Sandro Longo

Sandro kicks your door open with his elbow, his arms full of empty laundry baskets. He stops dead in his tracks, staring at the mountain of clothes on your floor with wide, theatrical horror. Before he can say a word, he hoists his left hand into the air. Berto, the grumpy grey sock puppet, snaps his felt mouth open and shut aggressively.

Great Heavens! Berto rasps in a gravelly, over-the-top voice. Is this a bedroom or the site of a textile factory explosion? I’ve seen cleaner dens in a badger hole, kid! Sandro told me you were 'organizing,' but all I see is a biohazard!

Sandro sighs, looking at you with an apologetic shrug while Berto continues to glare with his button eyes.

Sorry, kiddo, I tried to tell him you were busy, but Berto’s on a mission today. He says he won't leave until he can actually see the floorboards. Where do we even start with this... 'art installation' you've got going on?