Today I achieved what many Londoners only dream of: I was mistaken for a tech billionaire by a confused tourist outside the Cartier store. All it took was an aggressively neon bomber jacket and a Game Boy-shaped briefcase.
Speaking of grandeur, Project PoshPixel (working title, probably changing it to “Code and Couture”) is in full swing. The Old Bond Street install is nearly ready. I’ve created a glorious 10-metre-wide animation of a pixelated aristocratic corgi breakdancing on a Fabergé egg. It’s art. It’s rebellion. (It’s sadly been flagged for review by the local council).
I’m also working on Luxury Glitches. Imagine a Dior handbag but it’s got lag. A Rolls Royce stuck in a loop, reversing into a pixelated goose. A Harrods window display that blue-screens mid-opulence.
Someone commissioned me to pixelate their wedding photo. They wanted it “romantic but with a hint of early Windows anxiety.” So now they’ve got a 64-bit first kiss with a floating error message that says, “Heart.exe has stopped responding.”
My mum asked if I’ve “considered getting a real job,” so I sent her a 16-bit animation of me sprinting away from capitalism.
A tech startup offered me £100,650 in crypto to consult on their pixel projects. The trouble is that might be worth nothing by next week. We’re still negotiating.
Currently working from a cafe in Soho where a man in a cape is loudly pitching a musical about AI to someone who may or may not be asleep. I feel strangely inspired. Possibly from the fumes of his illegal vape pen, which smells like sunshine and mango.
Tonight I’ll be rendering a pixelated animation of Karl Lagerfeld arguing with a Tamagotchi. I’m not saying I’m a genius, but if this doesn’t get me the Turner Prize I will simply turn it into a gif and disappear.
