Artist’s Statement #14 (Unsolicited, Unread, Undeterred)

Simian Smith, sculptor of “The Foot”

It has come to my attention that the foot has once again been overlooked.

Despite being placed in clear line of sight on three separate open studio occasions (once beside the tray of complimentary bourbons), despite its subtle plinth elevation (12cm, hand-sawn MDF, Danish oil finish), despite the accompanying A5 artist’s statement printed on off-white rag paper (not photocopy paper, I’m not an animal), it continues to be ignored.

There are, I suppose, more fashionable body parts. Hands with their grasping narratives. Faces with their tragic symmetry. Breasts, of course, have never gone out of style. But the foot? The humble, ungainly, deeply literal foot? No one wants it. Not even as a gesture. Not even ironically.

I have tried reframing. I have tried backlighting. I have tried placing it beside more successful works and pretending it is part of a wider conceptual series titled Trace Elements of Displacement. At one point I added a small ceramic fig, unglazed, expressionless,  resting upon the instep, as if to say “Here, even the voiceless rest upon the overlooked.” It was removed by a visitor who mistook it for lost property.

I will confess now, publicly, but with dignity, that I have entered “The Foot” into seventeen open calls, under twelve different titles, ranging from Ascension (Form Study) to Untitled (Submission #438). On one occasion, I called it Democracy in Clay, though even I don’t believe that. It has been rejected every time. One curator replied, “Is this a prank?” and another offered me a place on a short course in digital collage.

I have considered destroying it. Not dramatically,  I am not a martyr, but quietly, with malice. A small hammer, a large bin. I have rehearsed this. But something intervenes. A sense of obligation, perhaps. Not to the work, but to the act of having persisted this long. If I destroy it, then what was I doing for the last eight years?

The foot remains. I dust it every Thursday. I have tried placing it near radiators in winter so it looks warm. I once left it out during a garden party and overheard a man say, “Is this meant to be here?” which I took as engagement.

I continue to believe that the foot has something. Not greatness. Not technical merit. But… presence. It occupies space. It insists, in a quiet, misshapen way, that it exists. And frankly, that’s more than I can say for a lot of things that get funded.

If no one buys it, if no one notices, if no one ever says, “Ah, yes, the foot,  bold choice,” then so be it.

I will remain.

The foot will remain.

And one day, not soon, not in my lifetime, not even necessarily by a person, someone or something will see it, tilt their head slightly, and misinterpret it in exactly the right way.

Until then, it will sit by the door.

Upholding the idea that to persist in failure is, in itself, a form of art.

(And yes, the plinth is for sale separately.)