Trash Art & Kreation- Library of Mu

Trash Art & Kreation

By Alix Sharkey (21 May, 1994, Guardian Weekend)

PORTRAIT

When the K Foundation nailed £1 million to a board, called it art and put it up for sale at £500,000, they spectacularly upstaged the Turner Prize. Then nothing. Their efforts were pointedly ignored by an art world that is, they say, po-faced, self-regarding and pretentious. Alix Sharkey profiles the culture terrorists who carved a subversive swathe out of pop as the KLF but are finding art a tougher proposition.

ON A BITTER November night 40 people emerge from a Kensington hotel wearing heavy boots. Waiting for them are seven white Cadillacs, the stretched limousine variety, parked end-to-end, chunky doors open, engines purring. Inside they find leather seats, fairy lights that twinkle in black velvet ceilings, chilled champagne and glasses.

At an unseen signal the motorcade pulls away from the hotel. Heading this strange caravan is an eighth, gold limousine, in which sits Mr Ball, silver beard neatly groomed, stocky, polite but firm. Mr Ball is the kind of man who brings a certain resonance to words like "discreet" and "professional". Mr Ball, wearing black tie, is tonight's MC and the only person in the motorcade who knows where we are going, geographically speaking.

Earlier, an argument occurred in a hotel corridor. "You can't expect my drivers to set off without knowing the route," someone had shouted. "Look, I can't tell you because I don't know myself!" came the exasperated reply.

People on street corners, dazzled by headlights, peer in as the convoy swoops past, through the streets of west London, on to the motorway flyover. Lorry drivers doing 70mph crane their necks. Who is it? A political delegation en route to Chequers or Windsor? The upper echelons of some loony religious cult, bound for a mass conversion rite in an aircraft hangar? A porn baron's entourage heading for an orgy at some sleazy country mansion? As with any motorcade, it has the usual connotations of finality, the end of an era. It is a magical mystery tour, playful, perverse, slightly sinister. A trip to the country, an evening out on Bill and Jimmy.

"Unwrap pop's layers and what we are left with is the same old meat and two veg that have kept generations of pop pickers well satisfied. The emotional appetite that pop satisfies is constant. The hunger is forever. What does change is the technology - this is always on the march. At some point in the future, science will satisfy this need in a more efficient way. For the time being we have our Top Tens and Number Ones, and while science marches to the beat that will eventually destroy it all, it also comes up with the goods that satisfy our other endless appetite, that of apparent change."
- From The Manual by The Timelords

BILL DRUMMOND and Jimmy Cauty were once the KLF, or Kopyright Liberation Front. At various times they were also known as The JAMS, The Timelords, the Justified Ancients Of Mu Mu, and by individual aliases including Kingboy D and Rockman Rock. They now prefer to be known as the K Foundation. But it is as the KLF that they will go down in pop history, for a variety of reasons, the most important being the resolute purity of their self-abnegation, and their visionary understanding of pop.

During the mid-Seventies Drummond, a 6ft 5in bespectacled Glaswegian, moved to Liverpool to study at the same art school as his hero, John Lennon. He was soon playing guitar for post-punk band Big In Japan (along with Holly Johnson, later of Frankie Goes To Hollywood), before helping launch the cult label Zoo Records. He then managed two commercially successful and influential Liverpool bands, Echo And The Bunnymen and The Teardrop Explodes.

"Bill was the catalyst for those bands," says K Foundation publicist Mick Houghton, who has worked with him since that period. Drummond is a creative strategist with an all-or-nothing approach to the industry, says Houghton, who cites the time he re-mortgaged his house to pay for a PA system and stage sets for the Bunnymen's UK tour. "He risked everything, but that tour made the Bunnymen. And as soon as he got the money back, he did it again, to finance a Teardrop Explodes album." Drummond also sent the Bunnymen on a tour of bizarre and apparently random sites, including the Northern Isles. "It's not random," he announced to a bemused journalist. "If you look at a map of the world, the whole tour is in the shape of a rabbit's ears."

Despite or because of this managerial flair, Drummond fell out with both acts, eventually landing a job as A&R man at WEA Records. Rob Dickens, WEA chairman, says Drummond was "obviously very sharp, and he knew the business. But he was too radical to be happy inside a corporate structure. He was better off working as an outsider."

