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Luke Whittingham is an artist. He was born in 1967. He was prominent in the 90s on the London Art scene. His most famous work to date is “Committed to Death” (2004), an installation which can be seen in The Royal Academy, London. He currently lives in SoHo with his two cats. Lucy and Mary.
The shop window is full of televisions sets. Each one shows a different weather program. The mouths of the weather girls move in silence behind the pane. Tourists hide from the rain underneath the overhang of delis, coffee stands and theatre booths. Some art students sit in Burger King with cups of coffee. Their eyes dart from one visual flash to the next. Long hair – shopping bag – 99p – plastic chair – receipt – cigarette butt – yellow – purse – mobile phone – blue – umbrella – red – watch – shoes. Outside The Queen’s Head, Maudlin Jugglers and mime artists continue their routines in the fine drizzle. Above the office buildings clouds wait. If you could read lips you would know that The Weather girl is saying, “Rain, with sun, later. Sunny patches. Winds up to 70mph.”
“Wake up, you’re going to be late.”
“Me alone,” Whittingham rolls over.
Mary sweeps apart the curtains of the hotel room.
“It’s 6:30 in the evening. Get up,” says Mary.
“Ok, ok,” he drags the sheets over his head, and burrows under the pillow.
“You’ve got to be there in an hour. Get up,” she repeats.
“Christ.” Luke Whittingham is sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching for the bottle of vodka.
“Do you really need to do that?” says Mary.
“Yes, actually I do,” says Whittingham.
“Have a shower,” says Mary. Whittingham hired Mary as his token blond PR girl, not as his personal ball breaker. In this world she was his slave.
“Ok, Luke, the Limos here and Lucy is here to help you with you’re stuff. You need to be there by 8:30 to talk to the press. I need to get to the gallery. Call me if there are any problems,” says Mary after applying black lipstick.
Luke Whittingham, famous artist and alcoholic, rises from his chair and greets Lucy Mack, his personal assistant with an affable “Good morning, Luce.”
“Mr. Whittingham, we really need to go. There’s Champagne in the Limo and those other things you asked for,” says Lucy avoiding his gaze.
“Merci bout coup, Lucy Luce,” he says bringing to life a Cools Menthol, “These private views are a real bore, Luce. Can’t we just nip off to pub for a few G&Ts. They won’t even notice,” says Whittingham. She smiles and looks down.
Whittingham hoovers up a line of cocaine off the top of the glass coffee table.
“You know what happened last time, Luke,” warns Lucy.
“Oh, god,” says Whittingham.
Whittingham does remember the last time, it was the first time. They often found them selves the last ones in the office on Thursday nights. Lucy had kept up her professional guard and resisted his come-ons, but eventually he wore her down. Until she couldn’t resist, until her business suit shirt was hitched up above her hips and her panties were dangling from her stilettos. Whittingham remembers how her nipple ring scratched his chest and how her calf’s gripped his ass, pulling him in. He remembers her asking him to hurt her as he twisted he nipple. It was all over very quickly and he was out the door with an “I’ll make you famous.” It was his new, very annoying, catch phrase. Lucy wondered how many other women had been treated this way. They had never mentioned it again.
There are three sections in a standard limousine. The front section is where the driver sits behind the dark glass. The middle section has pull down seats on the driver’s side, three seats facing forward and a mini bar on the side opposite the sliding door. The back section is under the tinted back shield. Lucy sits in the middle section of the white limousine, ordered from PrimeLimo.com, with the mini-bar. She passes glasses of champagne back to Luke Whittingham, famous artist and millionaire, who is flanked by two female escorts from Elite Modeling London. One of them is stroking his hair while the other one is administering him a blow job.
“Fantastic!” Whittingham downs the first glass of Champagne as they turn out of the hotel’s underground car park.
“This was a great touch Luce. Now I know why I pay you so much,” he groans.
“Thank you, Mr Whittingham,” she’s gazing out the window at a homeless person huddled under a bus shelter, out of the rain. Would she always be his slave?
“Good evening, Whittingham, you old devil.” It’s Luke’s drinking buddy and “lad about town”, Daniel Hurst. His beer belly is sticking out from behind his Heineken t-shirt, but his Versace suit covers this quite well. He holds his cigarette between his teeth “Cheers mate. Great stuff again, I don’t know how you do it. You’re a fuckin’ genius mate, a fuckin’ genius. Cheers.” They clink champagne flutes.
