Response to Three Space Oddities and a Jeweller
'This is Cruise control to Major Tom'. The maniacal call sign of the consummate and consumed movie star, Tom Cruise, booms across the ego-phallicly proportioned cockpit.
Also along for the ride, Becky Bliss is sitting in Tom’s Space X rocket-tin can. Far above the world, she can see Planet Earth. Today it's glowing blue. Earlier, she rashly dashed on board to see if there really is something she can do.
Back on earth, in her studio, where Becky’s designs were being galvanized by dreams of the golden smithereens of exploded asteroids, our earthly emissary was also wondering why Tom Cruise had declared his mission to disintegrate his vast fortune on an astronomical film set in space. Why not share his monetary beneficence instead? Was he blind to the many gaping craters of need on his own planet?
Becky has created a collection emulating the flotsam of space junk traversing the Milky Way, far above her house in Wellington.
'Tom', Becky announces firmly across his spaceship shaft, 'you've really made the grade'. Bewitched by the shards of cosmic geometry she has jig sawed into place, Tom's extra-terrestrial-sized ambitions of excellence are instead wooed and won over by her art.
Together they sketch out the plot for a new religion of human generosity, of which Tom Cruise will be high priest and Becky’s broaches the emblem. 'You and your project are a waste of space in this vortex', she declares. 'It's time to leave this capsule of your existence. If you dare?'
- for Gallery Faux, July 2020