Get a Bunny, They Said (The Art and the Artist)
Get a bunny, they said. It will be peaceful, they said. I am Azmi from Meknes, and I would like to present, for the consideration of the diary, the latest exhibition in my living room: the art, and the artist. The art is a chewed creation I discovered on Sunday morning. The artist is Fluffy, fluffy, unbothered, adorable, and sitting beside her work with the posture of a master awaiting reviews. Admission was free. The restoration fund is my weekend.
Exhibition notes: the piece
The piece, untitled but evocative, shows clear evidence of sustained engagement with the medium. Edges have been reworked with confidence. Structural elements have been reinterpreted. What was once, say, a tidy household object is now an open question about impermanence. Critics, meaning me, holding a dustpan, have called it devastating. The artist, meaning Fluffy, has called it Tuesday. I photographed the artwork for the archive, mourned it briefly, and swept up the offcuts while the creator supervised from a loaf position, chin resting, eyes half closed, utterly at peace with her choices.
About the artist
Fluffy works exclusively in found materials and works fast. Her method involves circling the object twice, testing one corner with great delicacy, and then committing fully, the way I commit to a second cup of tea on a slow morning. She does not sketch. She does not pause for feedback. Her previous periods include the cardboard phase, the rug-fringe phase, and the memorable willow-ball deconstruction that I documented when I wrote about how I decorated the tunnel toy, an object she received as enrichment and reinterpreted as a project. Collectors, meaning me again, have preserved every phase in photographs, because while the objects do not survive, the record must.
The Sunday chores, reviewed
Sunday in my house is now a two-part program: chores, then admiration of the culprit. The chores themselves are straightforward. I sweep, I check the baseboards, I rotate the toys, I fold the blanket she has rearranged into a nest that seats one rabbit and zero humans. Then comes the admiration, which takes longer. I sit on the floor, Fluffy climbs onto my lap or beside it, and I tell her she is lucky she is cute, which she receives as the compliment it is. This routine has repeated weekly for long enough that I no longer distinguish between tidying the house and curating the gallery. The gallery simply has a very active resident artist.
Friends ask why I am not mad, and the honest answer is that anger never survived contact with the artist. I walk in, I see the damage, I open my mouth, and Fluffy looks up with that soft round face, and the sentence dissolves. Cute covers a multitude of sins, and Fluffy’s account is well funded. Besides, I have learned that chewing is not mischief but occupation. A rabbit without projects invents worse ones. So I supply the approved materials, the willow, the cardboard, the seagrass, and I accept that anything left at rabbit height has been submitted to the exhibition voluntarily, whether I meant it or not.
Patronage and its costs
Every patron of the arts pays, and I pay in Sundays. I have replaced more small household things than I will itemize, and I have rearranged the room so the precious and the chewable live on different levels. Cables are covered, the good blanket lives on a high shelf, and the rabbit zone is stocked like a studio: chew toys, tunnels, boxes with doorways I cut myself. It is the same thinking that put a professional snacker on my couch permanently, as recorded in the saga of the fluffy couch snacker. Prevention is cheaper than restoration, and infinitely calmer.
There is also the matter of spicy celery, which appears in the original diary note and deserves curatorial context. Fluffy’s tastes run bold. She prefers her greens with character and regards plain offerings with polite disdain. I indulge this within my usual careful feeding habits, small portions, watched and noted, and anything that ever looks like a health question goes to the vet, because the gallery employs professionals for anything medical and the keeper sticks to sweeping. The artist eats well, works hard, and naps hardest of all.
Closing reception
So here stands the record: the artwork assessed, mourned, and photographed; the artist fluffy, unbothered, and adorable; the sacrifices for the greater good ongoing and willingly made. Destroy, forgive, photograph, in that order, every week. I would not trade the exhibition for an undamaged house, because an undamaged house would mean a rabbit with nothing to do, and a rabbit with nothing to do is a sadder thing than any chewed corner. Get a bunny, they said, and they were right in the way that matters. The chores are mine, the art is hers, and the house belongs to both of us, teeth marks and all.
Next in this chapter…
Vinegar Pro-Tip: White Funk Melts Away
I am Azmi in Meknes, and the most valuable thing I own cost less than bread: a bottle of white…
Escape Artists: How Do They Get Out?
I am Azmi in Meknes, first-time owner of two eleven-week-old escape artists, and for a week my large pen held…
Pippin vs the Robot Vacuum (Treats Help)
I am Azmi, writing from my living room in Meknes, and I can now draw you a map of this…