Cami Árboles

photography by Torbjørn Rødland
makeup by Karo Kangas
hairstyling by Amber Duarte

Movement artist and educator Cami Árboles discovered pole dancing while studying at Yale. After graduating in 2020, she founded the Mind Body Spirit Collective (MBSC) to help women and nonbinary people reclaim their bodies through movement. Together with Lebanese-Canadian artist, designer, writer, and advocate, Céline Semaan, they discuss the liberatory power of the body and desire.

 
 

CÉLINE SEMAAN: You’re such an inspiration. Watching you move is a meditative experience, reminding me to reconnect with my body—something I often neglect as an intellectual. In these overwhelming times, your work feels vital, offering a way back to feeling, to embodiment. Even just watching you is transformative—almost like a meditation. (laughs)

CAMI ÁRBOLES: I'm so glad you brought this up. The deeper I get into this work, the more I realize that connecting the mind to the body is a space of healing—of reclaiming what makes us truly human. Growing up, I valued intellect over appearance or physicality. It wasn’t good or bad—it just was. I’m grateful for the emphasis on thinking critically and achieving academically, but as I grew into womanhood, I became aware of my disconnection from my body—along with the shame and guilt attached to it. Now, my work revolves around the body, strengthening the mind-body connection, and reclaiming that space.

In politically turbulent times, we're constantly bombarded with headlines stripping away fundamental rights, especially for women and women of color. It’s almost numbing. But our first line of defense is our body—its physical reactions. When we intentionally connect with it, we strengthen our ability to process, navigate, and ultimately survive in this world. A pole class, for example, is so much more than movement. It’s about reclaiming autonomy, proving to yourself that you can do hard things—that you can survive hard things. The lessons learned in a dance or pole studio extend far beyond those walls. They shape how we exist in our bodies—whether as women, women of color, or people of varying abilities. No matter who you are, you can learn to inhabit your body with power.

SEMAAN: Absolutely. What you mentioned about disconnection from ourselves—it’s a coping mechanism. When we’re overwhelmed, we go into fight-or-flight mode. But connecting with our bodies through somatic healing allows us to process, to reclaim that connection. You spoke about realizing, as you became a woman, the shame you carried around your body. It’s interesting because when you asked me to talk about desire, the first thing that came to mind was shame. In our society, desire is so often wrapped in it. We’re taught not to desire too much, not to be too desirable. If we show too much of our bodies, there’s shame. If we want too much, there’s shame. There’s a reconciliation we have to go through—to accept ourselves as we are, to break through that shame, and fully embody both our desirability and our desires. How was that journey for you?

ÁRBOLES: Great question. I grew up in Catholic school, always in a uniform, valuing intellect and academic achievement above all else. I don’t regret that—it gave me a strong foundation. But in my early twenties, I read The Body Is Not an Apology by Sonya Renee Taylor, and it reshaped my thinking. She writes about how systems like capitalism, colonialism, and patriarchy condition us to apologize for our bodies—to feel ashamed of taking up space, as if it’s not our birthright to be seen. Undoing that conditioning, simply existing in our bodies without apology, is a radical act of resistance and liberation. That idea shifted everything for me.

It helped me embrace sharing my work, my movement, my body. Coming from an academic space like Yale, where achievement was so tied to intellect, I had to unlearn the idea that existing visually—through dance, curation, social media—was somehow less valid. I had to remind myself: this is okay. This is enough. And as I’ve grown, I’ve realized that desire isn’t fixed. It evolves as we do, shaped by our values, our experiences, and how we want to impact the world.

 
 

SEMAAN: My next question is about desire as a guide. You're presenting it not just as something to be seen, but as something to be felt and embodied. How do you define desire in your own life and work? How does it show up for you? Is it an internal force, an external calling, or something in between?

ÁRBOLES: I love talking about desire because it’s so exciting. I really think desire is a roadmap. When I feel a desire for something, I just think that it's a message from a future version of myself that I haven't become yet calling out to this present version of myself to take action. That’s why I say desire is a map. When I started my pole and movement work, I was simply following a desire—to immerse myself in pole, in flexibility, in mobility, in visual thinking, in drawing connections. I didn’t always know why, but I knew I wanted to be it, embody it, become it. And the more I followed that feeling, the more it led me to places I never could have predicted.

Looking back, desire took me so much farther in my personal journey than chasing external validation ever could. Desire is such a human experience, but for me, it’s most powerful when it’s about a feeling rather than a fixed goal. I want to desire freedom, embodiment, creativity—not a number in my bank account, a follower count, or accolades. Desire, at its core, feels like an internal, almost spiritual force—one that has the power to map out our destiny.

SEMAAN: I love the idea of desire as a roadmap—your future self pulling you forward, guiding you to spiral upward, much like you do on the pole, ascending into who you're meant to become. So let’s talk about the future of desire. What would it look like to live in a world where desire—especially feminine and non-conforming desire—is truly honored? Imagine a near future where desire is no longer tangled in shame, where society has evolved past that limitation. What shifts? What unfolds when desire is valued rather than suppressed? And in the realm of spirituality, where desire is often seen as something to detach from, what if that changed? What if desire wasn’t seen as a conflict but as a force to embrace? What happens when feminine and non-conforming urges are not only accepted but celebrated?

