Poop, Dreams and ART

So here I am, in the middle of a sports hall, sitting on a bucket and shitting. One man walks in and heads straight toward me to start a conversation. Then another. Then another. I roll my eyes, sending a clear nonverbal clue: Mate, seriously? Not the time for a chat. Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out how on earth I’m going to lift my bum to wipe if they just keep standing around. More people begin to file in, and now I’m trying to work out where to dispose of the bucket.

Why didn’t I check if all toilets were really out of order? I should have done that!!!???

Shame? Embarrassment? Overthinking? Or does it feel like I pretending that all is under control and all easy?

Anyway… that was just a dream.

Dreams are those moments when the subconscious finally gets to speak and tell us what it really feels — and it doesn’t hold back if we pay attention. Unfortunately subconscious doesn’t speak in words. It waves symbols, images, and feelings at us like Morse code flags, hoping we’ll pause and decode the message.

So, I try to listen. I honour my dreams and their strange ways of speaking.

And then I ask ChatGPT to be my dream translator — because it can crochet together patterns and meanings faster than any dream book could.

I run it all through my own “resonance filter” — what makes sense stays, the rest I toss.

Of course, AI being AI, it suggests — as always — that I turn this into art. Sure, sometimes that fits. But this time? “Omg, Are you serious!?” I ask, half annoyed, half curious. And it starts passionately describing details and scene of painting of me pooping in a sports hall. It dives into taboos, vulnerability, shame, exposure… art history… symbolism… So I challenge it — “Give me actual famous examples of art involving poop then!” And it delivers. And guess what? Done before. Sold for $$$$.

Famous Art That Went There:

Piero Manzoni – Artist’s Shit (1961) He literally canned his own poo. Sold 90 signed tins labeled “Artist’s Shit – 30 grams.” A critique on how art is commodified — what happens when the artist literally sells crap?

Marcel Duchamp – Fountain (1917) Not poop, but a signed urinal. It shocked the art world, questioned what counts as art, and kicked off conceptual art.

Paul McCarthy - Wild installations with bodily fluids, defecation, performance chaos. Critiques consumerism, patriarchy, and cultural repression.

Wim Delvoye – Cloaca Professional (2000s) At MONA in Tasmania, this machine eats, digests, and poops — for real. Produces real-smelling feces as art. Commentary on modern waste and absurdity. I saw this one myself. People actually line up to see and smell the poop.

No. I am not going to paint poop. I’ll just write about it — way less mess, effort, and cost.

I’ll paint flowers instead. I will be a “good girl”. :D More chance to sell and less chance to appear odd and be judged. ;)

But whether whispered in petals or shouted in poop buckets — it’s all a longing to express. To create. To tell some story. Without shame. Because that’s what this dream was really about: The shame of simply being as you are. The guilt of not always doing what we “should.” The discomfort of being seen in our process of growing, mess, non perfection— raw, vulnerable, human.

Some people spend their whole lives waiting until they’re perfect, polished, talented, or smart enough to put their work out there. But that path often leads nowhere, because we are never ready, always learning and getting better with every trail and fail. Others just go for it — flaws, weirdness, and all — and let people judge.

There will always be haters, lovers, critics. Even your most “perfect” work will get judged by someone.

And the harshest critics? Usually the ones too afraid to ever put themselves out there. They’re terrified of being caught pooping in public, metaphorically speaking. The ones who’ve done it? They know what it takes. And they’ll cheer you on.

So try it. Put yourself out there if you ever dreamed to be seen or heard or want to change something. Call it Exposure therapy.

Paint your flowers. Or your dreams. Or your poo bucket. It is not about art, it is about trying to be you and say what you really feel or think. Just… maybe not literally shit in public.

Artwork: Jenny Saville, Self Portrait, 1991