“For fucks sake, Daniel. You could have at least stayed just below annihilated until this shit was over.” Whittingham is wearing a black Gucci suit and a black silk shirt from bursa escort Dior and pair of classic ray bans he saw Jack Nicholson wearing at the Oscars. Jack is a close personal friend.
“Don’t worry mate, here have another glass of Champagne and this,” says Daniel as he slips Whittingham the small package the size of a stamp.
“You are incorrigible, Daniel,” Whittingham says, heading for toilets.
“Here’s the exhibition program, Mr Whittingham,” says Lucy, handing him the neon pink pamphlet.
“Thanks Luce. God, what did I agree to this time? This is tasteless. Who OK’d this?” asks Whittingham.
“You did, Luke,” says Lucy. How long does this exhibition last?
The program outlines Whittingham’s new retrospective at the Derpertine Gallery in London’s Rabbit End.
NeoSpective by Luke Whittingham (21-10-2004)
This exhibition by controversial artist Luke Whittingham is an installation piece which plays upon the “Retrospective” phase of an artist’s career. Usually this era of an artist’s career is the final acceptance of the artist by the establishment into its elite club of internationally revered artists and results in the sale of many of the artist’s works to fashionable art galleries around the globe. It is seen as the peak of a respected artist’s career, a time for collectors and galleries to pay homage to a well established artist. The exhibition puts forward the idea that an artist who is at odds with this conveyer belt approach to art production should never have such an exhibition. Artist should always be pushing their boundaries and ways of representing ideas further. Hence the playful title of the exhibition. In some ways, paradoxically, the works on display for this exhibition are re-workings or thematically similar to the type of work the artist has always made. The conceptual framework of these works has become more complex while the individual works themselves have become more focused. The artist has always balanced the knowingness of conceptual art with the art styles of the naïve and childlike.
– Charlotte Hampling, Curator of NeoSpective (2004)
1.”Serial Dudds” (2004) – Empty breakfast cereal boxes are set up to mimic the work of minimalist Donald Judd.
2.”Up and Coming” (2004) – Knowing Knows Dive 2 – Crashed airmail envelope paper planes recover and fly skyward. Sold.
3.”Persistence of Genius” (2004) – Children’s colored card used to make poster of sun, land and sky with the slogan arched around top of the sun.
4.”Silver Dreams” (2004) – Box covered in household formica. There is a window of silver foil like a cinema screen. The words on the screen read “Making It Is Easy”.
“Mr Whittingham, Are you ready for the press?” asks Lucy.
“If I must,” says Whittingham.
The Prieze Magazine journalist says, “Some critics say you are not a serious artist anymore. That you are taking the, pardon the phrase, taking the piss. How would you respond to this type of criticism?”
“I’m just not an existential artist. I’m not a demi-god passing on divine messages from some spiritual guru in heaven or hell. I’m just a guy who creates stuff out of the ideas that are around me. And when I went to the Judd exhibit I was left cold by his humourless po-faced work. So, I parodied it. It’s homage in a way, but, God, he needs to lighten up, live a little. I mean he lives locked away from people on this sort monastic ranch, where’s the fun in that?” says Whittingham.
“Luke, do you think this is your defining statement? There are rumours that you might give up producing art. That you’ve run out of ideas. You gonna do a Duchamp?” asks the hip journalist at the front.
“Well, that has crossed my mind, the frisson has gone, but as you know the money’s too good and I wouldn’t be able to meet up with you guys for our intellectual sparing, which I adore,” says Luke Whittingham. He sips his Champagne nonchalantly.
“Mr. Whittingham: what about the rumours that you’re dating Lady Penelope. Is it true?” calls a journalist from the back of the pack.
“That unfortunately is completely untrue. You rascals in the press.” He wags a nicotine finger drunkenly.
“So who are you dating?” asks another journalist.
“I have no significant others, at this moment,” says Whittingham.
A flash goes off.
Lucy steps in front of Luke Whittingham, contemporary art golden boy. Protect the master.
“No pictures, please. That’s all Mr. Whittingham has time for tonight. Enjoy the fresh salmon and may I remind you that the bar is free until 11. Enjoy,” says Lucy.
Back at the hotel, Whittingham opens a bottle of red wine. Soft classical music plays in the background and cold night air is coming in through the open window, a candle burns on the TV. There are scarves draped over all the lamps in the room. Whittingham is always very disappointed by the lighting in most of the hotels around Europe.
“Wine ladies?” asks Whittingham.
“Ok, I’ll try some, gets me in the mood.” Emma, a blonde with big tits, escort bursa is on her first job working for Elite Modeling London. She is still on the bed with a black dress on. Smoking.