ÁRBOLES: We often hear that desire is the root of all suffering, but I believe there’s a way to desire without being consumed by it—by seeing it as a guide, rather than an obsession. It’s like checking the weather before choosing an outfit; knowing your desires helps you plan, move forward, and create meaningful change, both for yourself and others. Honoring desire starts on an individual level—getting clear on what we truly want. And when we do, it opens pathways for collaboration and larger transformation. Take my own experience: one day, I simply woke up with an unexplainable urge to start pole dancing. I didn’t have a clear why, just a feeling, a pull toward movement and expression. I followed that desire, and in doing so, the deeper meaning revealed itself—I wasn’t alone in wanting to feel this way. Others needed it too. That’s the magic of desire: when you follow it authentically, you discover you're not alone. Others with the same calling appear, forming a community, a collective. There’s a Carl Jung quote: “If you do your work authentically and conscientiously, unknown friends will find you.” I think desire works the same way. By following your own map, you not only transform yourself but also create space for others to do the same.

SEMAAN: This reminds me of a quote by adrienne maree brown in Pleasure Activism: The Politics of Feeling Good (2019). As you know, my work is rooted in collective liberation, and there’s often an expectation that this work must come from a place of sacrifice—that liberation requires us to be saints, to be pure, to be perfect activists. But what you're saying about desire and this deeper conversation we're having reminds me of brown’s work. She writes: "Liberated relationships are one of the ways we actually create abundant justice—the understanding that there is enough attention, care, resources, and connection for all of us to access belonging, to be in our dignity, and to be safe in community." And then she says, "I touch my own skin, and it tells me that before there was any harm, there was a miracle." I think this relationship between desire, pleasure, beauty, and art is central to liberation. How do you see these coming together—desire, liberation, liberated bodies, liberated minds? Just to bring it full circle, from the idea of separation to the process of coming back together.

ÁRBOLES: I was just reflecting on that this weekend when I traveled to San Diego to teach workshops. After a full day of classes, I sat down to dinner with a few women who were older than me and we talked about embracing pleasure, self-expression, art, and movement later in life. Pole dancing, creativity, and play were the catalysts for that shift. I see this all the time teaching adults pole dance. It’s about reconnecting with the inner child and the artist in us. As adults, we become so risk-averse. A six-year-old will excitedly try a new trick, not caring about looking silly because their whole existence is about play. But as we grow, we’re taught to apologize or feel shame around being expressive or silly.

The beauty is that we can access that inner child and artist at any age. Whether you’re in your twenties or fifties, there’s no timeline for tapping into that creativity. I’ve been diving into The Artist’s Way [Julia Cameron, 1996], and the first week is all about silencing the inner critic and embracing fun and creativity. It’s about nurturing that inner child. I see it in my workshops—at first, everyone feels like the adult version of themselves, but by the end, they’re silly and carefree, giving permission to that inner child and artist to come out and play. That’s when transformation happens. Once you get in touch with those desires, it becomes easier to embrace what you truly want and feel comfortable wanting it.

SEMAAN: What other books have changed your life and how do you see desire as an intellectual practice?

ÁRBOLES: Oh my gosh, reading books is so sexy! (laughs) I actually have a ton of books around me right now. One is a monograph of Frida Kahlo’s work—she's a huge muse of mine. I spent a lot of time in art history during my undergrad, which is why I’m always thinking of visual art references. For one of my thesis projects, I focused on her and what she represents. Frida is such an inspiration because she embodied both the divine feminine and divine masculine, balancing these energies at a time when that was revolutionary. As a movement artist and pole dancer, I see my work as a union of these two energies—fluid and soft yet athletic and strong. Both should be equally celebrated. Frida’s ability to embody that duality so beautifully is truly inspiring to me.

SEMAAN: I love that you mention Frida Kahlo because she's also one of my muses, as she is for so many women around the world. Her use of her body, especially in relation to her disabilities and eventual amputation, is central to her work. Through her suffering, she honored and beautified her body in her paintings, giving birth to a Surrealist movement that expanded her self-expression. What I see in your work is a similar relationship with the body, creating an extension of your dreams and reality. Your art blurs the line between life and art, as your body becomes a medium for expansion—sometimes resembling nature, like a plant or butterfly, other times a flower or something beyond human. In this, you become more than human, creating an imaginative realm. You truly are a muse, and I wonder, are you your own muse, like Frida?

ÁRBOLES: Yes, definitely, especially in how she used her body as a form of self-study, which is a meditative practice in itself. In yoga, it's called "self-study" or "Svadhyaya," and it’s a healing practice to simply observe and notice yourself. Frida mastered this in her work, always being her own muse. When I look back at my own work, especially the collages I've made, I realize that it’s very much the same process. One of my favorite pieces came from a collaboration with a photographer in New York, where we explored the shapes of my body. I remember seeing an image of a cheetah and realizing how similar my spinal arch looked to that of an animal, which sparked this deeper reflection on our shared biological code. This process of musing yourself—of desiring yourself as a muse—is an act of meditation, a deep self-contemplation. I feel so privileged to have the time and space to do this in my lifetime, especially when I think about my ancestors, who likely didn’t have that opportunity. When I share these moments—like the silly or sexy pieces of art—it's deeper than it may seem to others. I do this not just for myself, but in honor of all the women before me who never had the chance to explore or share their own expression. So, yes, it’s fun, but it’s also deeply meaningful to me.