It was at WEA that Drummond stumbled across a dance-pop act called Brilliant. The guitarist was Jimmy Cauty, a self-taught illustrator and art-theorist who, at 17, had enjoyed considerable royalties from a best-selling Athena poster of The Hobbit. By March 1987 the two had joined forces to record All You Need Is Love, a jagged slice of agit- prop about Aids coverage, featuring samples of BBC news broadcasts, Sam Fox and the Beatles. It was a club hit (ie everybody danced to it though nobody bought it), and after being re-edited to avoid copyright restrictions, it reached number three in the Indie chart.

This was followed by an LP, 1987: What The Fuck's Going On? which developed the cut-and-paste techniques that had made their debut single so shockingly effective. Sampling was still a relatively new method of composition then, and the JAMS were fast proving masters of the genre. Their promotional tactics were equally anarchic: they promoted the record by painting its title on the side of a tower block in 2ft-high white letters. Predictably, it was well-received by the music press. But it featured one track called The Queen And I which sampled heavily from Abba's Dancing Queen. Abba's record company and management, presumably outraged by the album title, were incensed and refused to cut a deal: they wanted every copy of 1987 recalled and destroyed.

Realising they would lose a legal battle, Cauty and Drummond decided on a grand, futile, attention-grabbing gesture, the kind that would come to characterise their collaborative career. They loaded a New Musical Express journalist and all remaining copies of 1987 into Cauty's car, and took a ferry to Stockholm to confront Abba. "We were being totally stupid about it" Drummond later admitted. After failing, predictably, to get an audience with the Scandinavians, they set fire to some records in a field and dumped the rest overboard on the return journey. Unrepentant, they sampled Whitney Houston for their next single, which was never commercially released, before putting out another album, Who Killed The JAMS?

DESPITE the regular club hits, none of these releases achieved great sales figures. It was only with Doctorin' The Tardis that the two finally started to recognise their obvious hit potential. "We were trying to make a hip, really obvious dance record using the Dr Who theme," said Drummond. "Jimmy played me some rhythms he'd been working on, in the car on the way to the studio. We thought, this is going to be massive, let's go for it, and we went the whole hog. The lowest common denominator in every respect." They also changed the name of the group to The Timelords for this release. Doctorin' The Tardis was a piss-take, and consisted of a yob chorus reciting "Dr Who, in the Tardis" to the tune of Gary Glitter's hit Rock 'n' Roll, interspersed with samples of The Sweet's Blockbuster and the Dr Who Theme over a house rhythm that might have been purchased at Woolworths. The cherry on top was a sample of Harry Enfield's Loadsamoney character, leering, "You wot? You wot? You wot?" It was a triumph for Trash Art and it spent exactly one week at the top of the chart. Perfect.

Not content with ridiculing the British pop industry with a Crap Number One record they didn't even play on, Drummond and Cauty published their formula in a book called The Manual (How To Have A Number One The Easy Way). In it, they revealed their "zenarchistic methods used in making the unthinkable happen'' and gave detailed and entirely practical instructions on how to make a chart-topping single first time out. No previous experience necessary. A number one hit, or your money back. An Austrian group called Edelweiss bought The Manual and followed the instructions. The resulting record, Bring Me Edelweiss, sampled heavily from Abba's hit SOS, and topped several European charts. In the UK, however, it only reached the top five. Rather sportingly, Edelweiss didn't demand their £5.99 back.

"The first thing you need is the irresistible dance-floor groove. At the time of writing it is the Summer Of Love 1988 and we would seriously advise anybody in search of the groove to spend the night at the ubiquitous acid house event, drink very little alcohol, loose your mind on the dance-floor and shake your hands in the air till you feel it. Of course drugs are something we cannot be seen to advocate but we understand that a certain very expensive narcotic makes this a lot clearer. "
- From The Manual by The Timelords

BY EARLY 1992 the KLF was easily the best-selling, probably the most innovative, and undoubtedly the most exhilarating pop phenomenon in Britain. In five years it had gone from pressing up 500 copies of its debut recording to being one of the world's top singles acts. In an 18-month period between August 1990 and March 1992 the KLF had five consecutive top five hits: What Time is Love, 3am Eternal, Last Train To Trancentral, Justified And Ancient and America: What Time Is Love (a remixed and reworked version of the original). Two of these made it to the second spot, while 3am Eternal gave Drummond and Cauty their second number one single.

