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Q: Mr Strange, what is your motto?
A: First, foremost, and always a monomaniac, my motto is: Whatever kills you makes me stronger.
Q: Mr Strange, who or what do you consider to be your greatest influences?
A: Zarathustra, Handel, global warming, key hole surgery, the letter U, cat.
Q: Mr Strange, how would you describe your art?
A: Only I can ask that question! I am a work of art that gives birth to itself.
Q: Mr Strange, can you tell us what your secret tattoo says?
A: You are dead because you are stupid. You are stupid because you are dead.
Q: Mr Strange, what inspires your art?
A: The things that fail to inspire, or engender interest, on the part of others usually. A bus ticket floating in a urinal for instance…I ask myself, ‘Did the man mean to lose this? Did he perhaps consider, for an instant, choosing the indignity of drenching his hands with the fermenting urine of others in order to save buying a new ticket? Did he try to explain to the ticket inspector on the Queen’s Park route that he had lost his ticket, mid-micturition?’ Such things provide artistic sustenance for me. Turning the tedious into the magical…deriving something solid from ephemera.
Q: Mr Strange, where were you happiest?
A: As a child, on the lilo of my grandparents’ estate in Wessex: sun-dappled leaves on clouds; crushing vagrant toads with a croquet mallet.
Q: Mr Strange, where would you most like to die?
A: In a Venetian gondola, with Handel on the gramophone, and with weeping family members – their tears being tears of guilt, borne from not having seen me for years, cleansing my soul…providing an absolution superior to that of any man of the cloth. The laugh is on them, as I am planning to leave divide my entire fortune between my favourite milkman and my favourite dustman.
Q: Mr Strange, how would you like to be remembered?
A: My art should be remembered, not its creator. I wish to be buried in an unmarked patch of ground somewhere south of Dunnett Head, Scotland. In my favourite suit…its pockets, like every other orifice of my cadaver, to be stuffed with acorns…so that trees will grow in the space and every physical proof of my existence is obliterated from this good earth.
If you still don’t comprehend me, from my most overwhelming friend, a toast:
Through A Glass Darkly – Piran Strange, by Professor Malebolge, University Of Tskhinvali, South Ossetia
Piran Strange is a enigma with the critics and the same public. Never completely the extension and defying conventional elucidation and being generally a provocative to be engulfed, Piran is an artist against the 21st century whose prospections rapture the magic of the moment, and refract the juice of the model, the form and the matter which became a central concern of our modern age.
If Titian played Texas Holdem with Mondrian and Shakespeare drinking contexts with Buckowski, and the match were judged by Pinochio, then the work of force of Piran Strange is the result!
Taking conventional exceptions to repair them Piran Strange on the promise of its first work, by making paintings which play with concepts previously allowed of color and coated space… his intriguing the televiewer and requesting their own interpretations. Many televiewers are seen in his work, reflected behind fabric before them - the artist reflecting us.
Some viewers with him work in the complaint of the south of Ossetia which its work is like “of magic eye” that the lies of image buried in inside!
Little is known of the terms of origins, but undoubtedly of extraction of Oxbridge, and probably lost by the saint who bears his name in the areas of tin-extraction of Devon and Cornwall - does not need to be known to include his work. When I met it the first time, he had a cane of cat (how very Bulgakov! But it did not speak!).
Its conversation was faggot of the references to Gogol and Lyotard and I realized that this English was something beyond the standard. I hope that England, you will kiss the strange out of the golden ball of Piran in your heart, which thus astounded the people of Ossetia of the south.
The credit is seldom the artists have the means during their lives, but for Piran Strange, I hope sincerely that it will not prove Lautrec, and will receive the identification which it deserves. Here he is a king of art, because for you he must be a divinity of color.
