THESE days just about anything passes for art. A pile of bricks, an unmade bed, a pickled cow.
And now, one of the most bizarre "exhibitions' yet is being staged by an artist whose latest work involves disposing of every single thing he owns.
Absolutely everything that Michael Landy has amassed during his 37 years on the planet including his books, CDs, clothing, furniture and expensive works of art is being placed on a conveyor belt for public view before being destroyed in a special crunching machine.
Even his car is being stripped down and scrapped at the London venue.
To someone like me, who has a problem throwing away old yoghurt pots in case we need them for seedlings and who keeps newspapers for decades, the very idea is nightmarish.
In our house, a clear-out involves binning the odd pair of tights with more ladders than Bob the Builder, or removing a bunch of long-dead flowers from a vase.
I should be more ruthless - our home would certainly benefit from less hoarding.
So, in the name of art, I have drawn up a list of things that should have seen the inside of a dustbin long ago and I fully intend to throw them out.
I have also listed things that should go, but - for reasons close to the heart - I cannot bear to part with. To the bin - and no looking back - go: nMy old school books: Do I really need reminding just how hopeless I was at most subjects?
nKnickers I've had since my late teens: I've sub-consciously hung on to these dish cloth-like scraps of lace for more than two decades because they remind me of the days when what I chose to wear under my clothing really mattered. The days when I had a great social life, when I might have got lucky and not wanted to disappoint. And also, it's good to be reminded that my smalls haven't always resembled a Second World War parachute.
nLP records: Most people don't even know what these are (my seven-year-old neighbour thought they were frisbees), and it's impossible to find anywhere to play them outside a museum.
A junk shop can have the bulk of them - but I don't want to be on the receiving end of any stifled sniggers so Donny Osmond's Puppy Love and Alvin Stardust's My Coo-Ca-Choo will meet a more terminal end.
nElectric curling tongs: Used in the days when every self-respecting girl wanted to look like the then Farrah Fawcett Majors, it gave me a wonderful wave-like flick at each side of my head. Heavily lacquered, it must have looked as natural as Jordan's breasts. Possessions that I should chuck, but can't bring myself to include:
nLove letters from former boyfriends: These should go, but, as I grow older and find the only men I attract are the winos in the local park, I feel an overwhelming need to know that - at some point in my life - I was the object of more than one young, sober, good-looking fella's affection.
nA gorgeous size ten dress I bought in Principles' sale seven years ago: I struggled into it then, and truly believed I'd slim down within a year. But children and fast food kicked that into touch. Still, it's staying in my wardrobe as a weight loss incentive.
It's a very brave thing to destroy all your worldly goods. Michael Landy describes it as liberating. On the point of disposing of a few things, I don't feel the same way.
In fact, I'm already fretting that the Farrah look will make a comeback.
And, loath as I am to admit it, I quite liked My Coo-Ca-Choo. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to hang on to them just a bit longer.
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