I BEG YOUR PARDON
As the immortal Greek God, Dionysus, who has lived right through human history, there have been plenty of times where I have been short of cash, bored and / or in need of excitement.
To raise money for my continued travels during the Middle Ages as Dionysus undercover, spreading joy and ritual madness to royals and villeins alike, I had to think on my feet.
One of the available ruses of the time was to become a Pardoner.
A Pardoner was a medieval representative of the Church, delegated to raise money by soliciting offerings and granting indulgences, or pre-written pardons for particular sins, to people who wanted to repent for the sin they had committed. Realistically they didn’t want the evil (or just slightly moronic) actions that they had performed on Earth to affect their chances of cruising through the pearly gates and sitting pretty in Heaven when the time came.
Along with receiving the pre-written indulgence, the penitent would make a donation to the Church by giving money to the Pardoner. Many Pardoners were honest men, beholden to Christ who would see the money go to its rightful place, the Church, even if the Church themselves then spent it in a questionable manner.
Some Pardoners, like me, were decidedly less honest and pocketed the money meant for the Church which was then, in my case, used to continue my travels and further a lifestyle that was debauched beyond my means.
Before the Information Age, it was easier to con people and swan into villages and larger settlements pretending to be a man of God. Confidence was the key…that and looking fucking fantastic. Many dodgy Pardoners looked pretty shitty and as time went on and the con became more widely known with dodgy Pardoners even being written about in seminal works of the time, people became more and more difficult to hoodwink.
But you know what? I was the full package. I had stolen various articles of clothing from actual religious pros who would often travel alone and were easy pickings. I purchased false documentation to support my claims, amassed a load of fake ‘relics’ to flog and developed a kind of faux-Latin, ‘speaking in tongues’ act in my work, which had people lapping up my every word and begging me to absolve their sins and put them at the top of Saint Peter’s heavenly guest list once again.
My clients were glorious: some were horrific, some tragic but all had secrets and a palpable anxiety that I took advantage of. For many, the sins that needed absolving were petty in nature and the sinners would receive my love and support, often after they’d furnished me with a beverage or ten…and only after I had received my fee of course.
Some of them had done terrible things and would have their comeuppance, I would make sure of that. They may have paid for God’s forgiveness, but they came up short of receiving mine. As a god in my own right, I would often metre out a divine justice of my own carefully measured against the sins committed.
In this new series of work, I will enshrine the people who I encountered and the sins they were so desperate to have absolved. The collection is inspired by fake relics created by chancers throughout world history and medieval wall hangings, used not only to zhuzh up the place but also to regulate the room’s temperature and keep out the cold.
Through textile art, paintings and sculpture I will cast a contemporary eye on old sins and, by extension, the lives of people I encountered during my time in the Middle Ages.
This collection is effectively brought to you by the symptoms of bipolar disorder and will also provide clarity on how bipolar disorder can affect the mind and how it can be used artistically in a much more positive manner, since getting a bit of bad rep throughout history and in contemporary society.
Enjoy x
Stairway To Heaven. Sculpture. 2023.
Wooden Canvas Supports, Textiles, Nails, Spikes, Bitumen, Air Freshners, Stickers, Sand, Broken Glass, iPhone, Expanding Foam, Keys, Zip Ties.
As a fake pardoner in the medieval period, recognising (and exploiting) the fact that peoples’ primary goal was to get to heaven was of the utmost importance. Bacchanalia doesn’t fund itself and fleecing these people to support my hedonistic way of life became my primary source of income and also became a kind of twisted hobby.
The ‘sins of man’ were many and varied and although humanity will always be naughty, many people were terrified that their violent, lustful or just plain vindictive drives would cost them a place behind those pearly gates.
This piece represents the thought process of these people desperate to climb the ‘Stairway to Heaven’ but tortured by the knowledge that their actions on earth might have booked them a place in Hell.
The stairway is littered with obstacles and reminders including broken glass, spikes, ‘anti-climb paint’, broken rungs, representations of pagan rituals of times past (and still occasionally used by people who wanted a ‘back up’ to their prayers), and messages to lull the climber into a false sense of security.
At the top there is the option for some to go back down to earth and try again using an ‘escape rope’ and an optional (and well-used) Rapid Apology Phone to make things right on earth before their return. Obviously should they return to earth and try again, I’d charge them for their penance and pardon a second time and send them on their merry way.