SEMAAN: Not silly at all. I see it as you being an artist, playing with different mediums—whether it’s through the art historical references, the juxtapositions, or your work with collage. It’s making me think about my own work, especially in climate justice, where we’re constantly trying to convey that we’re not separate from nature. The current mindset positions humans at the top of a pyramid, seeing everything else as a commodity, as though we’re separate from the earth. But we are nature; we are not outside of it. The idea of "saving" Mother Earth doesn't fully capture the truth—we are it.

ÁRBOLES: We are it. We literally are. (laughs)

SEMAAN: When I see your collage, it’s like a visual reminder that we are nature. Your practice of self-observation, deep meditation, and being present with yourself aligns with a therapeutic strategy that’s increasingly important in a world where our attention spans are stretched thin. By tuning in and studying ourselves, we recognize our connection to nature and the oneness we share. Our DNA shows it—20 to 60% of our DNA is closer to a tree than we think, and we share 95% of our DNA with chimps and a large portion with mice. Our bodies are mostly water and bacteria, echoing nature in profound ways. When you create through movement, it’s an extension of that connection, a sensual expression that feels so deeply aligned with the Earth. Desire is often seen as something to control or suppress, but your art transforms it into liberation—through presence, sensuality, and the art of noticing. How does your work reclaim desire as a creative force rather than a constraint?

ÁRBOLES: Sensuality is an art form, and I always emphasize this in my workshops. I make a clear distinction between sensual and sexual—though they can overlap, they are not the same. Sensuality is simply about engaging the senses. There’s an Antonin Artaud quote I love: “The body is the first abstraction.” Our bodies are the filters through which we perceive and interpret reality. When we immerse ourselves in sensual experiences—whether it’s lying in the grass, feeling the breeze, sweating through a hot yoga class, or savoring a home-cooked meal—we refine that filter. Movement, then, becomes more than just physical exercise; it’s a way of sharpening our connection to the world, deepening presence, and shifting perception.

SEMAAN: It’s so deep and beautiful—just hearing you talk about it feels like a meditation in itself. What’s even more powerful is that this connection is always at our fingertips. We don’t need a gym or a special setting to access it. What you’re showing is that sensuality and hyper-presence—truly being with our bodies—is an art form in itself.

ÁRBOLES: It really is an art. The more present you are with your body and senses, the more in tune you become with your creativity. The Artist’s Way touches on this with the morning pages—an exercise designed to clear mental clutter so you can tap into your true creativity and desires. What do you really want? What do you want to make? What do you want to put out into the world? You can’t access that if your mind is distracted or disconnected from your body. Creativity, desire, even just being— it all starts with the body, the way we experience and regulate it.

SEMAAN: I feel that deeply. We move from the personal to the universal—connection with others starts with connection to ourselves. Do you see desire as a political force? Because, for me, everything is political.

ÁRBOLES: Everything is political, everything.

SEMAAN: Do you see a connection between desire and political force, particularly in relation to bodily autonomy and freedom of expression? Does that inspire your work?

ÁRBOLES: Absolutely. Simply having a body, expressing it, and creating with it is inherently political—especially as a woman in today’s America, where bodily autonomy is constantly under threat. Any act of reclaiming that autonomy, sensuality, and connection to the body is an act of resistance. Even small acts of noticing, moving, or engaging with the body can build toward collective change. Prioritizing self-care, movement, and presence isn’t just personal—it’s transformative, shaping both individual and collective power.

SEMAAN: Exactly. In today’s political landscape, simply talking about desire is a radical act. Moving, showing our bodies, and embracing joy and pleasure—what adrienne maree brown calls ‘pleasure activism’—is deeply political. In a world that seeks to control and suppress, embodying desire is an act of resistance. Being a woman, in itself, is political.

ÁRBOLES: Absolutely.

 
 

SEMAAN: You mentioned prioritizing intellect over body earlier in life. What did you study, and how did movement find its way into your life? And finally, what advice would you give to those looking to reconnect with their bodies?

ÁRBOLES: In undergrad, I studied molecular cellular developmental biology for three years, which deepened my understanding of our interconnectedness with other life forms and the environment. That connection, especially in relation to climate change, really stuck with me. I also majored in theater and performance studies, focusing on music and singing. My journey into movement came through music. A friend in the Aerial Circus Arts Collective at Yale encouraged me to try aerial arts, and I joined. I also explored yoga as a way to help others de-stress in the high-pressure environment of college. I loved seeing the transformation in students, how yoga helped them feel grounded and happy again. That desire to create that transformation for others is what guides my work today. The seed for my current path was planted then, though I didn’t know it at the time. After trying pole dancing at a studio, I set up a pole in my aunt’s living room during the pandemic and followed the desire to create and share something with the world. That desire has since revealed itself as the map of my life’s work.

SEMAAN: You've found your true purpose, and it's incredible to witness. You're an artist through and through, and it's just fascinating to see your journey unfold. I just felt like sharing that with you.

