INTERVIEW by K.S. (översättning till svenska kommer senare)

It's the time of day when the invisible people come out to play, you know the ones. The doors open. The doors close. They enter, they sit down. They've disappeared before their cheeks hit the seat.

It's the subway all over again, I keep coming back to it. It was Hannes' idea, though.

I called him up – trans-atlantic since he's been living in Vancouver for about a cancelled ice hockey season: Trans-atlantic calls breaking my balls, is it day is it night I don't know? Three signals, then Hey Hannes what are you doing/I'm painting a portrait of my genitalia Kral/Really well ok then.

We decided we should meet on the subway, don't ask me why, it was Hannes idea –

It's the time of day when the invisible people come out to play, you know the ones. I'm one of them, hell who aren't? Very few of us, I tell you. Some of us stick to canvas or paper to turn visible. Me, I stuck to canvas thanks to Hannes, in this piece I have a face ( sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken though ).

Anyway, me and the rest of the invisible fuckers ride the subway, have sandwiches on the subway, fall asleep on the subway and wake up far, far away in unknown generic-looking neighbourhoods – bears pass us, see the big chunks of houses and space-stone. Here I meet Hannes. I say Dude ( because I'm here to write something about art ) many of your paintings portrait people – often famous artists or painters or writers, people who have made a name for themselves by acting and creating some crazy shizit, am I wrong?

- No Kral, your not wrong, you're just an asshole.

We laaaugh.

- But seriously, how important is the artist behind a piece of art?

Hannes looks at me ( and suddenly I realise how much he looks like Paris Hilton, they could be siblings ), says: Important. I think I have to like the mind behind to be able to like the piece on a deeper level. Picture a walk in the park, a piece of canvas falls down from the clear blue and it's an amazing painting of two cats on it and you go nuts, I mean really baliopa-crazy, because what's this all about, what's going on here? The sky is letting go of the astonishing cat painting and you're the one getting a hold of it! Hip hip hooray you know. You're really happy and everything and you start looking for a signature and there it is and you se it's a collaboration painting signed by Margret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan. That would really piss me of. I think it would anyway. I don't know. If I really like an artist I don't check his stuff out as critically as when it's somebody I find myself sceptical to. That's no first-class behaviour is it? All you need is a person with some kind of skill and a barrel filled with good intention. It's different from time to time. Sometimes you feel like the … that Machiavelli saying… the purpose the needs… If a bad fool kind of guy can make some poor bastard understand something and become a more open-minded lover and a better kisser and nice to his little brother or whatever, that's a good thing. But why would a bad fool do that? I mean they don't tend to do that…

Sweet gently rocking subway cars and asian people everywhere. It's like a japanese cartoon, neon lights going bzzt-bzzt . Can you smell the ocean and fish?

The train pulls to a stop and we get of at the central station. It's five minutes to rush hour and eerily empty, since the only ones here are the invisible people. We feel like gods as we ride the elevator to the surface, being the only visible people around – even though we're standing up to our knees in urine.

You know I could write just abouy anything about Hannes. I could write about the time he asked me to shoot him in the hand with an air gun, and how I wouldn't so he got our friend the Monkey to do it. Blood everywhere and a hysterical Monkey running for the woods –

Or I could write something cool about drugs and cars – speed, glorious speed. Or maybe about how Hannes once got hit by a subway train. We laaaughed –

But no, I'm supposed to write about art now, aren't I? ( Two security guards jumping on a guys head, make a quick note, a smart remark – fuck the police ) Anyway. Dude – a guy from the fine, glossy magazine Bon once said that he percieved some of your paintings a bit naive in it's critizism of the media.

- Yes, he sure did, says Hannes.

- I remember reading that, thinking 'Well screw that guy, the only proper way to make fun of retards, ie the media, is to laugh and point finger, right? '

- How would one cope if one didn't?/I don't know.

- So how do you feel about that? I mean some of your paintings aren't exactly subtle, if you know what I'm getting at? I'm thinking of the painting 'According to swedish law, naked women are to be raped, preferably more than once ' which to me is a kind of a feminist piece of art, and I know politics and maybe even questions concerning ethics to be a big part of your artsywork.

Right?

- Riiight.

Hannes looks at me and lights a cigarette lighter. Do you smoke, I ask. No, he replies. I quit. But speaking of the paintings … subtle … no, maybe they aren't. Not at first. But always depending on whom you are and how you look at things. But I get it, and especially in this case with the rape painting; its more of a furious one. But after the first impression you have all this information left inside of you that'll take some subtle time to sort out.

