It was around the time Mr A and I got together that we met Martin Volk and I have to admit that it nearly finished my relationship with Mr A when I saw how much he liked Wolk. Wolk is the one I blame for Mr A's tiresome series of snot, excrement, piss and vomit works, all done up in glittering goriness.
We were in Chelsea at the time at some party or other and didn't really know anyone so when this dishevelled character with long stringy hair in a dirty rain coat - a very dirty raincoat - came up to us we clung to him for dear life. Rather talk to a weirdo than just stare into each others eye's yet again.
Mr A pulled out a spliff, which he was always doing in those days much to my discomforture and they got puffing and coughing. I was a good girl in those days, fresh out of the convent achool, so I just watched, trying not to squirm or run away. After all, I had finally escaped the provincial culture of Zimbabwe, so this was a step up for me, culturally speaking. They got blasted and Mr A showed him his pics - oh hang on he didn't have a digital camera in those days so he can't have done - well anyway pics were shown - I think - and Volk was very impressed. There was a series of crushed cans on tarmac in those days, if my memory serves.
"That is what it's about," Volk - sorry - Wolk declared. "Excrementa is the most honest output of our lives. Nobody can lie about vomiting, can they?"
I have to admit Wolk was the cause of a good deal of disharmony between us aegians. In fact once we met him in a cemetary. Mr A loved filming in cemetaries in those days and we came across Wolk, passed out on the top of a tomb. Mr A recognised him and I tried to pull Mr A away but he is a stubborn bugger and insisted on pouring water down Wolk's throat. Wolk spluttered into life, coughing and spitting all over the place. I still remember the disgusting sputum which landed on my coat and shudder.
"Dear Boy, you've saved me!"
"Not at all," Mr A shrugged, helping the artist off the plinth onto hard ground and keeping him upright with difficulty.
"You must let me buy you lunch!" the artist insisted and I frowned and shook my head and hands vigorously at Mr A but to no avail.
"What's wrong with you?" Mr A rounded on me and being the coward I am I shirked my chance to say I would not have anything to do with this luncheon meeting. I should have walked off but stupidly followed as Mr A and Wolk struggled down the path out of the cemetary.
Wolk hailed a taxi and I thought that would be that. NO cabby would have us in his cab but I was wrong and we all piled into the back of a cab. It was me who nearly vomited all over the place, thanks to the stench of that horrible man.
We ended up in the offices of some magazine or other where Wolk was actually welcomed. The magazine editors were having a dinner in his honour and even I was welcomed. There were some flamboyant people there and thankfully nobody noticed the pathetically mousy figure I cut. The lunch was a noisy affair with lots of booze. The cook was the most interesting person there. She had very dark dyed black hair and sharp red nails. It was a wonder how she could cook with those nails. She would come into the chamber, which was interesting because it had eighteenth century woodwork on the walls, which was the sort of thing I really liked. So I didn't mind being there, despite my husband being constantly hit on the back by a volubly gregarious Wolk who kept telling everyone Mr A had saved him.
The dinner was in his honour because of a successful exhibition - I think. A New York dealer, no less, had bought up many of his works to take to his Manhattan Gallery and the magazine was doing an article on the exhibition.
Anyway I digress. The cook who thought she was a gypsy would come in and throw serving plates full of wobbling, disgusting looking food on the table and go out muttering, "You lot are too drunk to appreciate my food. If any of you vomit on the table I'll make you clear it up," she warned, shaking her long red nails at us, before going out again.
I can't remember if anyone ate anything - I didn't - but I didn't drink anything either whereas everyone else was drowning their sorrows at the inedible food with some fine Bordeaux.
"My dear boy," Wolk shouted appreciatively to the host, "You are honouring me with a Bordeaux Chateau ...." I failed to catch the name but could not help seeing Wolk very sloppily, with rubbery lips stretching themselves outwards till they almost took off from his face, kissing the host, a diminutive bald little man on the cheeks. The host tried to be circumspect in using his handkerchief to wipe his face but Wolk did not notice or take offence.
By three pm everyone was roaring drunk and the black haired cook threw us out of the chamber, her red nails flying in front of her in bird like gestures that threatened violent expulsion if we did not leave voluntarily. It was as if she had turned into a harpy, so intent was she to be rid of Wolk and everyone connected to him. Wolk had Mr A by the shoulders and wherever Mr A goes I go so the three of us found ourselves in a taxi with the New York art dealer on our way to his hotel room. wolk.yolasite.com/an-introduct…