The last words of Anden Mullard, the infamous Souwegian Artist, to his son Trakcud before he left this world were "Jeg ønsker JEG kunne tenke pã et eller annet nyttig for fortelle du sønnen". Trakcud has carried these words with him ever since, on a small and carefully folded piece of paper which he keeps inside his shoe. For Trakcud never had much as a child, and barely even knew his father. His father, it seems, had single-handedly (well almost) fathered nearly all of the 87 children in his local village before collapsing from exhaustion whilst trying to put on his slippers. There was only one other man in the village during this time Mr Hannfuglen Og Tøys , which explains things to some extent, but Hannfuglen's masculinity was not revealed until after Mullard's death. For Hannfuglen had been so envious of the attention the 43 women of the village were getting from Mullard that he dressed as a woman himself. How he remained undetected for so long may have something to do with the heavy set nature of the women in the village, the coarse heavyweight fabric used for all items of clothing (including underwear) and the beards that most of the women proudly displayed. (The Barbershop was second only to the Petroleum Jelly Factory in contributing to the local economy).

Anyway this is a profile of Trakcud and not of his father nor the wonder filled words that were left to him by his father. The father he had not seen for the first 13 years of his life. For Trakcud had been abandoned as a child by his Mother who had a habit of pretending that she had no children of her own and therefore needed one NOW, which she used to holler up the overflow pipes into Mullard's Prefabricated Art Studio. Yes Prefabricated Art Studios were recognised as being at the height of fashion in Western Souway in the mid Seventies. And whether you where an "Artist-or-Not" anyone of any aspirations of social status hungered after one. Mullard had two. One which he used to live and work in (donated by the profitable, and thankful, local Petroleum Jelly Factory) and the other one which he pretended to live and work in case the demands of certain villagers became all too much (which didn?t happen very often, except in the case of Trakcud's Mother for some reason).

But this is not a profile of Trakcud's Mother, no, it should be a profile of Trakcud himself. A romantic tale of his life to date, a tale of growing up in Paris, studying in Berlin, travelling across America with only a stubby paintbrush to carve out his future with and a folded piece of paper with those immortal words written by the only person who could write in the village Mr Hannfuglen Og Tøys. But Trakcud never learned Souwegian, for when he was abandoned he survived by eating discarded Seal fat and the small insects that he found on the Seal fat. The only social intercourse and cultural input came from a stern, but kind, family of Water Voles who also liked Seal fat.

After he was discovered living on the bank of a river behind a Prefabricated Art Studio he was taken to (supposedly) the only man in town, to decide what should be done with him. As he heard the bell ring outside his house, Mullard slid out of bed and bent down to put on his slippers. The rest is history, suffice to say that within half an hour of the death of his Father Trakcud was packaged (by the women of the village) and sent over to Paris to find his own way in life. Trakcud took to his new life like a duck to water, and he didn't need to change his diction, attitude to life or eating habits either. With his peculiar hairstyle, bizarre way of waving his arms around whilst burying his face in anything that resembled food, strange smelling clothes and incomprehensible utterings he was recognised immediately as a creative genius, a true Artist. He swam to London one day and was heralded as the new leader of true British Contemporary Art. His Art is deep and often unfathomable, which must make it good. In 1991 one young (and now disgraced) critic of Trakcud wrote, "he just wanders around aimlessly waving his arms and talking rubbish, he lives like a pig and everyone loves him. He'll leave a piece of half eaten raw meat, or a pile of dirty linen and people swoon. His work is worth millions, I don?t even think he is sane"

There is not enough space to tell the non-heroic, sad, dull, pathetic, insignificant and terminally bland life that followed, suffice to say that Trakcud is here with us now and here to stay. For Trakcud is the appellational inspiration behind Duck-Art (although he is not officially affiliated with Duck-Art and we have also been asked to state that he does not endorse any of our products or services).

Duck-Art is, and will always be, the counter to Trakcud and his band of followers. Duck-Art is a hybrid fusion of Technical, Emotional and Spiritual Artistism.

So Duck the Artworld, it's insane, Trakcud is insane. Duck-Art is counterculture. Do not follow us because we will not lead. We do what we do because it is what we do. If you like it great, if not then w'?ll just carry on doing it. Art should be individual and embrace the Technical, Emotional and Spiritual and absolutely be grounded in the Experience of life. Why are we here if not to experience life and have some fun.

The story has just begun, the 10th storey. It will all make sense in the end.