Toupée (2023)
Happening, 8 hours
“On January 28th 2023 I shaved off my mustache, and then spent 4 hours gluing it back on. For the following 8 hours I wandered around Stockholm with a ‘real’ fake-mustache, being photographed as the artist ‘Neil Bhat’. It’s about the absurd task of trying to become historical. Being a ‘real artist’. Paranoid and followed by a camera, waiting for someone to notice that the mustache was fake and call me out on it. Feelings of imposter syndrome while attempting to interact with friends and coworkers. Constructing an identity one hair at a time, trying to keep it from falling off as it froze in the winter air.
Met some friends for drinks at a cocktail bar later in the evening, went to the bathroom and came back without a mustache. They didn’t know what to do.
The replacement (the poem) came later. That was more about being a ‘real’ person.”
Toupée was documented with 45 photos on film. A selection of the resulting photos were exhibited for the first time at Ebelingmuseet in the group exhibition Ruptur. At the opening of the exhibition the original poem The replacement (2023) was performed for the audience, finishing in a grand reveal; removing yet another “real” fake mustache, this time on stage.
Am I Neil Bhat? I am not, Neil Bhat died in a car crash in 2019, In a plane crash in 2012, In a bike crash in 2005. He died wide awake or sleeping in a basket, in a skiing accident in 2026, frozen and starving in 2029, He died in childbirth, In ecstasy, choking on a fish bone eating eel in Tokyo He had a bad reaction to mango, he coughed up a lung. He was hit by a lawn dart in the backyard, He died in 1996, 1998, 2001, He died climbing trees, swinging like a sailor on the trapeze, He died because he never took his vitamins, and his blood sugar rushed him to an early grave, he never made anything that mattered more than a dragonfly he saw once, He never saw much. He had many friends who never called, and a cat called Marzipan. He died in 2045, with an empty bank account and a gray liver or in 2050 with a full one, when the doctors couldn't say what was wrong. He died with his name in the newspaper, remembered by just 3 people who met him,
Am I Neil Bhat? I am not, Neil Bhat died in a car crash in 2019, In a plane crash in 2012, In a bike crash in 2005. He died wide awake or sleeping in a basket, in a skiing accident in 2026, frozen and starving in 2029, He died in childbirth, In ecstasy, choking on a fish bone eating eel in Tokyo He had a bad reaction to mango, he coughed up a lung. He was hit by a lawn dart in the backyard, He died in 1996, 1998, 2001, He died climbing trees, swinging like a sailor on the trapeze, He died because he never took his vitamins, and his blood sugar rushed him to an early grave, he never made anything that mattered more than a dragonfly he saw once, He never saw much. He had many friends who never called, and a cat called Marzipan. He died in 2045, with an empty bank account and a gray liver or in 2050 with a full one, when the doctors couldn't say what was wrong. He died with his name in the newspaper, remembered by just 3 people who met him,
He had many friends who never called, and a cat called Marzipan. He died in 2045, with an empty bank account and a gray liver or in 2050 with a full one, when the doctors couldn't say what was wrong. He died with his name in the newspaper, remembered by just 3 people who met him, remembered only by the stench of his socks in the locker room, remembered only by the depth of his stomach and the number of tacos he could swallow. He died alone in 2089, outliving everyone, he died in 2069 surrounded by his grandchildren. He died in a fever, twisting while the Beatles played on the radio, he died on a spaceship to Mars leaving all trees behind. He died while the air spurted molten dioxide and oceans defied gravity, swelling like a pus filled wisdom tooth in a Willy Wonka skull, eating but not breathing, weeping but not crying out and each word a snail trying to cross a trail of salt but melting before reaching an ear,
He had many friends who never called, and a cat called Marzipan. He died in 2045, with an empty bank account and a gray liver or in 2050 with a full one, when the doctors couldn't say what was wrong. He died with his name in the newspaper, remembered by just 3 people who met him, remembered only by the stench of his socks in the locker room, remembered only by the depth of his stomach and the number of tacos he could swallow. He died alone in 2089, outliving everyone, he died in 2069 surrounded by his grandchildren. He died in a fever, twisting while the Beatles played on the radio, he died on a spaceship to Mars leaving all trees behind. He died while the air spurted molten dioxide and oceans defied gravity, swelling like a pus filled wisdom tooth in a Willy Wonka skull, eating but not breathing, weeping but not crying out and each word a snail trying to cross a trail of salt but melting before reaching an ear,
filled to the tippity top with beer to cease feeling the weight of we, the last generation. He died during a regular procedure He died slipping on a banana peel, He died in 1994 with nothing but his name. Am I Neil Bhat? I am not. I replaced him when he died in childbirth, when he died skiing, on a spaceship, in a car crash, anaphylactic from the mangoes, and fish bones, I replaced him and I learned, How to walk, talk, and eat like him, black tar ripping at the soles of my leather shoes, I replaced him never having met him, unable to sleep, eat, or piss, bleeding from the gums as I try to speak his words, not meant for my lips, pearly whites rattling like a snake a fake mustache covering my stiff upper lip, like a toupee.
filled to the tippity top with beer to cease feeling the weight of we, the last generation. He died during a regular procedure He died slipping on a banana peel, He died in 1994 with nothing but his name. Am I Neil Bhat? I am not. I replaced him when he died in childbirth, when he died skiing, on a spaceship, in a car crash, anaphylactic from the mangoes, and fish bones, I replaced him and I learned, How to walk, talk, and eat like him, black tar ripping at the soles of my leather shoes, I replaced him never having met him, unable to sleep, eat, or piss, bleeding from the gums as I try to speak his words, not meant for my lips, pearly whites rattling like a snake a fake mustache covering my stiff upper lip, like a toupee.
Are my eyes like his? If we had met would we have been friends? Soul splitting on the freeway, too alone to be good company, eating with silver sticks, as coffee stains our front teeth, while the choir sing hymns so slowly they could be lullabies, and onward echoes like a gong my question, who will wear his mustache when I am gone?
Are my eyes like his? If we had met would we have been friends? Soul splitting on the freeway, too alone to be good company, eating with silver sticks, as coffee stains our front teeth, while the choir sing hymns so slowly they could be lullabies, and onward echoes like a gong my question, who will wear his mustache when I am gone?
Ruptur was curated by: Marie Andersson, with Vinicius dos Santos and Ebba Birkflo.
Participating artists: Roda Abdalle, Victor Ahlén, Sofia Andersson, Neil Bhat, Ebba Birkflo, Tilde Björk, Niklas Breimert, Leona, Simon Dahlgren Strååt, Vinícius dos Santos, Viktoria Ekdahl, Gwen, Ellinor Hagman, Sophia Linderstam, Kristina Nenzén, Christopher Robin Nordström, David Permén, Josephine Thorsby and Hanna Tordai
Press:
https://trakten.nu/eskilstuna/det-individuella-kollektivet/
https://ekuriren.se/kultur/kultur-och-noje/artikel/framtidens-stjarnor-pa-besok-i-torshalla/rez3o30r