Copenhagen, Amsterdam, ..., I couldn’t care less about oxygen
and I’ll tell you why
I was going to do a sort of performative activation of the collection of working clothes and the whole fragmented picture of identity production, radical responsiveness, economizing exhaustion, corporeality shebang. maybe a reading-cum-fashion-show, a choreography-cum-fashion-show, something-cum-something while putting shirts on and off. While I was stuttering around harvesting words and stealing sentences I thought I better make use of that limbo time and decided to make inflatable body latex puddles as surrogate carriers for the shirts, un-support structures. (thought I could use them while saying the things I needed to say in front of the alternative cph and less alternative unseen audience). but then my grandmother had her final heart attack and started dying. my standards with art making resist the inevitability of death, I now that know. I could have used pre-fabricated latex in an almost-ok natural skin color, but it looked dull and dead and too perfect, it had much less texture and tactile excitement than my laboriously hand-poured latex sheets. yes that is me being romantic about material in the face of death. shit is, I’m not a pro but progressing, the liquid latex ammonia makes me dizzy and one tiny bubble of air while pouring a sheet means the inflatable is contingent of a multiple danger of deflating a slow death. it’s fucking precarious matter. not to mention the dubious joys of glueing latex which feels a bit like trying to put on a very tight and slightly sticky condom and you need to hurry cause you know why. what do I know. so while my grandmother’s organs were failing one after the other over the course of 24 or so hours, I was in my studio, fixing the leaking latex bodies that I had poured, cut and glued.
I held each of them tightly on my lap and pressed each of them gently while moving my face and lips closely over the entire surface of each body. (if you ever repaired a punctured bicycle tire, you’ve probably noticed that the face and lips are most sensitive to air or sensations as such and while you might not be able to see a hole, you can feel it with your skin, on your cheeks, on your mouth, on your chin, the space between nose and lips.) I guess these endless hours of repairing the punctured bodies must have looked like a never-ending, intensely erotic foreplay with slumping down skin colored limbs between my legs, as I was touching them everywhere and nowhere, pressing them gently but steadily, turning them, moving them, holding my breath just over their surface and licking them (licking marks the hole). relaxing into the pain.