Fran Hayes

fran hayes

SAUSAGE PORRIDGE cooking is the self in an extended form. cooking is nourishing and nourishing is art and art is the self is art. the self-contained cubes on my scrolling screen are bursting. they are bursting to escape from their hyper-tight world as they are bursting my brain. cells popping ten by ten as a mixture of fine art gallery images, home work out videos and cat memes flood my eyes until onion juice spills out and runs down my face before finally falling into the veggie spag bol i am distractedly cooking. at least ill save some money in lidl. my thoughts splodge out of my nose like over cooked porridge sausages. i don’t know how to write, i just throw words at paper like they’re balloons filled with shit and hope that sentences form, you should try it it's great fun, but don’t ruin your granny’s favourite rug, and don’t get your hopes up. my practice, if you’re interested, and i hope you are, is a mixture, a hybrid, an alloy. it tumbles together into some tentacled creature rising up from the deep to surface behind your screen. an embodiment and un-bodiedment a body of none. the hair band i’ve been using for two years snaps while i’m trying to stop my hair dangling in the tomato sauce. it reminds me of the teenagers who suck their hair until they don’t want to eat for the massive hairballs accumulating in their stomachs i like to talk about myself but i don’t want people to know so i try not to talk about myself too much but i think i fail. i think about the planet and humans and our destructive tendencies but also how much i love technology and how insanely amazing and beautiful it is and i am all mixed up inside. jumbled up like a 1000 piece jigsaw thats missing at least 2 pieces and no one realises until its too late and how excruciatingly painful that can be. thats how i feel about the art world. i cut a dreadlock off a stray cat last week. don’t let a capitalist make you dinner. they’ll use the wrong saucepan and it’ll end in a sticky mess. and goodness knows they wont clean it up. i get drunk and dance a lot. sometimes i put all my art ingredients into a bag and shake them up and empty them onto the floor with some of my friend’s art ingredients and we’ll make art soup. sometimes is chunky, sometimes its smooth, but it’s always deliscious. i still don’t know how to spell deliscious. collaboration is not to be disregarded. it is the key, the key to the kingdom that is the future and the future is running at us at the speed of life and it is scary. grab the key and share it, share it with your mum, share it with your cat, share it with your dinner and share it with a stranger. sometimes i make art and sometimes i make shit but on the venn-diagram of life they often overlap. i want to use big words so i can seem clever and cool but they always slip my mind like slimy slugs sludging through my cerebral circuit so i remind myself how supercilious those people sound anyway. i want to save the world but don’t have the balls. we are killing this world and half my friends don’t even know that clingfilm can’t be recycled. how can our incredible technologies help the planet? the fragile ecosystems we tip into catastrophe without a second glance. the indigenous cultures we ravage without a thought. yet who am i to say anything, I’m not even a superhero. and i indulge in consumerism on the daily. sweat the onions until their soft stench stings your eye sockets. i need to chill, spend sundays in bed naked with a lover, whether that be a human, a device or a potato. don’t forget your root veg, they’re always there for you when you need them. chop em, mash em, bake em, always a winner. fungi are our friends. they hold the world together. their entangled roots weave together webs as complicated as human thoughts and coral reefs that surround the entirety of the earth’s crust. it keeps the demons in, or out. digital spaces explode my mind like whiskey explodes a liver. a 3D model is a scrumptious meal that requires very few ingredients. simply pop your ideas into some form of sealable bag and bash them -hard- with a rolling pin until they resemble crumbs. then take the brain juice that oozes from your ears and mix into the crumbs to form a gloopy, viscous paste. inject the paste through your left nostril, and watch as the magic unfolds. our clunky bodies cannot yet fit into these imagined spaces, though our time will come. a time will come when the digital wave exceeds the height of the tallest human and it’s pixled flesh will reach out and embrace us. embrace the silly, talk to objects. whats an object if not a friend eyy? IT’S ALL ABOUT THE PROCESS BABY. let the good times roll and stay up all night. are you a square or a circle? or some other form of poly-lishous shape that slides through space and time? eat the art, fart the art. then poop the art. stick a straw through your belly button so that you can suck out your stomach. reduce, ree-use, ree-cycle. the veggie mince plops in and squelches among the onions, like a brain expanding to fit all corners of your skull. let your brain act as mince and squelch among the onions. the pungent garlic stench stuffs itself into your nose, suffocating you from all sides. you wade through the onion tears, suckers sticking to your slippery shoe soles as you attempt to scale the smooth saucepan. how do you like your eggs best? fried, mashed, scrambled? you can’t mash an egg… except you can. eggy in a cup. my rooster laid an egg and i was confused, but i went with it. it was the tastiest egg of them all. write a story with your mum. combine your heads into one big head cave and fill it with the bones of the knowledge you have devoured. maybe one day a cyborg will uncover the bones and think, wow what beautiful bones. and then liquify them into knowledge tea. and so it continues. closed loop feedback. yum. yum. yum. eat your greens but not so many you become green. make sculptures if you want. make paintings if you want. make bad art and show it off to the world. rummage in your desk drawer and find the most silly of objects. stick them together with double-sided sticky tape and put it on instagram. promote yourself. promote others. i like funny foods like blamange. i am not a writer but sometimes i pretend i am. my mum always says my writing does not make sense but i think i am getting better at that. birth your 3D models into the virtual realm as a chicken would lay an egg. crack the egg open to complete the birth and try to pretend that it has fixed your broken heart. boil water for the spaghetti and salt it well. the sodium crystals will congeal the wounds of this world. listen to the moon for she has the knowledge of the cosmos. snap open an aloe leaf and rub the slimy gel on your achy legs. drop the broken leaf into your boiling spaghetti water to complete the witch’s broth. doesn’t it look good? before you stand up to eat whisper something to someone, and then shout it so loud it cracks your skull. pour the broth through the crack to nourish your brain. dinner is served.