ÁRBOLES: Thank you. I'm so excited to discuss desire because for me, everything shifted when I stopped desiring specific external things and started focusing on desiring a feeling, a way of creating, or just following the flow. When I made that shift, everything seemed to fall into place as it was meant to. Desire is most powerful when it's not tied to a specific outcome. Ultimately, it's about feeling in harmony with ourselves and others. We should never ignore a desire—it’s there for a reason. There are so many ways to look at it. Spiritually, a desire could be a message from god, your ancestors, a guardian angel, or even your future self. Desires are there because life would be so boring without them. They’re a positive force, a good thing.

SEMAAN: You’ve really cracked the code on transforming both the world and your life. When you started desiring a feeling, everything began to fall into place, and recognizing that we should desire values, not outcomes, is the essence of this conversation. You’ve articulated that so brilliantly. Desire is often seen as a physical thing, but as we’ve discussed, it’s also intellectual and spiritual. You’ve truly grasped the holistic nature of desire and its power in shaping our lives.

ÁRBOLES: What does desire mean in your life? You’re such a multifaceted woman, representing art, culture, political change, and revolution. I’m curious—how has desire played a role in getting you to where you are today?

SEMAAN: Like you, I see desire as a calling. Sure, I desire small things—shoes, a dress, food—but often, my desires are rooted in larger values. I desire a world that values women, disabled folks, diversity, nature—not as a commodity but as sacred. I long for education that’s accessible, fun, and engaging, where learning is an active, participatory experience. I want art and nature to be at the center of our lives, with gardens everywhere and fewer parking lots, more farms. I desire clean water and a world that’s truly healed. These desires drive my work. They’re my roadmap, guiding me to create strategies for achieving a world built on love, justice, equity, and art. I know some may think these desires are unrealistic, but I believe everything is possible. Our desires can shape the future if we let them.

Erotic City: An Interview of Maja Malou Lyse

 
 

text and photographs by Zoe Chait


Maja Malou Lyse, who has been selected to represent Denmark at the 2026 Venice Biennale, is an artist who turns desire into discourse, wielding erotic currency as both material and method. Her work interrogates the politics of sex, power, and self-image, often blurring the line between personal experience and performance. Whether collecting artifacts of American sexual mythology—like Hugh Hefner’s personal Marilyn Monroe photograph—or immersing herself in the transactional economies of sugar relationships, Lyse confronts the contradictions of femininity and financial dependence with unflinching honesty. Her practice is a collision of spectacle and self-exploration, peeling back the layers of commodified beauty, unconscious yearning, and the ways in which women negotiate their own objectification. In her world, nothing is off-limits—only up for interrogation.

 
 

ZOE CHAIT: How's your tattoo? Has it come back?

MAJA MALOU LYSE: I mean, it's still there. It's just more washed out. I don't want it completely gone. It would be fun if it was almost like—you know how when you draw with a pencil and then you try to erase it, and you still see it.

CHAIT: Like trying to erase your past. It never fully disappears.

LYSE: Yeah. I just have this vision of being 80 years old and having the washed-out Playboy tattoo on a super wrinkly ass.

CHAIT: (laughs) Should we talk about what the fuck you were doing in New York this summer?

LYSE: It was like a fever dream, in the best way. I miss it. It's just so funny coming back to Copenhagen. The way of living here is so normal and comfortable. It’s like the opposite of New York.

CHAIT: I guess everything, especially in America, comes back to money and power. That’s probably so different from Denmark. I mean, there is still a wealthy elite, but for the most part, people aren’t struggling to survive in the way that people are in America.

LYSE: No, but also, no one is filthy rich here.

CHAIT: I feel like that's what is interesting about your fascination with America, and in the context of the theme of this issue, desire.

LYSE: We want what we can’t have; classic. Desire is yearning!

CHAIT: In Disorganisation & Sex (2022), Jamieson Webster says that “desire continues to be an open site of investigation and possibility” and “the more impossible the desire, the stronger it is.”

LYSE: Yeah. Desire is the opposite of reality in a way.

CHAIT: Or we never really meet the unconscious desire in reality, and the second we think we've met it, it's transformed into something else. As Webster says, “There's no truth for us beyond unconscious desire, beyond it is only an unknown, a navel, a floor, which causes desire to be constantly reborn.” I feel like that applies to your New York experience—dating apps, seeking arrangements, people coming up to you and shoving their desire onto you—like men walking up to you in parks and asking if they can take you shopping at Lululemon.

LYSE: It was fun. But I did surrender to something that I shouldn’t have. I mean, looking back on it, I was in New York because of a residency paid for by the Danish state. The sole purpose of it is to expand the artist's presence outside of Denmark. They basically pay for you to explore and mingle. I think, subconsciously, I thought that I would have more success finding a sugar daddy than having an art career.

 
 

CHAIT: Am I right that your fascination with America is partly in the purchasing of desire, the packaging marketing, and dissemination of desire? For instance, the Marilyn Monroe photograph from Hugh Hefner’s personal collection that you bought at auction and your own personal American saga. It didn't seem like you had a grand scheme for an artwork at the time, but maybe your work is as close as we can get to manifesting unconscious desires. You did seem intrigued by the fantasy of procuring a sugar daddy and making 10 grand a month.

