'The artist is driven - by the very fact of being an artist - to realise, to create in art, that which is not, which cannot be, because, as soon as it is realised in concrete terms (paint or words) it ceases to be itself. Consequently, it must fail.' (Richard N Coe, Beckett. Oliver and Boyd, Edinburgh/London, 1964). I consoled myself that I might have succeeded by the very fiction of being an artist. My creation of a convincing puddle in a ready-made and authentic puddled landscape lead me to explore the failure of consequence and the consequence of failure, when attempting a mapping of the puddled Utopian field of Neant. I got nowhere or so I thought. I failed to fail. The problem with my piddling puddled piddles is the very selfish fact of my self being the art reflected by them. I can only continue to find myself when I am fantasized in virtual terms (). I contemplated the piddle (pictured above) for a very long minute and then consulted a certain Dr Foster - ...