Relic: The Burst Prayer Hassock of Saint Dwynwen. The Patron Saint Of Lovers. Textile Sculpture. 2023.
Canvas, Digital Print, Hay, Pearl Edging, Expanding Foam, Varnish.
There are a few stories centred around the phenomenal Saint Dwynwen.
All bollocks. Completely made up.
She was actually an intelligent, feisty, beautiful and hilariously funny lady who lived every day to its zenith in the 5th Century.
Dwynwen is the Patron Saint of Lovers and firmly believed that physical intimacy of all kinds between consenting adults made us closer to God. This is her prayer hassock that she liked to have sex on, thus cushioning her from the rough floors of the time. It has sadly burst through vigorous shagging but I’ve preserved this for accuracy. Pictured is a door at the Cross Keys Pub in Dolgellau, Wales, which is the site of an early ale house where Dwynwen would drink with friends and lovers.
She thought that physical love would get us close to heaven but being surrounded by loved ones and fine ale IS heaven on earth. Her ‘Pearly Gates’ were the ale house door and whilst she certainly had heaven on her mind, she knew the importance of celebrating life first. Incredible person. I miss her and think about her a lot.
Relic: The Veil of Veronica (Presented With Her Laundry Basket). Textile Sculpture. 2023.
Textiles, Sports Accessories, Expanding Foam, Acrylic Paint.
The Veil of Veronica is a cloth that bears the face of Jesus after Saint Veronica bumped into a battered and beaten Jesus and wiped the sweat and blood from his face with her veil. I ‘liberated’ it before she could have it washed. Pictured is Vera’s laundry basket and the veil with Jesus’s face clearly visible on it.
Thor’s Hammer. (Gap Year Edition). Sculpture / Wearable Jewellery. 2023.
Mallet found on studio floor, ‘Builders Finish’ residue, Leather, Hair ties.
I met some lads in Greece who were on a gap year and covered in the usual jewels and bracelets that are available to travellers all over the world. I saw my ol’ mate Thor’s hammer on of of them and it triggered an episode of psychosis about an event that took place in the 12th century (approx) on a reasonably large settlement in Bristol.
The beating and subsequent accidental murder of Ric by local lads.
Ric was a well-to-do son of a reasonably wealthy merchant who would swan around local villages harassing the local girls and giving shit to the lads. When challenged, he would hide behind the wealth and power of his father, inevitably getting off scot free with any accusations of misconduct dropped by the terrified accuser.
After four local girls were attacked in one evening and ‘souvenirs’ or ‘trophies’ of each attack were found on Ric’s person, a group of local lads working in conjunction with the landlady of the local ale house The Egg and Feather, hatched a plan to catch Ric alone and give him a hiding.
Ric didn’t help himself when cornered and goaded the local men resulting in a savage beating that eventually led to Ric’s death due to an infection of a broken eye socket. Laters Ric. Prick.
Relic: The Holy Grail (Alehouse Edition). Sculpture. 2023.
Canvas, Recycled Textiles, Mesh, Paint, Lacquer, ‘Builders Finish’. 2023.
Limited edition (of one) OOPSY JONES x Balenciaga (100% snide) collab between two absolute giants of the game. Only one Holy Grail exists, so get it whilst it’s hot.
It’s here, people! Treat yourself to The Holy Grail (Alehouse Edition) that Jesus and the lads skulled the gallons of ale from during the Last Supper (he’d had enough of wine and was craving a few bevvies). When you can turn water into infinite amounts of wine, a cheeky beer must have been a Godsend (sorry!).
Own the very vessel that the Disciples used to REALLY get the party started. Whilst less famous than The Holy Grail (Wine Edition), it’s still a huge part of history and can be yours for a steal!
Please note: This drinking vessel cannot be used in any way as a drinking vessel. Many thanks.
Cheer Up, Love. Might Never Happen! Sculpture. 2023.
Canvas Stretcher Bars, Keys, Chains, Rope, Cable Ties, Ceramics, Bitumen, Acrylic Spray Paint.
The Mu Ren Zhuang or martial arts wooden dummy that the Maenads practiced on to keep their self-defence skills sharp. Pictured with updated Nunchuks with embedded keys, to replicate how women defend themselves against predators by grabbing keys in a fist.
Wooden Canvas Supports, Reclaimed Wood, Nails, Keys, Bitumen Paint, Chain, Zipties, Rope, Acrylic Paint, Clear Lacquer.