LYSE: I was like, the Danish state is paying me to excel in New York. Should I have studio visits at the residency, or should I go on sugar daddy dates? And I think subconsciously, I thought the odds were better for me with my erotic currency than my artistic talent, which, I guess, at the end of the day, says mostly something about my own self-image.

CHAIT: I'm curious about that.

LYSE: I think I was low-key looking for my exit out of the art world. I was like, well, if I just married rich, then I wouldn't have to work anymore, and I wouldn't have to live an endless precarious life.

CHAIT: A kind of escapism. I don't know what you're sitting around in Denmark daydreaming about, but I feel like in America your fantasy of that kind of lifestyle and the possibility of funding that lifestyle on seeking arrangements was on steroids. I mean, you were just invited to do the Danish pavilion at the Venice Biennial. Are you thinking about other things over there now?

LYSE: If I knew at the time that I was doing the next Venice Biennale, I would not have been sucking a sugar daddy’s dick—I would be sucking some art world dick instead. (laughs) When I heard about Venice, I was like, okay, I think I have to take myself and my career more seriously.

CHAIT: Or maybe not.

LYSE: True. I’ll do the Venice Biennale, and I’ll meet a sugar daddy at the opening.

CHAIT: So what happened this summer with your sugar daddy or non-sugar daddy, as it turned out… you were basically catfished.

LYSE: I went to New York, and all I got was catfished.

CHAIT: By a guy in Canada who claimed to be the youngest billionaire. I remember you saying, “I'm telling you… this is happening. He's sending me links to this private island in Italy. We’re going to live there,” and I was like, “I don't know, man…”

LYSE: It was fucked up, but I also love that story. We were both cosplaying—he was a car mechanic cosplaying as a billionaire, and I was an artist cosplaying as a high end escort. But I did spend the night at the biggest suite at the Ritz, and I did get picked up by a private driver, and I did eat at a Michelin restaurant. The fantasy was fully lived out!

CHAIT: Did you make any money?

LYSE: No, because, well, I thought we would get married and move to a private Island in Italy.

 
 

CHAIT: In retrospect, how does this escapade connect to the work you were making at the time? After you went to LA for the Playboy mansion auction, you came to New York a few months later, and you found a few sugar parents. You got some cookies and lingerie from the sugar mommy who ghosted you.

LYSE: Lola. She dumped me respectfully. She was in Brazil and would return to New York in the autumn after I had left. So, she proposed that we had an online arrangement where she would send me lingerie and that I would send her videos and pictures in return. In the end, she said that it didn't make sense for her when we weren't able to meet. I think maybe I should have been more emotionally present. I mean, first of all, what I learned on Reddit is that sugar mommies are like unicorns. They do not exist.

CHAIT: Really?

LYSE: It's extremely rare to find a lesbian sugar mommy. But I think women aren't as simple as men, that’s why. I think she wanted me to be more emotionally available, talk on the phone, be more involved in the emotional labor, and that a video of me in lingerie and a shaved pussy being like, “Hiiiii, Lola”—wasn’t doing it for her. You know what I mean?

Where I think with the sugar daddies, it's much more surface, the desire, and actually the desire is to escape the emotional labor of it and just engage with a facade. And I think she could feel that I wasn't putting in the emotional labor that she needed for it to be convincing for her.

CHAIT: I feel like even with men, the dynamic was the men wanted to have control, including the ability to disappear at any moment without accountability.

LYSE: I think it's really hard becoming a sugar baby after you've been a lesbian for four years.

CHAIT: Yeah.

LYSE: My standard of communication, respect, and honesty is very high. It’s one thing to downgrade to men, and another to engage in a transactional relationship.

CHAIT: And now, where do you stand with it? Are you ready to get back in the game?

LYSE: I'm not appalled by it. I think there's no genuine sexual desire in the traditional sense. It's more a desire towards being financially dependent or having access to financial freedom.

CHAIT: Is it financial freedom?

LYSE: I mean, it's not freedom. Freedom is an illusion. To go full psychoanalysis on this would be that I don't believe that I am able to create a financially stable life for myself. My desire is towards people who have a lot of money and that can become a financial safety net. That desire is so massive that it almost makes me horny. The desire to live a financially free life is a bigger orgasm than an actual orgasm.

CHAIT: How does that connect to what you're making work about? What would you say your practice is?

LYSE: I hate that question.

CHAIT: Ok fine. Me too. What’s orienting you in how you view the world as an artist?

LYSE: I'm consumed with sexual currency and femininity, sexual politics, questions of desire and authenticity, erotic spectacles, and image politics. It's hard to round up. But I did in the Marilyn Monroe show when I came back from New York, and I did end up writing some texts and displaying some of these artifacts I had from New York, like the lingerie and the cookies from Lola. The texts were very diary-based. One was about Lola and the cookies and spending my time in the Agent Provocateur store instead of my studio. So I am kind of contemplating these questions of where I place my self-worth in this period of my life, where I should probably be doing studio visits at the residency, but instead, I was doing something else that I felt was more beneficial. And because it was so hot in New York and the cookies were individually wrapped in plastic, they started rotting. And all of a sudden, these rotting cookies became a symbol, I guess —in a very cliche way—of my youth and femininity.

