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Adam Thorpe
60
Vanishing.
Get it printed on Polabox
for the Polaroid look.
Square. One massive one,
then ninety-nine times
more.
Or reduce the number.
About ten would do.
Don’t crowd it. The
spaces as important as
the fi l led-up bits.
It would be immense.
She’s excited, now. It’s
all bubbling and rushing.
She hardly knows herself,
looking into the darkness
and at her artsy face
superimposed on top. So
cool. So beautiful. Even
though she is an actual
potato. The new Suze.
Ideas wild as white water,
icy and burning, rushing
through. Hard to breathe,
almost. Bubbling up in her
brain. A muddiness on her
tongue.
Vanishing
.
Where does it all come
from?
‘I feel like fajitas tonight,’
comes a voice belonging to
throwback Thursday. His
eyes are closed, so maybe
he’s talking in his sleep.
‘Chicken with guacamole,
yeah? I announce an
official ban on pot noodle.’
It’s like old people:
they’re fine until they’re
driving. Jasper’s fine until
he opens his blowhole.
She’s coasting around her
Berlin show, visually, like a
camera on wheels, seeing
the whole thing for real, as
if it’s all done down to the
final adjustments. Maybe
everything’s
running
backwards and it’s already
in the past, because there’s
a certainty about it.
It was a great show. The
opening
was
packed.
Ecstatic reviews in several
languages. Suzie Fowler.