It’s two a.m. at our flat UFC night. After witnessing a collective chunder in the kitchen sink, I quickly exit. I’m now at the west end of the Broad. Ahead are some tall, weathered, black things glinting ominously in the moonlight. Yes, it’s the nuggets on legs- menacing, long-limbed, and burnt.
While “Mirage I and II” were inspired by “flamingos in the south of France”, I’m convinced an overcooked happy meal entered Frink’s creative subconscious. Goujons aside, it’s a beautiful night. The absent wind transforms the lake into an obsidian sheet embossed with stars. I’m compelled to shift my right shoulder beneath the body of “Mirage I”, gently hugging its leg in the process. I suddenly feel overwhelmed- the cold bronze against my arms, my face taut with fresh air, the secrecy of being alone in the dark. I was sharing an intimate moment with an artwork, a vision made tangible by human hands.
Maybe I looked like a weirdo holding onto a metal bird, but I went home fonder of those nuggets than before.