ArtsLab Shopfront's artists in residence


THUMP-THUMP. THUMP-THUMP. THUMP-THUMP. The impending arrival of Mr Pigott puts butterflies that are caught in knots that are surrounded by squirming worms in my stomach and sets my heart at a rate of about 200bpm. In my head, I know that logically that he is only here to help, not to judge (well, not to judge in a crippling manner) and that it is a good thing that he will be walking through the door in about twenty minutes. Try telling my body that. My body has it’s figurative fingers in its figurative ears, yelling ‘I’m not listening!’ over and over again until it figuratively bursts into tears crying ‘I’m not prepared!!!’ Figuratively speaking.

And here he is. THUMP-THUMP. Walking up the path. THUMP-THUMP. Opening the front door. THUMP-THUMP. And then he walks into the ArtsLab room, pauses, smiles, says ‘Hey boys’ in his phoney Canadian accent and suddenly I know: Everything is going to be ok.

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