“Of course, my dear,” says Whittingham.
“You’re a bit posh, aren’t you Luke.” Tiffany, a brunette with a big ass, has been on the scene for a while.
“That I am. I am also a very famous artist,” says Whittingham.
“Give us a glass then.” Tiffany takes off her panties to reveal her shaved pussy. She swallows half a glass of wine.
Tiffany sits down next to Whittingham. She leans across him and they start kissing.
“Oohh an expert,” she says as he flicks off her bra. She crawls on to the king size bed. Whittingham gets behind her and starts thrusting away. His skinny white body is in deep contrast to his slick greasy black hair. Tiffany says, “Easy tiger.” when he becomes too enthusiastic.
Shyly, Emma kneels beside Whittingham.
“Get them out then,” says Whittingham.
Emma gingerly rolls down her black nylon strapless dress.
“Here, put this on your tits.” Whittingham hands her a small bag of cocaine. He is still banging away at Tiffany, casually drinking his wine. Tiffany keeps on moaning falsely, as he sniffs the cocaine off Emma’s tits. Tiffany liked to make eye contact with her client when they were behind her. She, also, liked to open her mouth like she had seen other girls do in the videos. She had noticed that her rating had gone up on the website since she started using these two techniques.
“All I ever wanted to do was snort cocaine off beautiful models!” says Whittingham with one arm over his head, rodeo cowboy style.
The two girls leave a passed out Whittingham at 4am.
Tiffany says, “That guy is real posho twat, he should try getting a real job.”
“Yeah, but he paid us twice as much as normal. Wait until I tell Peter,” says Emma.
“Love, maybe you shouldn’t tell Peter,” says Tiffany.
“Oh yeah,” says Emma.
Lucy looks down at the front page of The Star.
The headline reads:
Luke Whittingham in Suicide Shenanigans.
The story goes on:
Controversial artist, Luke Whittingham, was early this morning found dead in his hotel room of a supposed drug overdose wearing only a pink leather mini skirt. Police on the scene disclosed that Whittingham was badly beaten but had ruled out foul play. Whittingham was 43. No significant others survive him but the London art world has mourned the passing of a talented artist.
Personal friend Daniel Hurst said “He was a great lad to go on the piss with. I’m devastated he stole my idea. You know, the ironic cocaine-hooker-suicide scene. He’ll go down in history as mega.” It is rumored that Daniel Hurst has been checked into rehab by concerned friends. As the scandal breaks, the two Elite Modeling London escorts who are rumored to have seen him alive last gave their comments to the Star last night “He was a shit shag but was generous in some ways.” said Tiffany, 21, of Sussex. While Emma, 19, from Middlesex said tellingly, “It was my first time with Elite. He seemed like a good bloke.” Lucy Mack, Whittingham’s Personal Assistant for over 10 years, had no comment as The Star went to press.
Luke Whittingham is reclining on a sun lounger by the hotel swimming pool. It’s another humid day in Bangkok. Across the pool, two girls are also sunbathing, wearing matching white bikinis, they haven’t moved one millimeter since they lay down at 11 this morning. They look eastern European from this distance. Whittingham motions to the bar staff. As the barman makes his way across, through the palm trees, Whittingham looks at the newspaper. Headline Reads: Luke Whittingham Funeral Today. There is no reaction on his face, then a slight smile.
“What would you like, sir?” says the barman.
“It’s John. Er, I’d like another Tequila Sunrise.” He lifts up his mirrored shades.
“Thank you, sir.” Off he goes.
“Make that two,” Whittingham says when the barman returns with the first. Off he goes.
It’s a month since Whittingham’s death and the newspapers have had a fantastic time with his obituary. There have been full page spreads in the broadsheets and more banal headlines in the tabloids. Tiffany and Emma are releasing a hotly anticipated yoga video next month. Some rather embarrassing nude pictures have been circulating around on the internet and even a fake sex tape of him and Ashlee Simpson, the sister of that Britney clone, Jessica Simpson. There has been talk of a show at Milan’s Space Gallery. Neospective was hailed as the best contemporary art show of 2004 and Cecil Seer, art collector and curator, bought “Set of Draws (Formica Box)” for a record undisclosed sum. Madonna has already bought “Up and Coming” from the Neopspective show. Whittingham knew his death would be good for business, but this is ridiculous. He sucks long and hard on the straw and the Tequila Sunrise rises fluently into to his mouth and down his throat.
