Winged Potatoes and a Spot of Underwear Sniffing

I don’t remember becoming an artist. There was no montage. No tortured phase involving cigarettes, heartbreak, and a muse named Luca who spoke only in metaphors. Just — one day I’m sorting socks into vaguely matching pairs that pretend to belong together… … and the next — I’m this. Semi-famous. Up-and-coming. Floating through a high-end New York gallery like I’ve always belonged here. A man in all black appears beside me and silently replaces my empty glass with a full one. I didn’t even notice I’d finished it. That’s the kind of life this is. One where your needs are anticipated before you’ve fully formed them. Before you’ve earned them. Before you’ve even decided you want them. Terrifying, really. “Try the crab,” he murmurs, offering a canapé that looks more expensive than my engagement ring. I take it. It dissolves instantly. I feel nothing. No texture. No joy. Just a suggestion of flavour and a quiet sense of being lied to. Much like my artistic integrity. My work hangs along the far wall. My work. Even thinking it feels fraudulent. Like wearing someone else’s name badge and hoping no one asks any questions. Under the gallery lighting, it looks… almost legit. But up close — It is, without question, absolute shite. Unapologetically, expensively lit shite. Abstract in a way a heated Whatsapp argument is abstract — unruly, emotional, and impossible to follow by the end. Chaotic smears that almost resemble something but seem to lose interest halfway through becoming it. One piece draws a small crowd. The glittered potato. With wings. It glistens offensively under the spotlight, like it knows how little it deserves this moment and is enjoying it anyway. Twenty thousand pounds. Twenty. Thousand. Pounds. For a root vegetable having what I can only assume is a spiritual awakening. I nearly choke on my canapé. There’s a small placard next to it. I lean in. “Untitled (Ascension)” Oh, do fuck off. And then — Victoria Beckham. She stands before it, utterly still, like the potato is whispering secrets. Her face is composed, reverent even. A woman beside her whispers, “You can really feel the struggle.” Yes. The potato’s struggle to justify its existence. Victoria tilts her head, eyes scanning every glittering inch like she’s decoding a sacred text written in starch. Then she turns. “The inspiration?” I feel my soul leave my body, hover just above the lighting rig in quiet protest… …and then return because it wants to see how this plays out. “Well,” I begin, clasping my hands behind my back like I’ve rehearsed this in a mirror, “it’s about transformation. The way society overlooks the mundane… until it reinvents itself. It challenges traditional beauty standards — asks us to reconsider what we deem worthy of admiration.” A pause. A long, reflective pause. Someone nearby nods like I’ve just manifested enlightenment. Another looks like they might cry. Over a potato. Victoria exhales softly. “Yes,” she says. Just yes. And then she walks away. And I stand there, stunned. Because I’ve just emotionally manipulated a room using a potato, and not a single person questioned it. Not even a raised eyebrow, not a flicker of doubt. I drift through the gallery, soaking in all the madness. A sculpture made of melted Barbie dolls clings to a radiator. Title: “Domestic Collapse.” A glass box filled with fog pulses gently. Inside it, a single shoe. Title: “Left Behind.” A man stands completely still in the corner, painted silver. I assume he’s part of the exhibit. He winks. I decide, quite firmly, that I will not be unpacking that. And then — I see her. Amanda Bynes. Nickelodeon royalty. The Amanda Show. Childhood icon — before life chewed her up, spat her back out, and asked if she had anything left to give. She doesn’t shimmer like the others. Doesn’t blend into the curated illusion. She stands slightly apart — real in a way that feels almost inappropriate here. “Amanda,” she says, offering her hand. “Right,” I reply. “Well this is confusing. Branding-wise, this is a nightmare.” A flicker of amusement crosses her face. Her work lines the wall behind her. Self-portraits. Dozens of them. Not polished. Not flattering. Not trying to be liked. One shows her face split in two — one side smiling too wide, the other completely blank, like joy and absence forced to share the same space politely. Another is just scribbles layered over a faint outline of her eyes, like she’s tried to erase herself. And one — One is almost nothing. Just a faint suggestion of her face, barely there, like she’s disappearing mid-thought. “These are beautiful,” I say, and this time it comes out without performance, without a mask, without a facade. She tilts her head, studying me like she’s trying to locate the insult hidden inside