Please focus your attention on one aspect of the environment while ignoring all other things, to the blurring of lines between public and private places, to the privatization of places classically seen as public, such as my legs, buttocks, breasts, etc.
Please create in me a feeling of always being watched, so that I become at times self-policing and at others perfect. Even if I cannot directly see who or what is watching me. This possibility of surveillance, whether real or unreal, is a convincing cliché, conventional, therefore delinquent. Which way would you like to look? At me. Which way would I like to look at myself? Through you? No, I look at myself through the eyes of objects, the eyes of my thighs. My marrow. My breath. They are no different than my mind. My mind is my body and the separation between the two is just a formality that points to a certain inheritance, a certain construction. But me, I often feel I simply cannot help myself: to abstain from objectification is to abstain from all sexuality. Sex requires an object, something one can touch and pay attention to. Sometimes, I am a woman who welcomes an objectifying gaze in silence. One that occasionally elevates herself to the status of an object, one that believes objects hold great power. I welcome such objectification as a cunning exhibitionist but also as a sincerely human condition, a taboo. One that is cruel and yet carries the potential for significant pleasure, for either subject or object — depending on how savvy and lucky you are in this world. And contradictorily so, I feel it is impossible to ever be just one of the two. Now and again I too am a man but most times I’m neither. To be neither is possibly another word for abandon.
Remember my legs are classic, a work of art with recognized and established value. A garment of a simple yet unfortunately long-lasting style: olive, long, thin, young. My legs are a betrayal. This repetitive gesture. Overly surveilled, sexual. They may not even be mine. They may only be what you see.
Very Exciting New Service
Discover a new reflection within the conditioned performance we may or may not have been subjected to. Mediate yourself through me. I, google consciousness…I, the masturbation ceremony with the knife. I, the back door, the time of protein. Aliquam tempus convallis. ‘the saddle on the horse’
Intimacy is far more abandoned with the distance and absence of physical presence. I want to lie down on this Google form with you in virtual coitus. Your demands will be exhibited but your insecurities will continue to be maintained by the anxiety sector of your private organism. Nam volutpat imperdiet sollicitudin. ‘no touching’
Look outside the window. Now you are the one managing the emotional states of the cultural consumer, my own feelings, or whatever being of the network; the act of virtual self exposure lies within itself. You can be the recipient of either. ‘how awesome’ I was calling my own name
Fuck me gently with a chainsaw. Customize your whatever. Exalt the desire instinct that makes us human. Nulla non tellus pharetra gravida. Integers are the ultimate corpse. The ultimate cloud in your head is also in my bed. ‘wasteland is me’
white plastic g string course
whole image gallery trauma
whole image gallery plus ptsd
you say you’re jungian and breathe
Cristine Brache is an artist and poet. She lives and works in London.