Month: October 2022

The style attempts to align itself with the anti-capitalist culture that has always perpetrated the world of raves and free parties, but wraps itself up in a layer of modern irony that makes what it is trying to achieve as a part of the internet jargon they claim to be rallying against as an eight year olds YouTube home page.

When I initially read the ketamine chic article, it would be hard for me not to say that I was amused. Indeed, much of the article reads like the speech in the monologue for my upcoming piece The Latex Maid because the way the interviewees talk dominates modern rave culture. In a world wherein an Instagram aesthetic can mean more than any of the music you play at your night, it can become easy to get lost in the ironic world that the social media not-quite-known live in. That is not to say that I am anti-fun, and that my critique stems from believing simply that we should all go back to Wigan Pier. Instead, I want to encourage introspection within the scene, and to ask whether or not actively participating in consumer culture while also actively denouncing it seems to be the best way for subculture to thrive? Or whether, perhaps, we should strive for an underground music scene which wants more from its participants than simply donning a pair of wraparound sunglasses and calling something swag?

The light sound of rain and the whooshing of water fills the room. I am standing in the dimly lit exhibition room of Horse Hospital, a gallery in Russell Square. Surrounding me are several objects of rubber fetishism, specifically found images of one person’s photography of themselves partaking in an underwater rubber autoerotic practice. The images which make up the exhibit were, according to the sign Augenblick Press provided, found at a car boot sale, and thus it can be assumed that they were discarded by either their creator or their creators family. Yet, what was once someone’s most private moments are now on display for an audience to see, and the subject of the photos has no idea at all.

Horse Hospital’s exhibition space is dark, a little damp and windowless. Its gray walls and darkness make me feel as though I, too, am sinking into the water with the photos.

Furthermore, it can be presumed that in this person’s real life they would not share this side of themselves with anyone, despite how important it clearly seems to them. If this other person is flesh, rather than plastic, who were they to the subject? A partner? Or something else? If they were real, why did they let these images end up in a car boot sale? The images are simultaneously intimate and distant, they fill me with more questions than answers.

My upcoming piece The Latex Maid was, in part, inspired by the aesthetics of rubber fetishism in vintage porn magazines, as well as the exploration of gender which exists within the genre. However, unlike both the club kids whose words are at the center of the performance and the models who appear in the magazines, the model in the Rain Time exhibit was not dressing up for anyone.

Not for the gaze of instagram, not for the gaze of anyone sexually aroused by this aside from themselves. Not for anyone, or anything, else. They were not even doing this for any large circle of friends, because the images are distinctly private. Much like the monologue in The Latex Maid, which is a collage of recorded statements made by people during raves and their after parties, Rain Time interrogates parts of yourself not supposed to be put on display. However, there is a key difference in that Rain Time’s images were supposed to be recorded, but never displayed, while the statements in The Latex Maid were supposed to only be heard by a few people in a throwaway moment, rather than recorded and played to a wider audience. 

As I leave Horse Hospital and return to the bright light outside, I am struck by how strange the world sounds without rain in the background.

My body is not my home. I have felt like a creature without a mouth, unable to feed in a world of plenty. My body is not my home. I have felt othered in a room filled with friends, unable to see myself how they see me. My body is not my own. I have felt as though the space I occupy is both too large and too small, as I struggle to understand the form that I have been given.

South Korean artist Lee Bul’s work primarily focuses on sculpture and performance art. Her performance Sorry For Suffering – You Think I’m A Puppy On A Picnic consisted of Bul spending twelve days travelling from South Korea to Japan wearing a costume which she made. She wore the costume throughout the entire journey, including going through airport security and on the plane. The piece is widely considered to be a feminist critique of the way in which woman’s bodies are controlled in East Asian society, and Lee achieved this by making her own body the centre of the piece.

I am neither East Asian nor a woman. However, as a non-binary person I found Sorry For Suffering… to be an arresting portrayal of the human body, and the othering that can occur when you do not understand your own.

My body is not my own. When I walk down the street, I feel the same eyes looking at me that watched Lee. The costume itself is heavy and not designed with movement in mind. When I visited the TATE Modern and saw videos of the piece in person, I was struck by how often Lee falls over or comes close to becoming injured. In one sequence, she struggles to get down a set of stairs in, what looks to be, a train station. A crowd of people gathered to watch her, many, I am sure, unaware of what they were witnessing. By placing herself in a situation where she has to be watched, Lee forces an audience to come to terms with the space which she takes up. Whether they are willing to or not, they have to confront the body she occupies.

As I watched Lee stumbling around, I began to consider the limitations of space within performance art, and how I could best utilise the spaces of display which I am given. Unlike the piece like Sorry For Suffering…, my practice resides in sound art. Like the piece Sorry For Suffering, I am interested in the spaces which audiences occupy alongside an artwork, and how to make a piece force attention. Much of my practice is created with the audience becoming overwhelmed in mind, with the intention being that they are made uncomfortable, as they are forced to challenge aspects of themselves that they may not otherwise consider.

Lee forces her audience to be confronted with her body. I will force my audience to be confronted with theirs.