) Also, the reality is often more surprising and strange than anything my imagination could ever conjure up.
How long do you have to do them? It’s just that you don’t always seem to achieve very much, no offence.
None taken. Usually three days. But not all day for three days. So about three hours in total.
Okay, that makes sense. One thing that really concerns me is the length of time you claim to have done a paper round. Did you really do one from the age of twelve to eighteen? As that seems quite weird, no offence.
None taken. I know what you mean. Doing a paper round at twelve is actually illegal and at eighteen it probably should be illegal. I only stopped then as my mum said she’d give me the equivalent money if I gave it up. She said it was because she wanted me to concentrate on my upcoming A-level exams. But looking back, I think she was just embarrassed by me.
You’ve mentioned rice cakes twice now and other stuff that makes me worried about your diet. Do you eat properly? As it seems that you don’t, no offence.
Some taken. I did go through a phase of eating rice cakes but that was only because I was too lazy to make toast. I’m a bit less lazy now. I’ve also cut down on my Bendicks Bittermint habit.
We are twelve challenges in. What have you learned about yourself and others so far?
What do you think this is, a self-help book? I’ve got no life lessons for you. I’ve learned nothing.
Come on, there must be something.
Okay, if I must.
1. Strangers are often so incredibly polite. Like when I was trying to get someone to drop litter and they declined, saying, “It’s a good idea though.” It was terrible idea!
2. It’s easy to lie about your age because nobody will contradict you. People are terrified of getting ages wrong. Tell everyone you are eighty-two or twelve. They might look surprised but they won’t dare call you a liar.
3. 50% of security guards are lovely.
4. You can get away with a lot if you just do it. I exhibited my work in Tate Modern. It was only for about half an hour, but I did it. All artists should do the same, then they can put it on their CV. If artists have CVs. They probably don’t.
5. I have no shame.
13
The Challenge:
To write a biography of Simon Cowell
The news is full of Simon Cowell at the moment. An unauthorised biography has just been published and there’s clearly a big appetite for all the salacious details. The affair with Dannii Minogue (boring), the regular colonics, vitamin injections and Botox (dull, dull and dull) and the fact he only uses black toilet paper (best news story ever).
I didn’t even know you could get black toilet paper. It can’t be a very good visual aid when it comes to judging the efficiency of your wiping. Plus, it’s not good if you ever want to dress up as an Egyptian mummy. But, I suppose it would be handy if you ever need to make a quick gimp mask.
It’s clear to me that the biography of Simon Cowell got published on the strength of this one fact and that it’s going to be very difficult to top this revelation. Still, I won’t let it stop me from capitalising on the current fascination with this man and write my own unofficial biography. Besides, this book was out last Friday so it’s not very up to date. I can get some much more recent revelations. And, by luck, I already have a big lead.
Yesterday, Mark, a work colleague, had been passing by a theatre in Soho when he saw Simon Cowell get out of a huge Bentley and go into a doorway by the theatre, surrounded by a harem of screaming teenage girls. This last detail sounds like an exaggeration but that’s not the important bit. What was he doing there?
I make my way to this theatre and start studying the doorways. One has got a company called The Shed marked on it. Perhaps Simon Cowell is buying a shed. I could dedicate a whole chapter to this in my biography.
I press the intercom button for The Shed.
“Hi, delivery,” I say in an attempt to get buzzed in. It works.
I go up to the reception and say to the man there, “Hi, was Simon in yesterday?”
He seems to have forgotten about this delivery I’m supposed to be making and says, “Erm, why? I mean, yes, he was here.”
He’s being quite cautious. At first. Until he forgets and admits the truth. Maybe it’s a secret shed. A shed where secret, unspeakable things happen. My biography is really starting to shape up. But I need more details. I need a way in so I think on my feet and say, “It’s just that I think he left his umbrella behind here yesterday and I’ve been sent to get it.”
“Oh, okay,” he says, takes my name, then picks up the phone.
It’s now that I notice a Britain’s Got Talent form on his desk. This is not a shed company.
I hear him say, “I’ve got Annabel who works for Simon here. Did he leave an umbrella up there yesterday?”
He puts the phone down and says, “Okay, I’ll get someone to take you up to Edit Suite nine.”
This is exactly what happens. I’m being taken to an edit suite. An edit suite where they are editing Britain’s Got Talent. I can see it on the screen. Or rather, they were editing. They are now looking for an umbrella. One m
an is lifting up sofa cushions. Another asks me what it looks like. I tell him it’s red. I’m sure Simon Cowell is a red umbrella kind of guy.
I’m pretending to look for this imaginary umbrella too, but really I’m looking for something amazing for my biography.
Then one of them says, “I don’t remember him having an umbrella.”
I’m very worried about being caught in a lie and feel a bit bad that these stressed-looking men are hunting for an imaginary umbrella so I say, “Oh well, perhaps he left it somewhere else,” and I leave. But I’ve already made a great start on my first chapter and I’ve got an idea as to where I can get some more material.
I go to the newsagent over the road and say, “Hi, can I get Simon Cowell’s usual order please?”
They have no idea what I mean. Disappointingly, he doesn’t appear to have a tab at the local newsagent. Either that or they are more adept at protecting Simon’s privacy.
But I’m ready now to write my first chapter from my unauthorised biography. It’s all about Simon’s career.
Chapter 1: Career
On Monday 23 April, Simon Cowell went into Soho to do some editing on Britain’s Got Talent. It was raining but he didn’t bring an umbrella with him. He did some editing with some stressed-looking men and then went somewhere else. He didn’t buy anything from the newsagent’s, in fact he never buys anything at all from the local newsagent’s.
I’m very happy with this and confident about the next chapters as I have two more leads.
A long time ago, when the radio station had a different name, a woman came in to reception who I immediately recognised. She was a model in magazines like Just Seventeen that I read when I was young. It emerged that she was a friend of Charlotte, who worked in PR.
