In this Brant Watch exclusive photograph, a visibly befuddled and distraught Patriarch Peter I is caught in the back-corridor bowels of Art Basel, seemingly unsure of where, and perhaps even who, he is. ‘I’m in a bad place,’ he whispered, shivering against an invisible breeze. ‘I wake up in a strange bed, I put some ‘clothes’ on my ‘body,’ I’m forced to walk around and converse with other supposed ‘human beings,’ but everything feels so hollow and fake, and one day—I swear—I’m going to punch through this veil of illusions and finger whatever’s on the other side.’ Patriarch Peter I had attended the major international art fair with his family, but he seemed unaware of their whereabouts. ‘You want to know what hell is?’ he asked Brant Watch. ‘Hell is having two kids who literally refer to you as ‘the ATM,’ as in ‘have you hugged the ATM today?’ or ‘better go pretend to love the ATM for five minutes before he stops spitting sweet hundos out of his fat face.’ Hell is having a wife who refuses to sleep with you more than once every six to eight months, and who has assembled a scrapbook of nude photos of herself that she gives to you, when you’re particularly handsy, along with the directive to ‘dear God go take care of yourself in the third floor bathroom already,’ a wife who, when she does deign to relieve you personally, in the Biblical sense, acts as if she’s performed an act of charity worthy of Mother Fucking Teresa. Hell is having to pretend that Nate Lowman is actually an artist. Hell is having to obsessively refresh and recheck a certain website ever since they made light of my manboobs. Hell is—’ At this point Patriarch Peter I suffered what appeared to be a minor epileptic fit, after which he removed his Cole Haan shoes and, putting them on his hands, began to enact what can only be described as an experimental puppet dialogue. ‘Sometimes life is grand,’ the left-hand shoe squawked. ‘And sometimes life is so, so sad,’ replied the right-hand shoe, drooping in an approximation of serious depression.
Patriarch Peter I’s publicist later issued a statement that the Patriarch had experienced a brief bout of psychosis catalyzed by a bad piece of sea urchin sashimi. The publicist denied the existence of any self-made, book-length marriage aids (though he did, in a press release, cop to personal episodes of “onanistic indulgence during my high school years relating to the Guns n’ Roses video for ‘November Rain.’ “)