When I arrived for the meeting, the manager was a horse, his mouth dropping hay and his eyes swimming with that emotion that equine artists always try to capture but never understand. His hooves were shod in iron. To his left was another horse, taking notes on a battered laptop, stamping horse language with all the frenzy of anger or need. To his right was an armoured steed, straight out of a 30s epic, whose presence was never explained. Their backs were to a picture window displaying the wasteland, and their manes shimmered with sweat or worse. The manager waved his leg – cannon, fetlock, pastern – gesturing me to sit, though there was no chair. He tipped his head – poll, forelock – commanding me to dance, though there was no music. The air swam with the sweet stink of warm shit. Six unreadable eyes. Sooner or later, someone would have to draw conclusions.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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