Do you need a ruler? We have two lengths: impractically long, impractically short. The rulers that are of useful length are crooked.
Looking for a pencil? This one is writes so pale you won't be sure if it has made any mark. It is completely illegible. This one is so soft that it will immediately melt, ruining the paper.
Prefer a pen? Here is a box. It leaks. The box leaks, the pens leak, but each leaks differently, depending on how you hold it. The color of inks shift. Oh, you should be wearing gloves, some of that ink is toxic.
As a matter of fact, a significant amount of the material in here is toxic and should not be touched without gloves. Are the gloves themselves toxic? No, they are just kept in a 1940s box marked "Beware Toxic Chemicals" box for aesthetic purposes. The box is probably not toxic.
Here is a chair built out of a pile of trash. It is art. Please do not sit on it. Here is a pile of trash you can use for a chair. It is sometimes taken apart to be made into art.
Here is a bewildering pile of unrelated items. It is a still life.
Here is another bewildering pile of unrelated items. It is lunch.
Here is an assortment of wood for impractical reasons.
Please do not sit on lunch or eat the wood or look at the still life (it gets nervous).
Here is a pile of very expensive sketchbooks made from paper imported from countries that no longer exist. They are 100 years old and are completely blank. The paper is of such high quality that it will accept any media applied to it, providing a key strategic advantage in the quality and efficiency of making art. It will last forever, unchanged, displaying any piece of art created on it or with it, as intended, until physically destroyed.
These sketchbooks were gifted to me by a dying artist. I will gift them, unused, to another artist when I am dying.
Here is a pile of printer paper stolen from a corporate office I broke into with the express purpose of stealing paper and paper clips. This is the paper I use exclusively in my art.
These crumpled, stained, torn, unsorted, half-burned office papers contain my innermost thoughts, hopes, fears, they are keys to unlocking my inspiration, they are working and near final drafts of my greatest works, without them I would be lost as a human being and completely destroyed, professionally, for life.
The papers are continuously kept near permanently burning candles, various rags saturated with paint thinner, and a decades-old fan that sparks when you turn it on, turn it off, when it rains, when a loud noise is made outside, and/or every 95.12 hours.
Here is a skeleton. I will not answer questions to its authenticity.
Here is a large photo album full of naked people in contorted positions.
Over there is a trunk full of photographs, internet clip outs, polaroids, newspapers, books on increasingly esoteric subjects from "court room stenography" to "Rhode Island chicken culture, an eggcellent overview."
If you open the trunk everything will fall out and make a loud noise (please see previous warning about the fan).
If you are feeling woozy from the various paint fumes we can try to open a window. It was painted shut in 1902 but we can try to crack it with one of my twelve hammers. At least six are made of wet clay, and two are made of glass.
On second thought, I am not even sure if it is a real window, it might be a sculpture dedicated to the idea of a window.