PORTFOLIO

When I was six years old, the coolest woman I  ever met was a stripper in a confederate flag bikini. She watched me as a favor to my mother for, what was then, the greatest hour of my life. I had an undying admiration for the group of men that I was raised around, and they were all now looking at her. First, they smiled at our odd coupling, then their eyes drifted to her breasts- not totally covered by white nationalist napkins. I wanted what she had. And eventually, I got it.

If you were to wear a blindfold when you fucked me, would I still feel your gaze? Would you still undress me with your eyes and consume me with your imagination? 

I have often found myself bending and breaking in accordance to the laws of visibility; doing splits and spread eagles so I can be pleasing to their eye. 

I often get fucked, but I am always surveilled.   

My perfect stripper, prettier, shinier, somehow more white and less violent than I will ever be, made her living on being edible- constructing a facade that could be easily consumed under a man's gaze. I don't intend to belittle her. Part of me envies her ability to survive in spaces I cannot. I want to be her still- but I don't want to go down easy. Beautiful, but putrid, sour, and choking on the way down. I want men to gag and retch while they consume me.

My practice dissects these feelings. Through humor and discomfort, I relive the gaze and I attempt to murder my onlookers. I force intimacy and I punish those who participate.