(Ceremonial Edition. Not to be used in anger, keys have been blunted and coated).
Decried by many as being mad, bad and dangerous to know (some truth in that last bit tbf), and feared by many as witches, the Maenads were (and still are) my closest friends, drinking buddies and travel companions and have been for thousands of years.
We toured the world spreading unbridled ecstasy through wine, intoxication, dance, orgies, massage and (less famously) just having lovely chats with people we’d meet along the way.
The Maenads weren’t my followers, my servants of even my nurses as has been purported but they were simply my friends. We were brought together by a shared love of the ecstatic; allowing people to transcend their worries, their position in societal hierarchies and their fears and just have a fucking good time. Even for one night only.
The Dockland’s Valkyrie. (It Takes A Village). Installation. 2023.
Wipe-clean Duvet and Hay-Filled Pillow Set on Wooden Canvas Supports, Hay, Snare Drum, Vibrator, Rope, Textiles, Expanding Foam, Acrylic Paint.
Agnes was the wife of a local landowner in the North East of England. She had an absolutely insatiable appetite for sex and general naughtiness that would force itself through the frigidity of medieval society. She was very tall for the time with thick, wavy blonde hair and a body that showed an amount of muscle and tone that was rare for a noble lady. She had an absolute shocker of a laugh that we all loved that seemed to tear through the air like an electrical storm. The sort of laugh that alarms flocks of birds and makes small children cry. She was glorious.
She was one of the most erotically charged people I have ever met and purposely wore her smock-like dress loose so that her enormous breasts would jiggle as she’d cock one leg and giggle like a laying hen, surrounded by her adoring maids.
Her husband would arrange for groups of men to be carted in from surrounding villages (an attempt to reduce local gossip) to satisfy Aggy in bed as he would drink wine and watch on, occasionally loudly discussing new developments in ploughing to see if he could put the lads off their stride.
Any attempt to keep the group fornication quiet was in vain however as Aggy would orgasm like a car bomb and the air would be filled with shrieks and giggles as she, her maids, the imported men and her watching husband continued their revelry through the night.
More Than The Sum of my Parts (Or Denis’s ‘Daft Excluder’). Textile Sculpture. 2024.
My great-grandfather’s shirts, machine embroidered canvas, rope, chain, expanding foam, acrylic paint, padlocks, lacquer.
One of the topics that comes up frequently in my psychotic episodes is gender. Human society (with a focus here on British society in particular) has largely, to its incalculable detriment, chosen to write off women and enable men to lead.
Imagine how much further on we would be as a society if we hadn't written off a gender and instead given societal leadership roles to people of any gender who deserved it? If we hadn’t shut out and consigned all those incredible female minds to back rooms, we’d be sooo much more advanced as a culture and society. Utterly moronic.
One of the sickening effects of this is that women had to rely on men financially in many cases and if they didn’t have a male breadwinner they would very often be forced to beg, or at worse, starve to death as many jobs weren’t available to women.
Occasionally, to get around this, women would enter the workforce dressed as men to earn a crust for their family. It was a tricky way to live; working very long hours side by side with your colleagues and very often these women would be discovered and left unemployed and destitute.
Sometimes women would present as men for reasons of necessity as detailed above but occasionally presenting as male would be their preference. This piece is dedicated to Denis. Denis was born either Mabel or Mirabelle (something ‘bel’) in the early 1400s.
Denis’s mother passed away giving birth to him and he was often blamed for his mother’s demise by the rest of the family. When left in the care of his father and three brothers, he woke up one day to find that they had fled debtors in the night and he found himself alone and forced to fend for himself.
He had grown up with the knowledge that, although born female, his physicality didn’t match how he saw himself nor his outlook on life. When his family had left him and he had moved to another part of the country, he took the opportunity to start afresh and he began living his life as a male - dressing as a man, binding his chest and stuffing the crotch of his undergarments with sacking.
Although the clothes worn by labourers in the 14th Century would have been basic and quite roomy, after lengthy periods of manual labour sweat would stick clothes to the body and reveal tell tale outlines, so his sex was often discovered.
Finding himself brutally ostracised once again, he would then move on to another area and begin to work and start again, which was extremely difficult as community was all the more important then and starting somewhere you weren’t known (and could be vouched for) was tough.
I met Denis because he would row out into the ocean to be alone when he could, and cry. I heard sobbing one day whilst out on the coast and tracked it down to a small rowing boat. I waited for him to return to the shore and that’s how we met.
