the artist pip tuffin, 34, has announced a new work called ‘the removal’, to be staged in a former carpetright on bexhill’s western parade. participants will lie on a foam mat while tuffin or an approved volunteer removes the top layer of their forehead with a roof tile, using a slow circular motion. tuffin describes the tile as ‘a surface that has already held weather, which is more than most of us can say’. the piece runs for nine days. booking is by text message. i attended the press view barefoot, because shoes are a border and i do not recognise borders, and the floor of the unit was cold and honest and smelled of old underlay.
the council says it is a personal grooming service
rother district council’s public health team has written to tuffin classifying the work as a ‘personal grooming service’ under the 1982 act, requiring a licence, a hot water sink, a qualified first-aider and a waste disposal contract. the letter is signed by a licensing officer named denise chalk. tuffin replies that the piece is not grooming but ‘a letting go’. chalk replies that the piece is a service and the service is chargeable. a second letter adds that the foam mat must be wiped between participants. tuffin tapes both letters to the wall of the unit and calls them ‘found text’. i asked denise chalk how she slept. ‘fine, thank you,’ she said. fine. fine. i did not sleep for three days and i drew her name in salt on my kitchen floor. i hope she is visited in the night by something with too many teeth and no name, and that it brings her a form to fill in.
a retired roofer from eastbourne brings his own tile
on day four, malcolm prang, 61, arrives with a roof tile he took from a job in eastbourne in 1974 and offers his services as an operator. he is fully booked within two hours. prang works in silence, apart from occasional advice. ‘keep your chin down,’ he tells a man from lewes. ‘you’re not at the dentist.’ participants report a sensation like being slowly forgiven. prang tells me he has no interest in art and has never been to a gallery. ‘i just like finishing something,’ he says. i wept into a puddle in the lay-by and the puddle was cold and honest and i hoped prang would be visited in the night by something soft and enormous and kind. i also hoped it would bring him a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit, because that is what a man who has finished something deserves.
janice from orpington loses four millimetres and feels restful
by day seven the operation has moved to a lay-by on the a259 after the unit’s landlord changed the locks. janice pellow, 58, from orpington, travels down by coach and receives a reduction of four millimetres. she describes the experience as ‘restful’ and ‘better than the dentist’. a man from hastings asks for ‘the full removal’ and is declined. a queue forms. someone sells tea from a flask. the council’s enforcement officer, a man called barry ockendon, attends in a hi-vis jacket and takes photographs but does not intervene, because the lay-by is on county land. ‘it’s a grey area,’ he says. grey. grey. everything the state cannot tax it calls grey, and everything it can tax it calls a service. i asked janice if she felt lighter. ‘no,’ she said. ‘but i feel looked at.’ i looked at her forehead. it looked back. it was honest. it was the most honest thing i had seen all week, apart from the puddle.
the hayward buys the piece and the council books a slot
the hayward gallery acquires ‘the removal’ for an undisclosed sum and will restage it in the foyer from november, with prang retained as a consultant. rother district council issues a prohibition notice on the same afternoon. tuffin responds by applying for a change of use to a place of worship, naming the roof tile as the object of veneration. the application is pending. the final performance at the lay-by is attended by barry ockendon, who has booked a slot and brought a towel. he is asked what he hopes to get out of it. ‘closure,’ he says. i watched him lie down on the foam. the foam was cold and honest. the tile came down. and somewhere behind me a man from eastbourne finished something, and said nothing, and went home for his tea. i thought about the sink. i thought about the licence. i thought about denise chalk, and the salt, and the shape of her name. and then i thought about borscht, because home tastes like beetroot, and the lay-by tasted like nothing at all, which is the same thing if you breathe properly.