We're stairing out the window to breathe ( since we're inside the coffee shop by now ) and the city is all clear like a empty bottle or someting ( smoke wiggling around inside ), at least in my head ( You're a voice in my head, Hannes says/You're a voice in mine, I reply ) – see I'm writing as we speak last week or something.

Dude where are we/where was I?

He's finished hogging the air, passes it to the booze-hound on the left and continues where he dropped off, saying:

- You know, pointing your finger at the media and laugh is one way of doing it – either that or Ken Kesey it; turn your back and say fuck it. Don't even bother to point out the ridiculous and go down a new path. But that's difficult though, and I'm sure the Merry Pranksters is not the final answer but damn they contributed good stuff: like the ‘nothing lasts' idea, that's the best one.

Dude if people would consider that sometimes. Like imagine the beauty of a conservative Jewish mother just finding out her only son wants to merry a goy-bastard and her reaction would just be ‘what does she look like, is she pretty?'. That would be something.

Or if the president of America would say ‘we will destroy all our weapons of mass destruction as a good role model. And we're sorry.' You know stuff like that, just give it up. People would be sooo surprised, not just get their circles moved but see their hula hoops flying down Grand Canyon . Ahh happiness!

The ethics and the politics in my art are walking hand in hand. I think it's as simple as treat each other with respect and realize the value of every individual (same). Like Rodney King said: ‘can't we all just get along'.

All of a sudden we're out rock climbing . Amazing view, I can see my house from here. So, when did you become an artist, I gasp – the air is thin and dry, feels like emphysema – as big birds circle round and round high above the ledge I'm clinging to.

- I've always known I was an artist but I started painting rather recently, like four years ago, yells Hannes from below. The sound carries kilometers and a faint rumbling comes bouncing down the mountainside. Like a big purring cat or a rumbling stomach. This is peachy now isn't it, I say.

- I really don't like peach, says Hannes. And I hate green. Awful colours. I like yellow though. When I realized that the paint bucket and the brush is comparable to the pen in the pen and the sword thing I was happy not only because the sound improvement (try it: the paint bucket is mightier than the sword – and try the echoe: buck- buck- buck-eeet ) but because it was the truth.

Now I understand that some ancient Greek people have a notion about the truth, that it is somewhat unreliable and that you can never know for sure whether something is or isn't. I agree with that. But since I don't know any better I've decided to take the word for the world. I mean it's too much to understand for real and I think we have a pretty good illustration going on here anyway. Most of it sucks of course and we don't really seem to learn from our mistakes and so but maybe it'll change. I'd like to change it. Paint it brown or something. Brown and white. I just finished a painting in brown and white; it's really a beautiful combination. By the way. Did you ever wish you were black? ‘Coz I know I do.

- No… I say, lingering a moment at the thought of a black Kral. But I feel kind of jewish. I think I always have.

On the summit is an old Inka-temple guarded by stone gargoyles the size of buses. Piles of bones in the corners. We turn back, hitch-hike our way down again. No reason to –

- If you could wish for one thing…?

- Good question. I guess a big bag of drugs. You know, like Hunter S'. How ‘bout you?

- Guns. For fatally wounding small, innocent animals.

On this altitude the clouds have personalities. You see them drift by and miss them once they're gone.

In an almost unfathomable strike of luck and/or chance, we meet ourselves going up on the way down.

Back in the city/at the coffe shop. The first thunder-storm of the year rolls by as I write this. Hannes is watching from a painting on the wall, cheers fucker! Time is all screwed up here. It's that goddamned jet-lag timezone bullshit – just can't get a grip of it.

Outside the window a kind of nazi-looking man all dressed in black passes on the street, talking loudly about moral and art – the very same subject we were discussing just a minute ago: When-I-die-I'm-going-to-donate-my-body-to-art-I-hope-someone-fucks-me-or-chops-me-up-or-something-as-art-I-mean he says like he mattered.

- Well he doesn't, the fucker, I say to Hannes. It's the moment before the rain comes and the world is sticky, yet cold. Stupid springtime –

We get out into the street again and follow the cold trail of the lousy artist. Maybe we should find him and kill him, I say. You know, just to –

No, that's stupid, Hannes responds and since the rain's seized the street is again all dusty an full of exhaust fumes. Rips your lungs clean out, flapping wet and bloody on the sidewalk. I'm leaving it at that since I don't know what else.