I enter the bedroom to the smell of fresh paint, young sex and cheap whisky. There is so much information on the walls that my eyes get lost. It is just too much to swallow at once… like when a virgin mouth tries to suck a dick for the first time and gags.
I was in a typical Berlin bedroom with two young British artists, Tom Cameron and Liv Fontaine. They met in art school in London, where they realized that their drinking habit could lead to a productive activity: creating art. Since then, they’ve been painting together, rehearsing synchronized dance moves and pretending that they are both famous (they’re not – yet).
The space has been transformed into a private exhibition. After a few minutes, they're already half naked in front of me as I photograph them in front of the big paintings they're hanging all over the room. I ask Liv to guide me through this visual mess. She grabs her mobile phone and reads a text message from a French lover, a rich banker in London. "'I like him but he sends me the most boring text messages in the world; always about the bad weather!' It's when I realized I'm surrounded by this middle-aged man's words – They are written in most of the paintings. She points to one that says "Terrible weather, isn't it?" in big bright letters.
But Liv is not the kind of girl that likes small talk about the weather. She prefers, and I quote, to "put shitty art in her pussy" or to "get fucked with a paintbrush." When questioned about an ideal lover, she doesn't even stop to think. It's Kippenberger. Right after she says his name she starts to fantasize about a bohemian life next to him, with lots of alcohol consumption and art making. And, of course, his big German penis. But there is only one problem: Kippenberger died when Liv was 8 years old.
She might not have the deceased German artist by her side but she has the quiet Tom. And maybe they are not in love but there is still something unusual in their relationship. Something that reminds me of the Marbles couple from John Water's Pink Flamingos. They tell me how "every liquid is paint" and how there are "paintings that can fuck you." I leave the room with some confusing lessons about art. Welcome to Berlin: home of the expats, home of the drunk and home to art school graduates with no better place to go.
Article by Chris Phillips