itwonlast

The Evil Genius of David Shrigley 
Shrigleyworld is often a place of violence and madness where the strong  prey without mercy on the weak. In the hospitals, doctors eat the flesh  of corpses and nurses drink patients’ blood. “Who shall we kill next?” a  blob person asks. “Some animals,” its companion replies. In the harsh  world of shapes, we learn in another drawing, the weak cube must die. A  picture shows smoke belching from a chimney: “Q. What are they burning  in the furnace today? A. Proof of your existence.”
Shrigley’s people are edge-dwellers. They have lost their bearings and  their states of mind are fractured and extreme. One figure announces  that he lives beyond the margins: “I am not allowed to join society  because I am unable to grasp the nuances of human interaction.” Shrigley  draws a “nutcase,” his eye sockets vacant, his mouth a brutal slit:  “What he is imagining we can only imagine.” The image has a bottomless  horror, but it’s also very funny. If we can imagine what this deranged fantasist might be thinking  about, then we must be nutcases too. In the same book, Grip (2000), the text below some angry  scribble informs us that even the smoothest of objects are rough and  bumpy when seen under a microscope: “When I think of it I am filled with  despair.”

The Evil Genius of David Shrigley

Shrigleyworld is often a place of violence and madness where the strong prey without mercy on the weak. In the hospitals, doctors eat the flesh of corpses and nurses drink patients’ blood. “Who shall we kill next?” a blob person asks. “Some animals,” its companion replies. In the harsh world of shapes, we learn in another drawing, the weak cube must die. A picture shows smoke belching from a chimney: “Q. What are they burning in the furnace today? A. Proof of your existence.”

Shrigley’s people are edge-dwellers. They have lost their bearings and their states of mind are fractured and extreme. One figure announces that he lives beyond the margins: “I am not allowed to join society because I am unable to grasp the nuances of human interaction.” Shrigley draws a “nutcase,” his eye sockets vacant, his mouth a brutal slit: “What he is imagining we can only imagine.” The image has a bottomless horror, but it’s also very funny. If we can imagine what this deranged fantasist might be thinking about, then we must be nutcases too. In the same book, Grip (2000), the text below some angry scribble informs us that even the smoothest of objects are rough and bumpy when seen under a microscope: “When I think of it I am filled with despair.”

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