the compliment. Then leans in, her voice low: “Room 201. Ten minutes.” Ah. Right. That escalated alarmingly fast. And just like that — she’s gone. The lift ride feels longer than it should. I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls. I look the part. Which feels like the biggest lie of all. Room 201. I knock. Nothing. I try again. Still nothing. Naturally, I try the handle. Boundaries mean nothing in dreams. Or in art. Or, apparently, in this building. It opens. The room is chaos. Shoes scattered, clothes draped, wine bottles — evidence of something reckless and unfiltered. I step inside, cautious, like I might disturb whatever truth lives here. The bedroom door creaks open. And — Oh. Oh no. They are there. Victoria Beckham and Amanda Bynes. Amanda’s head is planted firmly between Victoria's legs. “Oh—God—sorry—carry on—don’t let me interrupt whatever… this is—” I start backing away immediately, because what else does one do when they catch two celebs… collaborating? Amanda lifts her head slightly, completely unfazed. “It’s not what it looks like,” she says. Ah. Good. Clarity. Lovely. “I was just sniffing Vicky’s knickers.” …Right. Vicky? Knickers? As though this clears anything up. I nod. A slow, deeply respectful nod. Because there's nothing left to say. Nothing left to understand. Nothing left to achieve in this room. I close the door. Firmly. Decisively. And then I walk away at a speed that could politely be described as fleeing. The gallery is gone when I return. Stripped bare. White walls. Echoing silence. Like it never existed. My heels echo sharply against the marble floor. Clack. Clack. Clack. “Bit dramatic,” I mutter. The doors slam open. Mum. Out of breath. Wild-eyed. Slightly panicked. Carrying the energy of someone who’s just remembered something mid-boil. “We need to get those carpets up!” she pants. “What? Now?” “The carpet people will be here in half an hour!” Ah. Of course. “We’re in New York,” I say. “Well they won’t care about that, will they?” Annoyingly, she has a point. No taxis. In New York. Naturally. So we do the only reasonable thing — We flag down a horse and carriage. The driver doesn’t speak. Just nods once, like he knows exactly how this ends and has decided not to interfere. The city stretches around us, blurred and surreal. Hooves striking pavement in a steady, grounding rhythm, the only thing in this entire day that feels remotely real. For the first time, everything goes quiet. No applause. No interpretation. No pretending. Just movement. Mum watches me carefully, then reaches into her bag. She hands me the drawing. The clown. My clown. Messy. Earnest. Unapologetically something. “The teacher said it was the only one that actually looked like something,” she says. I turn it over. The message. “This one didn’t pretend.” Something tightens in my chest. Because I don’t know when I stopped being honest. Only that somewhere along the way — I got very good at being impressive instead. The carriage jolts. Then stops. Abruptly. The horse snorts, uneasy. The driver says nothing. Mum and I exchange a look. “Well,” I sigh, “this feels symbolic.” We climb down. The street is quiet. Too quiet. And then — There. On the pavement. Amanda Bynes. Sprawled out. Limbs awkward. Body twitching faintly, like something inside her is trying to leave or come back — I can’t tell which. Still alive. But only just. Beside her — A bag. Split open. Paintings spilling out onto the pavement like evidence, truth that didn’t ask to be curated. Stolen art. Messy. Raw. Unfiltered. I crouch slowly, my pulse loud in my ears. I reach into the pile. And pull one out. Glitter flakes catch the light. Wings. Potato. Of course. I stare at it — really stare this time. Not as a product. Not as a performance. Just… as it is. And suddenly — It’s not meaningless. It’s not profound either. It’s just… mine. Flawed. Slightly ridiculous. Trying to be something more than it is, without quite knowing how. I glance at Amanda — still twitching, still clinging to whatever edge she’s on. And it hits me. She didn’t mishear me in the gallery. She knew exactly what I meant. She just didn’t believe I meant it about her. Because honesty like that? It’s rare. Uncomfortable. Unprofitable. And usually — Stolen, discarded, or left bleeding on the pavement while something shiner gets framed. I look down at the potato again. Twenty thousand pounds of nonsense. Or — One small, ridiculous attempt to make something out of nothing. I exhale. “God,” I mutter,” The horse snorts behind me. “I think I might actually be an artist.” Mum says nothing. And somewhere — In the quiet space between absurdity and truth — I realise it was never about whether it was good. Or clever. Or worth the money. Just whether it was honest. And being brave enough to own it.