Joz Norris bounces onto the stage clad in white linen and looking like the new age leader of an ayahuasca retreat. The word ARTIST is emblazoned on a red sweat band under his softly flowing hair.

 

There’s a burst of disco music and he throws himself into a flamboyantly sexy dance routine. Today is a big day he tells us. Today he is going to unveil his greatest work – a creation which has taken him 30 years of toil.

 

The ARTIST alternates between outrageous confidence and excruciating self-doubt, alternately love bombing his audience and glaring with resentment about the need to please and control the crowd.

 

The sacred object, which represents the pinnacle of his art, is held in a shining white box on the stage on the top of a shining white plinth. There’s also a chair, to one side, reserved for his wife, who has promised to join him for this momentous event.

 

Norris switches between grandiosity and pathos in this glorious satire on the agony of the creative process. Since we do not actually know what is in the box, we have no insight into what sort of struggles he may be talking about.

 

For all his pompous idiocy, the character allows Norris to explore philosophical conundrums about the nature of art, the passing of time and the need for human beings to make some kind of mark on the world. It lays bare the agonising dependence of the stand-up comic on approval, applause and love from the audience.

 

While the character takes himself intensely seriously, the performer does not – and Norris throws himself wildly between different styles of performance – lurching from one ludicrous extreme to another – provoking peals of appalled laughter.

 

He plunges into agonies of procrastination, indecision and despair. Life is futile, art is pointless and yet the artist must go on. There is something very heartfelt about what he is doing – even though it is also utterly ridiculous.

 

The empty chair allows him to reveal glimpses of his relationships and family life. He has sacrificed for his art and his life lies in ruins as a consequence.  The disembodied voice of his AI girlfriend is heard and then malfunctions in a hilarious example of AI generated filth gone dreadfully wrong.

 

But will it be worth it – all this pain and misery.  Will we ever really find out what is inside the box.

 

Reader, we do.  And the contents of the box become the centre of a spectacle which is horrifyingly and unforgettably absurd. The passion of the artist has transformed him into a single-minded monster who is unconcerned about the consequences of his obsession.

 

It’s an extraordinary performance. But the terrifying explosion of the ego is something oddly familiar to every one of us.

 

Norris ends with some truly unsettling audience interaction – in which his need for approval finally erupts into something close to hatred.

 

The secret is finally out.  And now the artist must give up his life-absorbing project or begin again.

 

 

 

 

****