He then joined a small group of us, asking us to acknowledge him by the gender by which he wanted to be known. He seemed happy with us for a time and then moved on once again, despite our protestations for him to stay.
I heard some time after that his boat had washed up on the shore with no sign of him. Sadly, I think his constant struggle to make a living at the expense of hiding his true self got too much for him and he took his own life.
I was thinking of him whilst having a pint in my local. A dad and his young son came in and the dad asked the son to shut the door to keep the draft out. The little lad had lots of questions about ‘daft’! What ‘daft’ was and why we had to keep ‘daft’ out whilst the locals opined for a long stolen draft excluder that apparently used to keep the cold air out brilliantly.
Over a few pints I thought it was a shame that the two things hadn’t come together and there wasn’t such a thing as a ‘daft’ excluder. If Denis had any problem at all it was the daft people around him in a daft society, terrified of what they didn’t understand, with their ignorance getting in the way of their support.
So here’s my ‘daft excluder’. My attempt to keep the daft out and the supportive in, so that any contemporary person in Denis’s position can grow and flourish exactly how they want to. We need to push on as a society; keep asking ourselves how we can be more inclusive and look at changes we can make to allow people to feel more accepted in their daily lives.
Let’s keep the daft out and look at ways we can fully support people being exactly who they want to be. The more supportive we are of everyone in our society, the more we will flourish.
Ikigai (Or…Aggy’s Face Sitting furniture set). Installation. 2024.
Reclaimed wood, leather, hay, sacking, chain, metal fixings. Dimensions vary.
Aggy (see also my previous piece Docklands Valkyrie for more info) is one of my fave people ever to grace my mad little head. An intelligent, funny and very beautiful woman from the Medievil North East of England, with an insatiable appetite for all things sexual.
Her husband was a prominent landowner and loved his wife very much but had resigned himself to the fact that, even though they had a healthy sex life together, he didn’t have the sexual appetite to please Agnes 24/7.
Out of my love for both of them and a huge amount of gratitude for all the incredible episodes of psychosis they have somehow gifted me, I wanted to make them a special, custom piece of shagging apparatus that would enable Aggy to enjoy her favourite sexual position and her husband to bring her pleasure and also keep his mind active over the extremely long sessions with a spot of Sudoku. (He loved a good puzzle and would have been a Sudoku obsessive if he was around now).
The piece isn’t only custom built to fit the couple physically but it is also easily adjustable in case Aggy’s husband wants to swap in with another person who can take over should his tongue tire and cramp up (as was often the case, bless him). It’s also transportable and allows for Aggy to travel and look out over her favourite views of a copse where the trees have been blown into unusually beautiful shapes, whilst enjoying a drink of the local ale (see handy pink flamingo drinks shelf).
Her husband can not only solve his Sudoku puzzles during the long hours spent pleasuring his beautiful wife but he can do so safe in the knowledge that, as a man who hates other people walking off with and misplacing his things, the sudoku is padlocked to the installation.
Enjoy you two. I’ve got your backs as per. Lots of love, Oopsy xxx
The Cruel and Unwavering Use and Subsequent Misuse of the Cunning Woman. (Or… Witches Be Crazy). Sculpture. 2024.
Approx 142 cm (56 inches) Wide x 210 cm (83 inches) Tall x 20 cm (8 inches) Deep.
Reclaimed Front Door, Paint, Ink, Nails, Signage.
This is a tribute to a Sess, a woman who would have been regarded as a kind of helpful witch or cunning woman during the early 1300s.
As we all know this was essentially a time before effective healthcare and, at worst, peoples lives were cut mercilessly short by the most treatable of illnesses by today’s standards.
At ‘best’ people live every day in all forms of continuous pain; from dull toothache due to lack of dental hygiene, to the feverish discomfort of untreated infections throughout the body.
This is where Sess came in. Sess had a knowledge of plants and their healing properties that far surpassed anyone else’s, not only in this settlement but for miles around.
As a result she was very much in demand and did her best to cure a huge variety of illnesses and relive the pain of hundreds of people, who would track her down in times of need.
Oddly, the people that Sess helped would accept the treatment gladly but also contribute to festering gossip about her that would take place furtively in dark ale houses and in households all over the county.
Instead of concentrating on how positive her contribution to the community was, they would fixate on her ‘powers’ and whom had bestowed them on her.
