The Book Club in Shoreditch, London, let me scribble all over their walls. Cue mass bemusement at the end result and even my own confusion over what any of it meant. Was it a comment on consumerism and if so, what point was I trying to make? I have no idea. I sold no prints off the back of it confirming everyone's suspicion that it had been an unmitigated disaster. I had fun doing it though, in case you were worried. Supported by Great Art and Estrella
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