Room 1 is art insofar as it is contextualised by a wider body of work. The grid form is initially destabilised by moving the support, but then takes on its own dynamic. Visual art has its own rhetorical tradition, its own rules of engagement, and megaphonic politics easily drown out the more subtle voices that artists invoke. As with an urban myth, veracity is moot. An apt literary touchstone is William Burroughs, whose Naked Lunch shows how the thin line between dissent and complicity can become hopelessly blurred. Artists are well placed to draw attention to structures rather than outcomes, processes rather than events. Your bathos, this jumping from the sentimental to the sublimated, has built in tripwires promoting failure.

Instead of total complicity with the activities the work manipulates our barriers. We come to our senses, return to the now. This time we cross the threshold and as we draw closer the noises and forms become familiar. This further positions us in a space looking out, but perhaps we are not the observer, but the observed. Comparing image with reality, there is little doubt of the artists ability; the scale of the work manipulates us. Meanwhile, the repetitive slabs speak of another moment of 60s art, the critical found-minimalism of Dan Graham's three ultra modern key female players from the New York art scene of the 70s. Each has its own accompanying text, a brief scenario in which the protagonist shares an isolated moment of precious, if unlikely, tenderness.

The Artangel sponsored Times difficulty featured several important meetings containing a rematch of the 1980s media war. It was a feelgood work of art in the finest tradition of involving re-enacting works of planned in terms of the constructed cynicism of able-bodied anti-glamour; it invokes the relationship between the artist and the object/subject that devalues the heroic aspect of the construction. The oozing albumen slowly staining the blue cardboard and the tick-tick of fingernails on the shell. The little swimming yin-yangs of the broken protein rich yokes mixing with the whites. Bitches, fuckers, scabs and gums. Salary is a word derived from the Roman practice of paying Legionaries in salt.

I can feel the heat closing in, feel them out there making their moves, setting up their devil doll stool pigeons. Huge grey eyes with tiny black pupils that seem to spit needles. Soldiers in jeeps sweep mounted machine guns back and forth across the crowd in slow searching movements. A friend of mine found himself naked in a Marakesh hotel room, second floor. Her opening words: "You look to me like a man of intelligence." His face lights up like a pinball machine, with stupid, pink effect. They sing a hideous parody of the funeral song in Arabic. He points to a velvet curtain sixty feet high. "I am not worthy to eat her feet", says the fattest hog of them all. He is trying to get the mirror off his neck. But the subway is moving. They gibber and squeal at the sight of it.

During his first severe infection the boiling thermometer flashed a quicksilver bullet into the nurses brain and she fell down dead with a mangled scream. The room seems to shake and vibrate with motion. "Man, that fucker's hungry," screams one of the bearers. "I'm getting out of here, me." Sky rockets burst in green clusters across a great river. He hears the faint put-put of a motor boat in jungle twilight...

elements of text sampled from "untitled" & "art monthly" / "Naked Lunch" by William Burroughs