The Astronomer of Dizzying Caresses

I went back to the 'Duchamp Man Ray Picabia' exhibition at the Tate today. Actually, 'went back' masks the obsessive truth - it was my fourth time - and I'm acutely aware how mildly compulsive that is. To claim I wrote a thesis on Marcel Duchamp some years ago is probably a pathetic excuse. To make sense of it, the first three times I was stalking my prey, this time I went with a determined and somewhat deluded purpose.

It goes like this, bear with me.

Two years ago my roof started to cave in. There's nothing metaphorical in that, my roof did honestly start to cave in and I was now playing begrudging flat mate to a party of tuneless pigeons and tap dancing squirrels squatting in my attic. A succession of pest control and builders tramped through my house and in the midst of all the poison, bird traps and scaffolding I saw my Dadaist opportunity.

The Dadaists were the original punk rockers, sticking two fingers up at the predictable art salons of Europe and the prevailing fashions of the early twentieth century. To them it was not about technical artistry, aesthetic flicks of oil paint or pandering to those that financially herded the sheep. Duchamp and friends challenged the notion that art had to sit on canvas or marble; they moonied at the censors without them realising it; they laid bare the hypocrisy and joylessness of a world between two wars. And they were the first that dared to do it, long before Warhol, Pistols, Hurst or Banksy made it into an honest living.

And therein lay my chance. Artistic mischief has now become an honest wage and a fairly lucrative industry to a sizable digital audience. It's too easy to rebel and make a buck, but so rare to see it merely for the pleasure of an anarchic giggle.

So as the workmen up on the roof hacked slate back into place I hit upon an idea. We've all looked up the tops of our homes on Goggle Earth and a friend had told me that they refreshed the urban aerial pictures every three years. Over a cup of tea I asked the workmen to fulfill my Dadaist moment. Once the work was complete, in thick white paint would they write across my roof:

"FUCK OFF GOOGLE EARTH."

Not as subtle as Duchamp might have liked it, I grant you, but mischievous nevertheless. Keen to end the conversation quickly, they agreed and I hoped to bide my time chuckling until Google took a new photo.

Six months of British weather later and the statement was gone. Washed and battered away. My small tribute to Duchamp had failed.

Back at The Tate exhibition I searched for a way to revive my cause. Now the obvious thing to do would be to piss in Duchamp's 'Fountain' - a porcelain urinal that he displayed in 1917 to declare that anything could be art if the artist affords it that tribute. However I discovered that musician Brian Eno had beaten me to it in 1995 and if I was being honest I wasn't actually that brave. I didn't want to be called the bloke that wee wee'd on Duchamp. Moreover the Dadaists would have prefered something a little more, well, understated.

Like any gallery, beside each exhibit there is lettraset describing each work and the medium in which it was made. If you look closely on some you'll notice letters are missing - neatly scratched out. It couldn't have been easy to do and hard to mask from the guards in each room. Find them all, and they spell something. It's something understated, but extremely clear.

Go take a look. It's on until 26th May.