It seems that he might have got away bursa escort bayan with the ultimate con. He has cheated death and the media. He has finally pulled off his finest piece of work. “Committed to Death” is his most exuberant work yet. All the plans for faking his death and the intricacies of getting a new identity have all been chronicled in the book. Only one copy exists. How he dyed his hair and grew a beard and put on weight are only the surface details which pale into the background when the book turns to who is involved in this conspiracy. He is really only a pawn in a much wider propaganda. It would make him paranoid if he didn’t know that even the rich and powerful are pathetic. He hasn’t decided whether to put the book out for public display in the gallery, or to have it incased in glass, so no one can read it, therefore building the myth, always build the myth. As the sun goes behind the hotel, Whittingham floats around ideas in his head, as the tequila flows around his body, even his toes are numb.
Whittingham opens the door to his hotel room with the card. There is steam coming from the shower room. Whittingham turns on the TV, mutes the sound, and opens the complimentary drinks fridge. He pulls out an ice cold bottle of Corona and starts chugging from it as he walks into the bedroom.
“Are you drunk again?” Mary is wearing a white towel. Her hair is still wet from the shower.
“Remember you’re only my PR girl,” says Whittingham.
“Oh, Luke, for such a dim witted idiot, you sure have a big dick.” She walks over to him and they kiss.
“Darling, my manhood directly corresponds to the size of your arse,” says Whittingham.
“You are a bastard.” Her Irish accent has been replaced with some sort of posh London twang. Behind closed doors Mary treats Whittingham with the respect he deserves. The World sees a potential she sees a pathetic slave.
“Language dear, you are in the presence of genius,” says Whittingham. To her he is only skin and body parts. Parallel to the world we know there are other identities, other lives.
“Ho,ho, you’re a real bastard, Luke,” says Mary. To the public Luke is God. Mary knows that in a broader context, Luke is only an artist. He is only a powerless image to condense and sell. He wants to be a slave.
“So they say,” he finishes off the bottle of Corona. Could Corona do an advert for Luke Whittingham?
“Mick says that they are all set, a couple of months, maybe a year. They want to maximize your return. So that means me and you can get down to some serious fucking,” says Mary dropping the towel.
“Not so fast my dear, I have to consider my options and besides your tits are sun burnt,” smirks Whittingham.
“What do you mean? Consider your options. You’re going back to be Luke Whittingham, contemporary art genius or you’ll end up in a fucking body bag,” says Mary.
“Darling, the situation needs a rethink. The public is going to rip me to shreds, it’s a shot at everything that is holy. Death, the whole shebang. It’s never been done before,” says Whittingham.
“Well, you’ll have to take your chances, come on and fuck me you bastard.” Mary has positioned herself on the bed with her arse in the air.
“Jesus Christ,” says Whittingham. He avoids the challenge by leaving the room.
“Look at you, your gut’s hanging over your belt like a trucker and your beard, your beard is disgusting, Luke. What the fuck are you wearing, is that a football shirt? And those swimming trunks, Jesus mother of Mary. Stop drinking. Do you ever stop drinking?” says Mary.
“Not if I can help it.” Whittingham lurches over and kisses the Thai bikini girl behind the ear.
“They love us for our freedom, darling,” says Whittingham.
“It’s been two years, slave. We have to go now. They said in two weeks. You look like shit. Oh, for fucks sake, Luke.” Whittingham slithers over and kisses the other girl on the lips this time. This girl looks like a Russian call girl. After thirty seconds of tongue kissing, he rights himself and leans forward and does the cocaine off the chair he has positioned in front of him.
“Darling, I like it here. I’m taken by the way the sun shimmers on the pool’s delicate shimmering surface and way the Thai girls lick my cock,” says Whittingham.
“Luke, it’s over. Tomorrow you’re going to gym or I’m personally going to put a bullet in your head. I swear to Jesus,” says Mary.
The first few days in the gym are hard work but after he cuts down on the beer he is looking almost the same as before, if a little tired around the eyes. His mind, however, is now sluggish and his witty banter has spiraled down into ugliness. By day, Mary is working him hard with a regime of swimming in the morning, gym and then a sauna. By night, Mary is also working him very hard between the sheets. Whittingham barely has time to eat after the sauna before her mammoth breasts are bouncing up and down in his face and her big ass is grinding away on his now red raw dick. After a week he’s looking much trimmer, much emptier. The cocaine helps as well.
Mary has found the suit he was wearing the night of his death and bought a shirt which fits the description Whittingham slurred to her over dinner last night. Squid salad. Try saying that after nine Tequila Sunrises.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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