When you look in the dead artist’s garden pond now, all you see is some kind of slimy, feathery-looking weed moving to and fro in the cloudy water. It might be growing on something, some shape you can’t quite bring to mind. Overseeing it from a short plinth of home-made concrete is a ten-inch figure without head or legs but with distinct male genitals. This seems to sum things up. The tiles at the rim of the pool have been fitted by amateurs–the effect is of a mouldy bathroom in a Spanish holiday villa. All over the walled garden broken or partial bodies abound. Women are reduced to loins and buttocks. Heads of both sexes rest on the tops of walls. An aesthetic of careful disarrangement–of pretended disarrangement–dissimulates this site of suppressed rage and murder, limbs ripped off as a result of acts with no aesthetic at all.