About a week ago, I needed help moving an industrial fridge my father had bought me on ebay into my new studio space. I called my childhood friend Frederic, who happens to live right next to my superb ‘atelier’. Since he failed to answer his phone, I asked a couple of musician friends of mine to give me a hand. We were drinking beers at a screening and eventually got the job done a couple hours later. I suppose me being under the influence was what left Frederic’s insistent text messages unnoticed that evening. It can be hard to focus on a slight twinkle sound in the bottom of one’s handbag while discussing bad 70s French movies (starring the epic Louis de Funes) with a drunk casting agent. What I discovered the next day is that Frederic had invited me to join an impromptu dinner party involving venison from his hunting lease. Needless to say that reading such a text the next morning was highly frustrating, I texted him back immediately to express my deep sorrow. Yesterday, around 2am, I got a new text from Fred: “The venison’s brother is waiting for you in my fridge.”
