I dip my hands deep in paint, attack the canvas. Aggressive strokes of green over a multilayered chaos. I have no idea whether what I’m throwing onto the work adds anything of value or substance, but I try anyway. The walls of the venue are filthy and splattered with a variety of substances, the place dilapidated, the windows shuttered, the neglected state a reflection of the artist’s psyche, perhaps. I was told I was here to assist with the preparations for the big opening, to help finish the work – but from the moment I walked in, the impression hit me that this might just be beyond saving.

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