Ian is a professional man, secure in his sexuality and proud of his body. He attended Camberwell College of Arts between 1996 and 9 where he learned to make things look pretty on a variety of surfaces including paper and fabric ... Hawking himself on a dirty alley named graphic design, he was picked up in the slick limousine of a famous company who, for no reason at all except to add the illusion of foul play, will remain nameless, where he stayed for three circles of the Earths orbit around our Sun (that firey, heartless life-giver), making many good things there including videos for songs by a band and little creatures and t-shirts and so on and so forth.
Ians ideas are crammed into his head like toys in a popular middle-class boys bedroom. Without money or a single friend, Ian had nowhere upon which to deposit many of the beautiful images that came to him. With no canvases within his price range and all the major galleries chasing him away with spears at the very suggestion that they afford him wall space he had to look elsewhere. Luckily, Ians eyes are keener than a truckers on special trucker speed and with those soppy old big blues of his he began to notice all over blank, cheerless surfaces, gaping and desolate waiting to be filled: a discarded fridge here, an abandoned gas fire there, rubbish bags and cardboard boxes, all with handy blank spaces, acting like fertilizer to ripen Ians mind.
Abandoning computers, Ian now grabs his pen hard and with vigor. He manipulates it in ways never before heard or seen on this little Earth. Your face will implode when faced with his fluids (from his pen). Begone, airbrushing; farewell, anti-aliasing, he chats, dashing his computer against the rocks I am a man - a man, you hear? I need my hands to be dirty with inky residue I want to feel my body. Men, men alone, men together need not for effeminate graphic design. They need pictures of weird animals and stuff. So he strides free in the world, a man standing alone in the world, naked and beautiful for all to see naked.
