I now officially harbour doubts about the person who reminded me of good old Meatyard.
Where I was happily squeezing the kids' heads into masks and having fun, I now have the dead weight of a specific strand of art history resting heavily on my shoulders.
How carefree I used to be and how compliant the models. For a bribe of Fruit Shoots, chips and a Mars Bar my kids stand reasonably still, in public , wearing a scary mask.
Now of course, Mr Meatyard's imagery stares at me from my mental monitor and I suppose I am going to have to steal from him in order to carry on with the project.
To be fair, I have no crumbling mansions on hand to use as a backdrop, or that peculiar American street look in which to position my characters. And I am not using black and white.
I do have, however, creepy suburban village parks, and the mist slowly filling the local tennis court at the fall of dusk. It is time to get out the notebook and generate some locations, collect up the sticky drinks and confectionery and drag the offspring away to their child labour.
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