CHAIT: We're rotting day by day.

LYSE: Literally.

CHAIT: Growing up in LA, I've unconsciously, if not consciously, felt my physical appearance was my currency—to varying degrees. And I've really tried to distance myself from that, which brings me to the friction you and I had last summer. I was maybe frustrated with your interest in cultivating the currency that I felt was placed on me without choice, one that I spent the last decade trying to unpack and move away from within in my own self-image.

LYSE: I think that's also interesting because it's very new for me to be overly consumed by these things.

CHAIT: What do you mean?

LYSE: The way you have witnessed me sexually objectifying myself to the extreme. It's not something I feel like I've suffered from growing up. Like, you told me something about how you got your pussy hair lasered in your teens or something.

CHAIT: Yeah, when I was in high school. It was before I even had sex. A lot of my friends were doing it.

LYSE: That, to me, is crazy. I stopped shaving my armpits when I was 17, and I never shaved them again until I went to New York at 30.

CHAIT: Really?

LYSE: Yeah. 17 through 30; I didn't shave my armpits one single time. Or anything else, for that matter. In a way, our experience in that sense is reversed. To me, it feels like a fun experiment, but I can explore these things, not with full autonomy, but with a sense of autonomy because I stepped into this arena as a 30-year-old and not as a teenager. It doesn’t make it liberating, but the context is different.

CHAIT: Yeah that makes sense. And my reaction was based on my own disdain for feeling sexualized when I was younger.

LYSE: I have a more romanticized idea of this field based more on fantasy than trauma. I mean, I grew up in Scandinavia, the ultimate feminist nation. In my twenties, I was extremely fat and I never felt bad about my body. I don't know if I lived in a vacuum–but I feel like I've suffered very little in that sense. So yeah, it's hard to put into words, but do you get where I'm going?

CHAIT: That makes sense—I didn’t see that at the time.

LYSE: I think there's also just a general feminist discourse that's been very dominating the past couple of years insisting on having this idealistic feminist ideology of really revolting against patriarchy with this whole annoying “girl boss” lingo that ‘everything we do, we do for ourselves, and only ourselves. Fuck the male gaze! My Body, My Rules! We sexualize ourselves for our own pleasure only.’ And I mean, if life could be that simple, I would love to live in that world! Sign me up. But the reality is that's not the world we live in. And I feel like this delulu girl boss discourse has dominated so much that I think I started being interested in all my disturbing “non woke” desires and actually wanted to allow myself to explore them in all of their complexity.

CHAIT: Say more.

LYSE: It’s hard to tame desire. And I think that I felt an itch to indulge in the desires you're not allowed to have as a modern woman, which is wanting to be the object, wanting to be the sugar baby that has no autonomy, wanting to be admired for beauty and youth, and actually not being seen as a multidimensional human being who is smart and talented and complicated and nuanced.

 
 

CHAIT: That brings me to something we were discussing before; in King Kong Theory (2003), Virginie Despentes writes, “What connection can you have with yourself if even your pussy is systematically controlled by someone else?” If we feel ashamed of our own sexual fantasies and what they imply, how can we ever be liberated or satisfied? Male sexual fantasy is quite obviously everywhere in our world—the male gaze. I don’t think a female gaze is one that pretends not to see that or be affected by it.

LYSE: Yeah, exactly. I was about to say, the rape fantasy is the most common fantasy amongst women. And I mean, what is the difference between a rape fantasy and being actually raped is that there is placed autonomy within the fantasy. But yeah, the male gaze and female gaze made me think of this Margaret Atwood quote that's so on point and so depressing, but she basically says that even when we try to revolt against the male gaze, it's still for the male gaze because revolting against the male gaze is still in response to the male gaze. It's like we're saturated by it. So, in that sense, the female gaze will always be a reaction to the male gaze.

CHAIT: I just looked it up: “Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it's all a male fantasy: that you're strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you're unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.”

LYSE: Yeah. Your desire is male desire, but I think it's also, it is depressing saying maybe we don't know what female desire is because female desire is still such a product of male desire, and I understand why that's depressing and defeating, but maybe that's also just the truth. And maybe it's easier if we work from there.

CHAIT: Rather than try to deny it.

LYSE: At the end of the day, I'm extremely vanilla. I just want long kisses and missionary, and when I masturbate, I don't think about anything. I don't have any sexual fantasies when I masturbate. I don't have an image in my head. I don't think about anything unless I am in love with someone; then I think about how cute they are. I just think about the bodily sensation otherwise.

CHAIT: That sounds very somatically healthy.

LYSE: But it makes me feel quite broken. I’ve always wanted to be more horny than I actually am. I actually thought I was asexual for a few years. I also didn’t have sex for three years prior to coming out as a lesbian. If I’m to describe what makes me horny, it’s that I make other people horny.

CHAIT: Which is what we're talking about, too.

LYSE: Yeah, exactly. If I can feel that I turn someone on, that turns me on, but I don't know what turns me on outside of it. Maybe nothing?

