I walked down the stairs, and there he was, the artist, let’s call him Mr P — bouncing across the stage, zipped up in a sleeping bag painted to look like poop. It was absurd, hilarious, and, somehow, completely serious.
Read More
Who in their right mind rocks up in Milan, doesn't check any kind of ticketing situation, and just bowls up at The Last Supper? I walked towards her. They say the devil wears Prada. Take it from me; she wasn't wearing Prada. My devil wore a tight nylon security uniform with red eyeshadow and a truncheon.
Read More