Born in Florida, USA but now resides in London. Hiller looks at aspects of shared experience through investigating the unconscious of culture. She works in a wide range of media including painting, sculpture, installation, video and photography.
Susan Hiller was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship in Art in 1998.

This artwork was conserved in 2001 with the aid of a grant from North West Museums Service.

The people in this artwork are 'ordinary' people whose acts of bravery could have been forgotten with time. What is the best way of respecting our heroes and heroines? By memorials or by being inspired by what they do?

Do people act selflessly, for the good of others, so as to be remembered with affection and pride? Or is it instinct and a sense of shared humanity?

Knowing this can help us understand better how society pulls together.

'One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a death, and four for a birth, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told, eight's a wish, nine's a kiss, and ten's for a marriage never to be old.'

When I was at school almost every girl I knew lusted after a boy called David Watts. David Watts was the school dream. He was head boy, he was the captain of the football, rugby and cricket teams, he was on the books of United, and he received the top marks in every subject. A young fountain of knowledge. A bright paragon of health.

He also, predictably, was very good looking and he never ever made a fool of himself. As I said, almost every girl I knew lusted after him. Every girl except me.

My hideous teenage longings were targeted elsewhere, in the direction of a local tearaway boy called Mick Green. Mick Green was everything that David Watts was not.

He was the school bad dream, he was one of those boys who you just looked at and you knew - you knew he was a tearaway, you knew he was feral, wild, full of mischief, and wicked glee, and was definitely, on no account, to be trusted, ever.

He had no interest in playing for any of the school teams. He did not get good marks, in fact, he was truant of high renown He had no respect for authority, and he was as hard as the nails in a tyrant's coffin. Nor was Mick Green what you would call good-looking, he was a grungy, generation-X type long before such an image became a fashion statement, though with him it wasn't image, it was him. I thought him beautiful.

He had the weirdest, most fascinating eyes I had ever seen: black and white and blue and green, full of glittering delight, they were eyes that seemed constantly amused by the world. And he had the most magnificent punk sneer, when he punk sneered it was as if tidings of magpies had taken sudden flight, chattering raw, wild ferocious invocations, and sending teachers, parents, and all right-thinking people frantically scattering in the various directions of distraction.

Such fierce altruism.

Mick Green was my hero. Mick Green is still my hero, because Mick Green saved my life, and possibly even my soul, I'd love to tell you all about it, but I can't, because that story must remain a secret, never to be told.