For too long,
I kept my sexuality to myself,
like some dark secret.
Still, curiosity oozed from my skin,
its scent an exotic pheromone.I struggled to keep it at bay,
too afraid to surrender to it.The last thing I expected
when I fell in love with him
was to find freedom.
Now I can explore the limits
of this once hidden territory.– my 'artist's statement', scrawled in crayon and paint on a white wall, for Sex Tourist, at Art Melbourne '07. (It opens tomorrow night.)
When I finished the watercolours for my mini-show, which form a kind of abbreviated, manga-style narrative about an episode which I shared with my boyfriend, a year or so ago, I thought they should be placed in some sort of intellectual context. So I struggled to write the usual, circumlocutious, jargon-ladened text strewn with half-assed references to the writings of Foucault, Baudrillard and Bataille. A few hours later, I realised it was a wasted effort.
Just look at the pictures. With my own, immoderate words scrawled across them in colour pencil, they need no explanation at all.