|'The Undisputed Heavyweight Champion Of The World', 2014 Charcoal & polymer varnish on paper 130x110cm|
They can be quite insistent, considering the potential for variables. They are frightened I suppose that interpretations might somehow deviate from theirs - that the truths they have established and curated are vulnerable to evolution or misinterpretation. Their landmarks and milestones are wreathed in floral offerings, the fences and riverbanks are daubed with soil encrusted paint. I may have failed to honor a particular boundary marker sufficiently and now the larger of the congregation have me hoisted above it, inverted, blood rushing to my face as it is squashed into the mossy flint. Local flint.
On the other side of the ditch another boy. My age I suppose. He prods at a dormant mole hill with his ceremonial staff. He jingles. They have bells on that side of the ditch. No such humiliation here. My smock is silent but for the wet slap of the muddy hem on my ever reddening face. He looks up at me and I squint at him. He nods in solemn recognition as I am dropped arse first to the ground.
My attention is directed to a line of black painted bricks running up the side of the old house by the pond. We hitch up our skirts and climb through the pantry window. The clatter of pots and the smashing of vases a justifiable, ceremonial admonishment for the insult of maintaining a dwelling within and beyond the parish border. The boy continues to prod at the turf until the loud crack of a whip echoes out and he is startled back to his group.
Reece Jones, 2014