Shayley Crabtree

Shayley Crabtree BA (Hons) Interactive Arts 2020

I have recently started working with clay, incorporating my humour into sculpture form. The inspiration for this piece comes from the bizarre conversations that flow within my friendship group, which spark connections to comical situations that I have encountered. I want the viewers not to understand, but to be left curious for the story behind these diverting characters.

Contact Shayley

scrabtree45@outlook.com
instagram.com/sourtab
Tap Dancing In Hell I twiddle my thumbs and pick my winnets amongst a throng of people like I, Yet I am belittled into a submissive puppet of the Alive and Dead’s show, For I am, after all, the freak of hell. They point their fingers and laugh in my face, As I tap dance upon my fiery stage, That could never burn as much as the shame I hold for my foolish mistakes. I am an unnecessary piece of crap entertainment, And my feeble haggard ball sack is my only friend, And even he hates me, for it his not his fault. I do pity him and his wispy grey hairs, That frolic beside me in the junior-school-like pumps, Deep within the slums of my smelly, rancid arse hole, Which has become an artificial design of hell. As I tap my gangly crooked toes upon the stage, I hear the audience of inmates chatter amongst themselves about, and I quote: “What is the deal with going to Mars when you can see this renegade make a show of himself for free?”. Everyone’s pinched my cigars. I know it’s because they think I’m a loser. God, I hate this.
Tap Dancing In Hell I twiddle my thumbs and pick my winnets amongst a throng of people like I, Yet I am belittled into a submissive puppet of the Alive and Dead’s show, For I am, after all, the freak of hell. They point their fingers and laugh in my face, As I tap dance upon my fiery stage, That could never burn as much as the shame I hold for my foolish mistakes. I am an unnecessary piece of crap entertainment, And my feeble haggard ball sack is my only friend, And even he hates me, for it his not his fault. I do pity him and his wispy grey hairs, That frolic beside me in the junior-school-like pumps, Deep within the slums of my smelly, rancid arse hole, Which has become an artificial design of hell. As I tap my gangly crooked toes upon the stage, I hear the audience of inmates chatter amongst themselves about, and I quote: “What is the deal with going to Mars when you can see this renegade make a show of himself for free?”. Everyone’s pinched my cigars. I know it’s because they think I’m a loser. God, I hate this.
Tap Dancing In Hell
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