"I honestly think they were the best pop group in the world during that five-year period," says Sheryl Garratt, editor of The Face. "And the music hasn't dated. I still get an adrenaline rush listening to it." Garratt believes their influence on the British house and rap scene cannot be overestimated. "Their attitude was shaped by the rave scene, but they also love pop music. So many people who make pop actually despise it, and it shows."

Meanwhile, the KLF had gone underground again, into the nascent acid house scene, using its sample-a-delic art techniques to make epic house tunes. In fact, all its pop hits had previously been released as dance anthems, custom-made for Ecstasy-driven rave culture. With acid house booming both at home and abroad, the KLF sound was reworked and ripped-off around the globe. Their response was to collect all the best remixes and cover versions and put them out on another LP. The KLF had its cake and ate it: club hits became pop hits, were remixed, and became club hits all over again. KLF activities were then based around their Camberwell HQ, a huge Victorian terraced house. In the basement were the ersatz 'Trancentral Studios', where their finest moments were recorded. The upper floors were home to Cauty and wife Cressida, herself an artist, and several others. Friends recall the good times, at the height of the acid-rave scene, when the KLF would throw "really brilliant fuck-off parties", sometimes lasting all weekend, with a fairly relaxed attitude to uninvited house guests. And the open-house vibe extended beyond socialising, into the duo's working methods.

"The KLF always worked around the idea that a group could be a loose collective. They'd pull in friends and associates, all sorts of people - to work on their stuff, or pull off a scam, or help with staging something special," says one who collaborated during that period. "Look at the videos. They're big productions, but they did it all themselves. Cressida did design and choreography, and they all pitched in on the costumes. Friends sewed sheets together to make the robes, others worked on the sets. It was all done by the KLF and their mates. They've always been into much more than just music." Yet this DIY ethic never got in the way whenever a big budget was called for. Cauty and Drummond simply had better uses for their money than hiring the image-tweekers that normally follow pop groups around. Various film projects were initiated and abandoned. Another, equally ambitious but far more successful project took place on the 1991 summer solstice.

BY NOW, the KLF had a solid reputation for stunts and scams - daubing bridges and advertising hoardings with weird and witty graffiti to promote new releases, hijacking awards ceremonies, creating fake corn circles - and generally introducing anarchy and chaos whenever they graced an event with their nebulous presence. Nobody knew what to expect next. Jonathan King decided to withdraw their invitation to perform at a music industry Brits awards ceremony after hearing of plans to fill the stage with spear-carrying Zulus and white angels, while Drummond and Cauty rode in astride a pair of elephants.

So it was with some trepidation that a group of 50 journalists, music-bizzers and friends arrived at Glasgow airport on June 21 1991 and boarded a chartered plane to an unknown destination. They were flown to Jura in the Inner Hebrides where, after passing an officious "passport controller" (Drummond in uniform, peak cap and dark glasses), they were told to don yellow Druidic robes, and chant mooooo while walking in ritual procession across this barren isle. On a secluded beach they witnessed a pagan ceremony involving the burning of a 60ft Wicker Man, stuffed with cash they had handed over earlier. The whole event, which ended with a post-ritual rave, as well as champagne, food and fireworks, was described to now delighted guests as The Rites Of Mu. Both the Land Of Mu and the JAMS moniker are plagiarisms from Robert Anton Wilson's Illuminatus novels, a bizarre sci-fi trilogy which weaves fact and fiction into a hazy hallucinatory narrative. Full of intriguing and half- credible conspiracy theories, the Illuminatus trilogy's mythic status seems to have inspired Drummond and Cauty to create a similar mystique around the KLF: in the Illuminatus books, the Justified Ancients Of Mu Mu are the Lords of Misrule, whose objective is to bring chaos wherever they go.

Despite the eerie overtones, i-D magazine's Sarah Champion described the Jura event as "a delirious fantasy, a dream world that existed only for a few hours". The total cost must have been in excess of £70,000. A massive publicity stunt? Hardly, since Drummond and Cauty refused all interviews, insisting that there was nothing to be said: it was all self-explanatory, although a video was made and later distributed.