CHAIT: I can relate. Especially when I was in high school and even in my 20s. It was actually pretty dangerous. I found myself in situations that were violating because the desire to be desired quickly became fear of rejection. And that’s a pretty compromising value system—one that can lead a person to go along with things they aren’t ready for because they think they should. That was part of the sexual culture that I came of age in. There was a disconnect between the discourse around freedom of sexuality and what felt like unspoken guardrails ultimately dictated by how others would see your behavior and how that would affect your desirability—rather than learning what genuinely felt good for you.

LYSE: Yeah.

CHAIT: Speaking of, tell me about the “Page 9 Girl.”

LYSE: The "Page 9 Girl" is a 50-year-old tradition in which a nude woman or girl appeared daily on page nine of the Danish tabloid Ekstra Bladet. Until 2003, it was legal to be photographed nude starting at 14 years old, but that year, a new law raised the minimum age to 18. Fast forward a few decades, and last year, a major debate erupted over the newspaper’s archives, which contained images from the 1970s to 2003. As societal norms and ethical standards evolved, it suddenly became clear that this major media house had been storing what is now classified as child pornography—hundreds of nude images of girls under 18. Because the female nude is an ultimate spectacle, the revelation sparked a media firestorm. The public debated what should be done with the photos, and ultimately, it was decided that they would be burned and destroyed. However, after the announcement, several former Page 9 girls—now adult women—revolted against the decision. This added an unexpected layer to the discussion: throughout the debate over these images, the women in the pictures had not been consulted. One woman, who had been photographed at 15, told me she never felt like a victim then, and she doesn’t feel like one now—but with the destruction of her images, she suddenly does feel victimized.

 
 

CHAIT: So interesting, what did they want to happen? You interviewed some of them?

LYSE: Yes. It becomes a question of media history and what you do when the ethics of images change. What do images represent, what do they mean, and who decides what will be archived and remembered in history? Destroying history is crazy to me.

One of the women, who I met at a cafe, really looked like I was having coffee with my conservative grandma because she was just sitting there with her gray bob and a big scarf that she had knitted at home. And then she's just talking about how the best time of her life was being a huge slut in the ’70s. I loved that contrast! There is such a cultural narrative that when you're a young woman, you do stupid things like sexualize yourself, but then you grow older and wiser. It was actually so refreshing meeting a woman in her late seventies who was still proud of the things she did when she was young. You know what I mean?

CHAIT: She went against that generational narrative.

LYSE: She did. And it was actually, I mean, I am terrified of becoming older, and I realize that I'm terrified of becoming older because it just feels like you become old. As a woman, you become invisible, and then you regret all your shenanigans from when you were young. So you just become invisible, and you're ashamed of yourself.

CHAIT: I feel like you're going to be a hot 70-year-old.

LYSE: Well, I'm already saving up for that facelift, baby.

CHAIT: That’s what your sugar days are for.

LYSE: An investment for the future! It was actually incredibly inspiring meeting her. Looking at, I guess, my own prejudice. That made me a little bit less scared of becoming older because, I mean, it was just nice that she didn't have to look down on the dumb little slut she was when she was younger. She still valued being the girl in the picture, which I liked.

CHAIT: Did she say anything about when that actually came out, or if she remembered what it felt like for that to come out?

LYSE: She was and still is very conscious about the sexual capital she had and how she very actively used it in her youth. But the real question is how you feel when you lose that currency.

CHAIT: And when you no longer feel desired sexually.

LYSE: Yeah, exactly.

CHAIT: Especially when that has been your currency and your orientation in the world.

LYSE: Yeah, so I'm also like, sure, I can have all these delulu hot takes now when I'm 31, but what's really interesting is us having this conversation when we're in our fifties.

CHAIT: Yeah.

LYSE: That's when it becomes really interesting.

Cicciolina

Jeff Koons
llona on Top (Rosa Background),1990
oil inks on canvas
96 x 144 inches
Photo: Schaub/Hoeffner, Courtesy the artist, TASCHEN GmbH

interview by Oliver Kupper


Ilona Staller, better known as Cicciolina, is one of the most fascinating and controversial figures in modern pop culture. The Italo-Hungarian icon made waves as an adult film star, singer, muse, secret agent, and provocateur before taking an unexpected turn into politics—becoming one of the first adult entertainers to be elected to public office. With her signature blend of bold sexuality and radical idealism, she shocked the Italian parliament in the late ‘80s, advocating for sexual liberation, environmentalism, and peace.

 

Photo with the Pito Pito snake, early '80s
Courtesy Riccardo Schicchi

 

OLIVER KUPPER: I would like to start off with desire—as someone who has publicly explored their own sexuality through multiple mediums—I’d love to know what your personal definition of desire is.

CICCIOLINA: When we talk about desire, it’s a broad concept. It embraces many ideas. One could say that it’s not just about sexual desire but the desire for anything—such as the desire for a fantastic life, the desire to have the perfect man, and desire… in sexuality. I have always been one of the most desired divas in the world. I am very happy about this beautiful feeling. However, sometimes it is better for it to remain just that—like a dream, unrealized.

KUPPER: How has desire changed for you?

CICCIOLINA: How has desire changed for me? I must say that sexual desire never ages. I have the same sexual desire now as I did when I was a teenager. I love sex—but only when it’s with the right person.

