Today The Shit Job Machine will begin filling The Front Room in Cambridge with endless lines of Lawrence Epps’ clay commuters. From now until the 24th January, over a tonne of clay will be pumped onto the floor of the gallery.
Lawrence asked me to produce a new text to accompany the work. Still steaming from the press, Dreckapotheke, a small pamphlet of filth pharmacy will be available to read at the show. A short extract below:
on being turned out, the ulcerous body should be swabbed and scrutinised for irritants: hairs or desk crumbs; dirt, blood, filth. Some employees may try to hide their private lucre, their ulcer, their glistening cache. Look at it any way you like, they’ll say, but this h i d d e n a s s e t will, unsurprisingly, only ever be e n d e d a s s h i t. Because, and this is the argument at its most essential, people will tell you t h i s is s h i t. It is, is it? Take no notice. Sew the body back up. A pen or cotton bud can help push back into shape the fingertips, the nose, the pulse at the wrist.