Undoubtedly, the KLF's smartest move was to maintain The Luxury Of Anonymity. If fame is a barter system, the first thing the celebrity forfeits is privacy, the freedom to walk the streets unmolested and unobserved - a luxury we all take for granted. Like virginity, you can only lose it once, and no amount of money can buy it back, as countless stars have discovered to their regret. Drummond and Cauty, though, still go about unrecognised. Their success was all the more remarkable for its lack of conspicuous consumption. No Hampstead houses, no sports cars, no designer clothes. no model girlfriends, no jewellery, no suntans, no being photographed in trendy LA restaurants Photographs of Drummond and Cauty together were rarer than hens' teeth. Interviews rarer still. They refused to be interviewed for this piece, of course. This wariness of the media extends even to those friends who did speak. most of whom asked to remain anonymous.

In their ridiculous, over-the top videos. on Top Of The Pops, in photo sessions, they were almost always disguised, their faces often buried in flowing robes, a single horn protruding from the cowl. They deployed various singers and rappers - even a former Deep Purple vocalist - to front their records. On one occasional they appeared on TOTP as two life-sized ice cream cones. Their guises were variously dismissed as silly, pretentious or merely practical (given that neither has film-star looks) But their mistrust of conventional fame served them well in later efforts to recreate themselves.

In January 1992, the KLF was nominated as Best British Group at the back-slapping Brits awards and invited to perform. Since its career had been an on-off guerrilla war against the music business, this nomination seemed an obvious attempt to co-opt it. At the ceremony Drummond, in kilt and leather coat, walked onstage with a machine gun and fired a burst of blanks at a startled audience, before the KLF played a thrash-noise version of 3am Eternal. WEA chairman Rob Dickens, who was present, says the gesture was "pathetic, silly and childish". It got worse. At the post-awards party in a London hotel, Drummond and Cauty dumped a dead sheep in the foyer and drove off. Tied to it was a note saying, "I died for you." With this typically half-cocked and grandiloquent gesture, the KLF announced its retirement from the music industry. Since Drummond had "retired" twice already, nobody took much notice. Those who did suspected a scam, a pay-off, a Greatest Hits package or the like. But in May 1992 the KLF deleted its entire back catalogue, thus forfeiting all future royalties. A full-page ad in the music press announced there would be no more records from the KLF or its aliases. The KLF was dead.

"Money is a very strange concept. Nobody wins the pools. There is no such thing as a fast buck. Nobody gets rich quick. El Dorado will never be found. Wealth is a slow build an attitude to life. That said. you must be willing to risk everything - that's everything you haven't got as well as you haven't - or nothing will happen.
- From The Manual by The Timelords

IT IS November 23 1993, 30 years and a day since JFK's fatal motorcade rolled through Dallas, and the night of the Turner Prize, awarded annually by London's Tate Gallery and Channel 4 to the British artist producing the "best" body of work. Public involvement is limited to the nominating entries, but the winner is chosen by the powerful Turner Committee, a group of influential curators, critics and gallery owners. Many think their choice is inherently political, too - that the art establishment uses the Turner award to fulfil a cultural agenda whose prime objective is the preservation of said art establishment. It is, they say, just the Art Barons handing out gongs to prove their own importance, and justify their continued patrimony.

Drummond and Cauty are now the K Foundation, a body dedicated to the "advancement of kreation". For months, a series of full-page advertisements has appeared in the quality press, with two-inch white type on black background. The first commands us to "Abandon All Art Now", and "Await Further Instructions". The next says: "It has been brought to our attention that you did not Abandon All Art. Serious Direct Action is therefore necessary. The K Foundation will award u40,000 to the artist who has produced the worst body of work in the last 12 months." Then come two more, the first posing 10 questions like: "Why is it worth struggling to promote public discussion of contemporary British Art?" The second invites the public to nominate the worst artist of the four on the Turner Prize shortlist. The winner of this public ballot will receive the K Foundation's prize of u40,000 - double that of the Turner award.

THE MOTORCADE stops at Heston motorway services. All 25 journalists present receive a white envelope. "They've given you how much?" asks one driver. There is £1,650 in unused u50 notes in each envelope, and a page of instructions: You will be at the site of the Amending Of Art History for approximately 15 minutes. Enclosed is part of the 1994 K Foundation award. Every witness has £1,600 in cash. Collectively you all have £40,000 cash." Another page reads: "There is an extra u50 note in your wad. This is for you to have verified for its non- counterfeit status and spend on whatever you want." The Turner Prize, sponsored by Channel 4, is worth £20,000. The K Foundation has spent £20,000 on advertising time during Channel 4's coverage of the Turner awards ceremony, to notify viewers that "the motorcade to the Amending Of Art History is on its way". In effect, the K Foundation is paying for both awards. The motorcade sets off again, speeding into the countryside. Signs for a nearby airfield elicit nervous jokes about being parachuted on to the Tate with the prize money. The cars stop. Everybody gets out and stands in a field, the ground solid with frost. They are dazzled by the halogen floodlights in each corner.

