Glittering

GLITTERING

Standing on the ledge looking down on Montpellier Gardens he could see
life as it slipped in and then out of frame. Life, today, consisted of
perfectly dressed urbanites on their way to important meetings or
luncheon at some smart restaurant in town. Wherever they were headed
they were all prepossessed and blissfully unaware. Unaware that above
them Ryan was choosing.
He would know when the moment was right. He had that picture, perfectly
framed in his mind and he would know. The moment, when it came, would
be seminal and all the dead sheep and unmade beds the art world could
offer would be sentenced to mediocrity by his plan. Ultimate was very
much the right word he had decided. An ultimate sacrifice for his art,
no, for all art. Nothing significant could realistically follow this.
Nothing could surpass the intensity or the impact it would generate.
'Huh&;#8230;impact,' thought Ryan and smiled to himself.
He looked at his watch, it was nearly lunchtime and soon the street
below him would be even busier than it was now. Perfect. He was
surprised by the fact that no one noticed his presence, like some
omnipotence, above on the ledge. Not one single person looked up, all
being too busy ensuring that they did not collide with another person
or worse still a car. They were soon to be made dramatically aware
though. When Ryan's body plummeted from the ledge into their
midst.
He checked the focus on the video camera again and pressed 'record'
then 'play' to make sure everything was functioning properly: after
all, their could be no re-takes. The camera was focussed on a few
square metres of pavement below, which he had painstakingly chosen for
its light colour. This would provide the perfect background contrast
for his masterpiece. This, was his canvas.
Ryan noticed that he had begun to perspire; buds of sweet had formed on
his forehead and every now and then one would trickle down his nose and
drip off and fall down to the pavement below. He fumbled in his pocket
and took out a brown medicine bottle. He emptied three or four tiny,
blue pills onto his palm and swallowed them. They stuck in his throat,
their bitter taste seeming wholly appropriate somehow.
Several pigeons had perched themselves next to Ryan on the ledge and
would, with annoying regularity, suddenly burst into the air and
flutter around him like paper bags in the wind. He could well do
without this distraction but every effort he made to 'shoo' them away
only seemed to agitate them more. He thus resigned himself to their
presence and decided to ignore them and concentrate once again on his
lonely vigil. This consisted of him tracking likely individuals as they
passed below. He was looking for someone in particular, someone who
fitted the criteria he needed to create his grisly tableau and claim
his glittering prize.

Marcia was elated; today, she decided, was to be the first day of the
rest of her life, a new life in every sense. She bounced along full of
new life and vigor a dark cloud had been lifted from her world and now
the sun was pouring in through her window again. This time last year,
she reflected, things were not so good. The mysterious lump she had
discovered in her left breast was causing her doctor some concern and
she had felt that her world was about to cave in. Cancer was not
something she had written into in her lifeplan: at thirty-five she was
a successful P.A. and she had a wonderful partner who she lived with in
a very fashionable part of town. It seemed that just when she felt that
she was winning, her prize was to be snatched away. She had sunk into a
well of depression and despair, to cap it all, Andrew, unable to cope,
had walked out after a stormy scene, never to return.
She had heard that people facing death became suddenly more aware of
life: every colour glowed, every sound reverberated with a new
resonance, and every scene played out glittered with new meaning. This
had not been so for Marcia, she became paralysed, unable to think, or
work or reason for herself. She died inside and did not expect to be
revived; she quite simply went through the motions of life, waiting for
death.
That time now felt like an age away although it had only been two weeks
since she had been given the news that her biopsy showed no signs of
malignancy. She was now playing out a scene she had never expected to
be cast in. She'd had thrown out every single item in her wardrobe as
if to rid her life of every vestige of her dead self. She had replaced
every item, treated herself to a total makeover and was now on her way
to an interview for a job in a prestigious firm of city lawyers. God,
she felt good! She threw her head back and let the sun hit her full in
the face. A drop of something cold and wet landed on her cheek and she
looked up ready to chastise the sky for rain but saw only the black
mass of Ryan's falling body filling the sky above her, then nothing. A
mass of pigeons took to flight filling the air with clamorous
wingbeats.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment we have all been waiting
for; we, the panel of judges are ready to announce the winner of this
year's Turner Prize.
With so many original entries, our task has been doubly difficult this
year but we have finally come to a unanimous decision. For a work of
audacious simplicity the prize goes to Ryan Heatherington for his work:
'Pigeon Crap On The Lens Of Life'. Ladies and gentlemen&;#8230;Ryan
Heatherington.
Ryan's hands gripped the rim of the tyre on his wheelchair and he
smiled, his teeth glittered in the spotlight as he nodded graciously to
acknowledge the rapturous applause.

Allan Price