Carrie Miller got the tip off on the winner of this year’s Archibald Prize like everyone else – via social media about two hours before it was official…
I was getting a light ars_hole bleaching from my life coach last Friday morning when he said something that made me really clench my lipo-sculpted bottom. “Tim Storrier’s got the Archibald in the bag.” This was a full two hours before the big announcement.
I nearly fell off his Marc Newson designed massage table/home composting kit. Obviously, I thought the Archibald was a fashion forward prize these days. I’m on a first name basis with Adam and Del Katherine and Ben. Or is it just Del?
Tim Storrier, The histrionic wayfarer (after Bosch), 2011.
Apparently, the Trustees are completely off the chain since Edmund’s left. Jack was having a pomtini with a curator from the gallery the other night and not only are they resigned to the fact that Tim would win, they’re just grateful he hadn’t painted that awful John Howard. Imagine how that would look? Obviously, the arts can’t be associated with the wrong side of politics – it would be totally uncool.
This had completely ruined my day. I had carved out three hours in the afternoon for a blow out thinking I was attending the opening that night. I mean, Luke Roberts was going to be there.
Sure enough, when I was sitting in my favourite bookshop/cafe/safe space for minorities afterwards, there was Storrier on my iPad, dressed like he had stepped out of an Evelyn Waugh novel adapted for TV by Channel Ten, humbly accepting an award that was his birthright.
Suddenly, I was startled by the sound of Bros’s ‘When Will I Be Famous?’ I couldn’t find my phone. I can’t wait for the ironic ringtones and oversized, designer handbags trend to be over.
It was an indigenous arts professional I know. She said Facebook was going off. Andrew Frost and that nasty woman who thinks she’s really funny but isn’t were posting things about the Storrier win and people were getting vicious.
She knew the full story. It didn’t surprise me – she’d always had a thing for the working class and it turns out she’d been doing one of the packers for years. I don’t think her husband would mind – he’s a feminist performance artist. Anyway, most of the Trustees had been pulling for Storrier to win for ages but Edmund had been deadset against it. They finally got to have their say this year and it seems the only thing in their way was one Trustee who knew a little too much…about contemporary art. They had to get rid of her temporarily by slipping some Oxycontin into her herbal tea. When she woke up, she was staring at Maria Venuti’s tits. It turns out she was in the packing room in front of a painting that was rejected years ago that none of the blokes down there could bear to part with.
The only other thing in their way was the gallery’s PR department. A group of extremely well-dressed women stood over the Trustees with a suitcase full of cash demanding that the prize be awarded to some street artist who had stencilled that lovable ratbag Father Bob. Of course, they could not be bought.
And then it appeared. None of the Trustees really knew what it meant. But, intuitively, they knew it justified their decision. Juan Ford’s Megawog was just what they were looking for. If this came runner-up, then how could anyone say their judging was biased or tasteless or conservative? It didn’t have a face either. And, apparently, according to one of the casual staff who was bringing them water, it had something to do with a thing called ‘post-colonialism’. It was the perfect counterpoint to Timmy’s grand colonial narrative of rugged individualism. They had their bases covered.
Tim Storrier’s Hysterical Gaywearer (after Sachs) could take its rightful place in that hallowed hall of Archibald winners, alongside every other great artist who had ever dined at Lucio’s.
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