Two orange Saracen armoured cars circle the perimeter, blaring out Abba's hit song Money Money Money and K Cera Cera (War Is Over If You Want It), an unreleased recording by the K Foundation. Using a megaphone, Mr Ball urges everyone towards a desk. Everyone has to hand over a £10 note, which is torn in two. Half of the tenner is then returned, with a "catalogue" explaining the work on display. For there, standing on an easel in the middle of this frozen Surrey field, is £1 million in bundles of crisp fifties, nailed to a wooden pallet, and flanked by two hefty bouncers in black suits and dicky bows. One million pounds. In cash. This is the first in a series of K Foundation art installations involving vast sums of cash. All are for sale, but only by postal bids. The reserve price of the works has been set at half the face value of the cash involved. Nailed To The Wall - face value a cool million - is up for sale at £500,000. The catalogue states: "Over the years the face value will be eroded by inflation, while the artistic value will rise and rise. The precise point at which the artistic value will overtake the face value is unknown. Deconstruct the work now and you double your money. Hang it on a wall and watch the face value erode, the market value fluctuate, and the artistic value soar. The choice is yours. The point is simple: art as a speculative currency, and vice-versa. To put it more bluntly: Art equals Money, and Money equals Art.

Mr Ball barks out orders. Everyone must take their £1,600 and nail it to another pallet, to be delivered - as an art-work - to the K Foundation's prize-winner, Rachael Whiteread. (At this point Channel 4's live coverage had not yet announced Whiteread as winner of the Turner award.) There is a scrum as people nail the money down. Some are too dignified and ask others to bash their cash for them. But as they wander back to the cars Mr Ball calls out: four people have with- held their money. Will they please nail it down. Nobody comes forward. The award is £6,400 light. In fact, a few hundred more has been skimmed off various piles, leaving a shortfall of over £8,000. Amazingly, nobody is searched, even though Drummond and Cauty have videotaped the whole event from the Saracens. Thirtysomething grand, nailed to a board with a gilt frame, is loaded into Mr Ball's gold Cadillac, and the motorcade speeds to the Tate, arriving as the art glitterati descend from the banquet. They are confronted by the boozy entourage, many still wearing the fluorescent orange vests and hard hats provided by the K Foundation. The prize is unloaded and chained to the Tate's railings. Whiteread, having agreed initially to accept the prize should she win, has since dismissed this "absurd joke and publicity stunt" and said she will not accept the prize. The K Foundation has informed her that should she refuse it, the money will be burned. She will not come out. People are shouting, especially the drunken journalists. Mr Ball says the cash will burn in five minutes, and a man called Gimpo, wearing a balaclava, stands by, matches and petrol at the ready. Eventually, a tear-stained Whiteread emerges to accept her award, and says she is "honoured". Mr Ball promises the shortfall will be made up in the morning. Whiteread disappears. A cheer greets the announcement that she will give half the money to poor artists, the rest to the charity Shelter. No fire. No cultural war. No bloodshed. The event fizzles out, people wander off into freezing darkness. The motorcade departs. Through the tinted windows of a Jeep parked across the road, Drummond and Cauty watch the Amending Of Art History dissolve into nothingness. The bill for their big Night Out is nearly a quarter of a million pounds. They are laughing.

"Cynicism can debunk fraudulent mysteries that prevent us from sharing what is possible and what is ours. But at all times it must be balanced with a belief and faith in the intrinsic goodness of our fellow man. You are not going to be able to cheat your way to the top. It is only by nurturing the goodness that everybody wants to express are the doors going to be held open for you. "
- From The Manual by The Timelords

