This is the Bitterness Talking

A PV Gremlin goes to work

Thursday 7th May, 2026

I am not where I want to be. No-one here cares about the dreams I may or may not have, they care only about what I can do for them. And they look pleased. Surrounded by art and merch, they mill, chat, gawp, laugh and hug. We are divided by a bar. They are on one side of the divide and I am on the other, less a person than a human bucket of ice cold beers, a rum-punch supplier, an endless re-filler of red and white wine. Something bitter is growing inside me.

The bitterness had taken seed when I arrived at the venue. I was told that the plastic cups that would eventually house the punch needed to be taken out of their boxes and set up at the bar. So far so normal. I sliced open a box with my keys, pulled out a sleeve of cups, and found that each cup had also been individually wrapped in plastic. They were the kind of cups you’d find in a hotel room next to the kettle, mugs, and milk sachets. What’s more, the actual cup inside was so weak that a rash movement while unwrapping would crack the cup at the base and render it unusable. A process that ordinarily takes a few minutes threatened to take a thousand years.

I spent an hour carefully de-sleeving the cups, pulling them apart, unwrapping them, stacking them, and going again. I watched two people swanning around the gallery area, minutely adjusting vases, flowers, and the placement of coffee table books around us. They pointed, considered, stepped back and placed their fingers on their chins. After making a pointless change, one would ask the other what they thought and receive glowing reviews. I looked, I seethed, I unwrapped another cup. The beginning of the event was not far away.

The occasion was a PV hosted by a file sharing company in a for-hire gallery in a trendy part of south London. They run the website of choice for creatives looking to send large files. While you’re uploading those files, the website showcases the work of various artists on a carousel screensaver for about ten seconds. This way, the company can say they’re giving artists a spotlight and some exposure, and this PV was exhibiting some of those artists. As hordes of guests began to swarm the gallery, it became quite easy to spot the artists in the crowd because the non-artists were all dressed in black, beige, or white. I hated them and I couldn’t figure out why. Yes, the money dripped from the walls, the bar was free, and they were giving away pointless merch tat, but I didn’t really mind. I had been to these kinds of things before, I had been a member of the amassed hordes and loved it. There had to be some reason I felt so rageful.

Dropping a lime into a cup of punch, I realised that this wasn’t a PV at all. It was a staff party masquerading as an exhibition. The employees looked smug. They were pretending, role-playing being a creative person because they worked in an ostensibly creative industry. They operated near artists and they had a salary. Whereas, if they’re lucky, the artists either get ten seconds on a screensaver or an evening on a wall. I couldn’t stop thinking that their industry couldn’t exist without the artists, without their inspiration and perseverance and whatever, whose work somehow supports all these smug, comfortable, professionals.

I say this less eloquently to my friend behind the bar. She says, “it’s not even creative. It’s just a file sharing company.”

“When they work,” I say, “they probably feel like they’re facilitating the creative arts. When I work, murder becomes more likely.”