DON’T LOOK AT PINK | 2020-2021
I’m dissected. They take out my love and sexuality piece by piece, bring it up to the light and look at it through a
magnifying glass in an attempt to understand. I don’t know what they are trying to understand or who they are. This is
a vague but constant feeling — being under pressure, being observed.
I can’t think of anything better than succumbing to that pressure. I’m getting undressed, folding my clothes and taking the camera to dissect the love and sexuality myself.
To swallow everything and fill every gap, hole, cut, crack. I want to fill in everything, absorb, suck everything up drop by drop, lick off the remains, chew, swallow. I even eat bones, skin, cartilages and leave nothing. Except for the bones, I cannot finish, but I take them with me.
I’m an invader, tyrant, usurper, vandal. I’m a vandal. I leave nothing behind, I won’t spare anyone. I swallow everything I can reach. Everything must be mine, everything must become a part of me. I want to absorb you.
Take me to the altar. leave me sacrifices and offerings. I will swallow everything and accept it and it will not be enough for me. I won’t be able to pay you back. But it doesn’t bother me. I’m only interested in milk from your breast. Drop by drop.
The same milk from your breast, which I didn’t get in childhood. Now the whole world has become a giant breast, filled to the top with milk. And I wrap my mouth around it, suck on it with my lips, hold it with my hands, squeeze it with my fingers. I drink you up and I can’t get enough. I’m thirsty and insatiable. I’m always hungry.
I am a hole, a gap, a hollow on my back between the shoulder blades where you place your hand and try to shield me
from the cold February winds. I am a Scythian. I cut my hair, plucked an arrow from my body, put it in my bow and drew
Eight hours of sleep. Two meals a day. 10,000 steps a day. 60 percent of water. 34 percent of organic matter. Where in this body sexuality lives? You are wood. You are hollow. I put my lips to your hollow and tell the secret.
I’m thinking about sexuality and queer sexuality. Are there differences, and if so, what are they?
In the country I live in, queer identity is referred to as immoral, unacceptable, at best people
would advise not to tell anyone who you are. As I think about queerness, I take pictures of
myself and my partner. I’m looking at our bodies and sexuality through the viewfinder, often in
a domestic setting. My camera zooms in and out, getting very personal, and then distances
itself. At the same time, “they” look at me and see me as different, distinctive, inappropriate.
Meanwhile, love is the only thing I notice.