As AI shuts down opportunities to feel alive, we seek out the tangible in the body sector, signing up for anything with the promise of discomfort. I’ve a weekend gig as a fairground geek, biting the heads of whatever anyone throws and scratching myself until I’m raw, and I work the odd saint’s day, recreating obscure martyrdoms with nails, or flails, or whatever weird shit’s been handed down from suffering father to suffering son for as long as pain’s been preferable to a cocoon of keys and bright colours. It’s a kind of crusade, like in the films or the five-star 5D Experience. It’s a kind stranger offering vinegar instead of wine. The rest of the time, I work in my sleep, but when the shining people who know what’s best lay soft light across my face, I bruise myself where no one will ever see, and hold on to the tower of fire my father could never escape.
Oz Hardwick
Pic: Nick Victor
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