One day, after Sess had delivered a baby with a disability, the villagers snapped. They clearly thought Sess and her ‘darkness’ (that they attributed to the devil) was to blame.
They turned on her, tracking her down and demanded she come out of her house and face them whilst vandalising the front of her house and eventually setting fire to her property.
Sess fled unharmed physically but terrified for her life and furious that the people she had spent her life helping could turn on her like this.
She travelled for weeks and ended up living outside a small village in Devon where she was rightly treated as a rockstar for her ability to treat the sick.
Sess lived out the rest of her life in peace, was incredibly happy with her lot and was absolutely loved by her community. When I visited her old village I found a community ravaged by illness and death. A very different picture from my previous visit.
They deeply regretted having treated Sess as they did and were paying the price for their behaviour. I realise knowledge and belief at the time was such that fear spread like the plague, but it was hard to feel to sorry for a group of people who had been helped so much by the one person they eventually repulsed from their community.
Memoriale (Or… Saint Angela of Foligno’s Altar). Sculpture. 2023.
Reclaimed wood, chain, metal fixings, cattle fencing, tiles, hessian, cotton, bitumen, acrylic paint, personalised ice cream glass and ‘scabs’.
Saint Angela of Foligno was born into a reasonably powerful family in terms of social hierarchy. She was a fun, vivacious woman who was clever, charming and a rabid social climber.
After a vision that made her question her life choices, Angela decided to essentially refocus her life and have religion at its core.
Then, several years later, she sadly then suffered a series of absolutely horrific personal tragedies and what (imo) we would today call a nervous breakdown.
Having been once obsessing over the people at the very top of the ladder, she then dedicated herself to helping the people struggling at the very lowest rungs of her society - jettisoning the physically comfortable life she once had for a new, more brutal life that provided her with greater emotional solace.
Ange wasn’t messing about either. She did a huge amount to help people; throwing herself into her cause by tending the ill, bathing and dressing the wounded and making them as comfortable as possible.
Famously she would drink the water that she had bathed her patients in, keep bits of flesh and other small body parts that had rotted and also, infamously, eat the scabs from the sores of lepers believing these actions brought her, and the people she was trying to help, closer to God.
She is often lying / kneeling in a certain wince - worthy position in my psychosis. Utterly wretched and scrabbling in the mud. She’s always dressed in rags that hang off her withered, starved body and it’s easy to see how incredibly poor her health is after neglecting herself in favour of others.
I always felt this was unbecoming of such an incredible person so I have made her an altar to preach from. Nothing too showy as she wouldn’t like it. An altar that still encapsulates the brutality of her life but also one that allows her to dine on in style if not in the comfort she denied herself.
Doomsday Clock (Or…The scourge of the Productivity Bros). Sculpture. 2024.
Snare drum, reclaimed wood, hessian, bitumen, feathers, lacquer.
130 cm (Width) x 237 cm (Height).
It’s odd for an immortal chap to be obsessed with time, but I seem to obsess over it 24/7. Always have. However, when I open my social media, a newspaper, or watch TV, there seems to be someone telling me how to be more productive, more efficient, more constructive.
As a society we seem to have become obsessed with using every second in a manner that our culture has deemed valuable. We’ve become obsessed with scheduling ourselves, managing each moment and moulding our lives into to do lists with no time ‘wasted’.
Instead, I’m here to advocate for the lost time. The time spent looking at factory clocks, pencil tapping desks as the seconds tick by and the sun streams through the window. The time spent waiting for an event to take place.
For me, this is when magical things happen. This is when we bond with those around us in shared circumstances, when we take stock of our reality, when we dare to dream about our futures and when we let our mind off the leash and allow it to wander unfettered.
This sculpture is a tribute to that. The fact that my broken yet oddly playful brain makes sure my psychotic episodes aren’t always exciting.
In my travels of Medieval Britain as a false pardoner, sure the events that inspire my work are the interesting and exciting, but the lesser events, the long journeys, the waiting, the days and days spent with nothing to do but plan and enjoy the view have an equal value in my eyes.
This piece is for all the dull bits in between the exciting bits. The bits most people forget.
The time we waste somehow shapes us and as the Doomsday clock ticks on, let’s make sure we get the most out of our lives, not by pressuring ourselves to tick off every second, but by calmly existing and letting the world around us take our mids for a wander in uncharted territory.