HOGERELLA
Exhibition
Exhibition
Beatrix Anna Nicole Smith died on a Sunday morning, the 9th of March.I’d gotten home very, very late.
The bedroom was dim with cool morning light. As usual, she wasalert to my arrival, gave me that ridiculous little smile, and I took her out for what would be her last piddle and her last shit.
We curled up in bed and she assumed her position, the hot little spoon on my left side. It wastoo warm. I was sweating. I almost pushed her off. But I let her stay. I’d been out all night, andwhile she’d had Bobby to curl into, she deserved to fall asleep with me.
I woke to her dying.
It was a horrible thing to witness but a gift. Her health had been declining, and my only real wishwas to be there at the end. And I was.
She’d been with me nearly every day for eleven years. Every morning. Every night. She came towork with me. We went on holidays. I missed out on things I might’ve done in my twenties because she needed me. It didnt really matter.
She wasn’t like other dogs. I know everyone says that, but I’ve had enough dogs, and spentenough time with other people’s, to know she was something else. She barely barked, exceptwhen there was a possum and a neighbour’s cat fighting in the roof (which, to be fair, I alsoyelled at). She was polite. I rarely needed a lead, she had no interest in going far, she wascurious but never to the point of stress. We were tuned to each other.
When she died, I held her. I spoke softly in her ear. I soaked up every second of that small warmbody I had protected, nourished, patted, and washed, for a third of my life.
I am grateful that I got to shepherd her through life. And also through death.
How do you honour a bond so deep and quiet it reshapes who you are? A creature that drawssweetness from you when you think there is none. That steadies you in chaos.
This is what my work has always been – honouring life in its myriad of formats throughmonuments made from earth. It is nothing new, we have always done this. I’ve said it in differentways, through different beings, over the years. This time it just hits a little different.
These works aren’t direct portraits. They’re glimpses that anyone with this bond can see into. Ajudgemental side-eye. The length of a belly outstretched. The abstract wet marks on the car window. The last of her turds slowly melting in the grass that in my grief I found myself lovingly gazing at. While there is certainly grief in these works, this body of work is ultimately about acelebration of life and love. Xx
The bedroom was dim with cool morning light. As usual, she wasalert to my arrival, gave me that ridiculous little smile, and I took her out for what would be her last piddle and her last shit.
We curled up in bed and she assumed her position, the hot little spoon on my left side. It wastoo warm. I was sweating. I almost pushed her off. But I let her stay. I’d been out all night, andwhile she’d had Bobby to curl into, she deserved to fall asleep with me.
I woke to her dying.
It was a horrible thing to witness but a gift. Her health had been declining, and my only real wishwas to be there at the end. And I was.
She’d been with me nearly every day for eleven years. Every morning. Every night. She came towork with me. We went on holidays. I missed out on things I might’ve done in my twenties because she needed me. It didnt really matter.
She wasn’t like other dogs. I know everyone says that, but I’ve had enough dogs, and spentenough time with other people’s, to know she was something else. She barely barked, exceptwhen there was a possum and a neighbour’s cat fighting in the roof (which, to be fair, I alsoyelled at). She was polite. I rarely needed a lead, she had no interest in going far, she wascurious but never to the point of stress. We were tuned to each other.
When she died, I held her. I spoke softly in her ear. I soaked up every second of that small warmbody I had protected, nourished, patted, and washed, for a third of my life.
I am grateful that I got to shepherd her through life. And also through death.
How do you honour a bond so deep and quiet it reshapes who you are? A creature that drawssweetness from you when you think there is none. That steadies you in chaos.
This is what my work has always been – honouring life in its myriad of formats throughmonuments made from earth. It is nothing new, we have always done this. I’ve said it in differentways, through different beings, over the years. This time it just hits a little different.
These works aren’t direct portraits. They’re glimpses that anyone with this bond can see into. Ajudgemental side-eye. The length of a belly outstretched. The abstract wet marks on the car window. The last of her turds slowly melting in the grass that in my grief I found myself lovingly gazing at. While there is certainly grief in these works, this body of work is ultimately about acelebration of life and love. Xx