WHAT DID all that money buy the K Foundation? Despite extensive coverage of the event, there was precious little critical analysis. Not even the quality press deemed this astonishing series of events worthy of more than a dismissive "so-what?" Does that not amount to dereliction of duty? After all, whatever you think about the K Foundation, or pop music, or would-be art megastars, these people have just squandered u250,000 on making a point about the nature of art. Yet no one thought it worthy of serious debate. Maybe the majority of art critics realised the dangers implicit in even beginning to confront their extraordinary gesture on its own terms? That by acknowledging it, they would undermine their own cultural authority? After all, if you accept that the K Foundation did manage to expose the utter hypocrisy and cant surrounding the Turner, where does that leave the various critics who have taken it seriously, year after year? Is it any wonder they shrugged it off as a half-baked situationist prank by a pair of bored ex-pop stars? The Late Show for example, ignored the K Foundation award completely and screened a debate on the validity of House. Rachel Whiteread's plastercast artwork, built on East End waste ground: in effect, conforming to the cultural agenda determined by the Tate, Channel 4 and the art establishment.

"The big critics just ignored it in the hope that it would go away," says Mick Houghton. "When it became a news story they were let off the hook. They could leave it to the news boys, who don't have to analyse it. It was all over in a day. There was no attempt to grasp the point.

Carl Freedman, art critic for Freeze magazine, says. "Questions about the nature and value of art. who controls it and defines it, have been asked continuously since Duchamp." While conceding that the event was "funny and slightly subversive", Freedman feels the K Foundation's point - that ultimately art and money are completely interchangeable - is an old one. Interestingly, Freedman has readily admitted in Freeze to pocketing his u1,650, claiming that "you can't have controlled anarchy". He denies that his opinion of the event is compromised and invalidated because he took the money, thus interfering with the "art".

Face journalist Cliff Jones, the second person to nail his wad to the board. found the event ''profoundly exhilarating'' and believes that the K Foundation did manage to shock the art world out of its sluggish complacency. "They invaded it, and introduced a real sinister element, subversion of the darkest kind." Modern Review art critic John O'Reilly, the 12th person to nail his cash to the board, believes, "The whole point of the K Foundation is its anonymity. There's no origin, just a Circulation of data and concepts. There is no master plan, no grand narrative." O'Reilly enjoyed the "sense of waste and sacrifice involved", and thinks that valid questions went unanswered. "Art moves across media, and art critics often fail to see this. Perhaps art Critics are still too gallery-bound." Whiteread's agent Karston Schubert says, "The whole affair was a non-event. They achieved nothing and they were left looking like real prats."

Would they have burned the cash? "Without a shadow of a doubt. I'm certain of it. I looked into Gimpo's eyes and he was wired," says Cliff Jones.

"Absolutely definitely.' says Carl Freedman. "I wish they had. It would have been brilliant. it would have been much better. It would have been just totally outrageous. People would have been falling out of their-chairs, saying. "I can't believe they just burned u40,000"

Perhaps it would have been more effective if they had. Certainly it would have made little difference to Drummond and Cauty. For. as Sarah Champion noted after the Jura extravaganza: "Being 'in the money' doesn't mean they'll ever be rich. They'll always be skint, but their pranks will get more extravagant. If they earned ul0 million, they'd blow it all by buying Jura or a fleet of K Foundation airships or a Van Gogh to be ceremonially burned."

Bill Drummond is working with Zodiac Mindwarp on an illustrated book about dreams. Jimmy Cauty and his wife Cressida are playing with their twins Harold and Daisy. There are no immediate plans for more serious Direct Action, although a proposed exhibition at the Tate in Liverpool was recently scraped. Await Further Announcements. The KLF is dead. Long live the K Foundation.

Pictures: Large Drummond and Cauty. - DYNAMIC DUO: Bill Drummond (left) and Jimmy Cauty have been launching art attacks on the pop world since 1987. Once known as the Justified Ancients of Mu Mu, then as the KLF they first topped the charts as the Timelords with Doctorin' The Tardis, featuring samples from the Doctor Who theme

The Anderton 'Shag Shag Shag' billboard; the robed Rites of Mu procession; Nailed to the Wall 1 million pounds in a picture frame. - DIRECT ACTION: Early excursions into the world of scam featured time-honoured defacing billboard posters (top). Stunts then became progressively more outrageous and included a pagan ritual, with costumes on the Isle of Jura (centre). Finally, on the night the that the 1993 Turner Prize was announced on live TV, the K Foundation transported a motorcade of journalists to a field, gave them £1650 each and invited them to nail it to a pallet (above). It was then taken to London where it was given to Turner prize winner Rachel Whiteread.

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