KUPPER: You once proposed an offer to spend one night with Saddam and Osama Bin Laden to bring peace to the Middle East, how does desire and politics intertwine?

CICCIOLINA: It's true that I made a journalistic statement saying that in exchange for peace, I would have sex with Osama Bin Laden, and even with Putin. This statement appeared in all the newspapers. However, my proposal had nothing to do with personal desire—only the desire for peace. The same applied to my statement regarding Saddam Hussein.

KUPPER: There’s some rumors that Saddam actually reached out to you—is that true?

CICCIOLINA: I was contacted by the Iraqi embassy, and I went to discuss my idea.

KUPPER: What happened at the Iraqi embassy—what kind of questions did they ask?

CICCIOLINA: I was contacted by the Iraqi embassy in Rome. I personally went to speak with Saddam’s right-hand man. He asked me a thousand questions; they were intrigued by my statement. I stayed there for over three hours, then he told me they would let me know. The rest is history.

 

1980s Ilona Staller album.
Photo courtesy Riccardo Schicchi

 

KUPPER: You were raised in a relatively repressive society—within the Iron Curtain—how did you protect your desire?

CICCIOLINA: I grew up in Budapest, Hungary, under communism. I never felt that my desire was a problem or repressed. On the contrary, as a model, I met many interesting people, photographers, and entrepreneurs. My desire was to discover the world and different cultures.

KUPPER: When did sex, politics, and art enter your life?

CICCIOLINA: I have always used my excellent mind to reason things out. Politics has always been in my heart. Even through my shows, I have shared my ideas and done a lot of charity work for poor people. I have great empathy for those in need and help them with deep tenderness. Art is in my blood. As a child, I was a classical ballerina and painted paintings, and I still paint today—to sell them. You can see my artwork on my social media and website.

KUPPER: How did you come to serve in the Italian parliament—what was that experience like? What were some of the biggest hurdles in such a patriarchal environment?

CICCIOLINA: I am a true political woman. In 1987, I was elected with the Radical Party with 20,000 votes—an incredible success, as it was the first time a porn star was elected as a parliamentarian. I completed the full five-year legislature until 1992. Then, we founded the Party of Love. I proposed around twenty bills that are still filed in parliament. From 1987 to 1992, I was a member of the Italian Parliament.

KUPPER: You have denied being a secret agent, but wouldn’t you make the perfect secret agent? Isn’t sex the greatest tool?

CICCIOLINA: I had a brief but dangerous experience as a secret agent. Of course, beauty is a great asset when it comes to discovering people's hidden secrets… and also, sex.

KUPPER: What's the greatest secret someone has told you after sex?

CICCIOLINA: Generally, after having sex, men relax and immediately smoke a cigarette. I’ve never understood why. However, with me, it’s different. Forget the secrets… endless hugs and kisses follow—my sweetness fascinates them!

1980s advertising photoshoot on Mauritius Island
Photo courtesy Riccardo Schicchi

KUPPER: Online pornography has proliferated in the digital era—where do you see the evolution of desire from the analog to digital and now AI?

CICCIOLINA: Online pornography has now flooded the world. Countless websites are dedicated to pornography, where desire gets lost, leaving only pure carnal sex in all its forms. Often, it goes beyond sex, becoming extremely aggressive. Artificial intelligence is the creation of a computer or machine capable of reasoning, learning, and acting in ways that normally require human intelligence, or involve data analysis on a scale beyond human capability. But there is only one problem: desire, empathy, sex. How could a computer ever do that?

KUPPER: You originally received a fax from Jeff Koons—you were used to working with male performers but what was it like working with an artist?

CICCIOLINA: When I received Jeff Koons' proposal via fax, I was fascinated by the idea of becoming the muse of this great American contemporary artist. We met in Rome and took wonderful, highly explicit nude photographs, which he later transformed into paintings and sold worldwide. I became his muse and inspiration. Before long, I became his fiancée, and we married in 1991 in Budapest. I spent my pregnancy in Munich, Germany, and then we moved to New York, where I lived with him and our son, Ludwig Koons, for two and a half years. Ludwig was born on October 29, 1992, at 9:03 PM. Unfortunately, our marriage ended in a turbulent divorce and many legal battles. I returned from New York to Rome, to my penthouse, with baby Ludwig. Jeff later came to Rome to visit Ludwig, but he illegally took him away from me. He left for New York with little Ludwig, committing child abduction. It was then that lawyer Luca Di Carlo, known as the "Devil’s Advocate," took on my case and decided to help me legally. He is a world-renowned Italian attorney specializing in international criminal law and a public figure. He has defended major drug cartels, the family of Pablo Escobar, la Santa Sede Apostolic, and many others. With a fortune worth several billion dollars, he is considered the highest-paid and most feared lawyer, having pushed the boundaries of the law by defending the indefensible. He earned his pseudonym "The Devil's Advocate" due to the challenging legal cases he has taken on worldwide and the controversial figures he has defended, securing their acquittals despite their guilt—an aspect that has sparked significant public criticism.

 

Current photo.
Courtesy Ilona Staller

 

KUPPER: We are living in the time of the climate crisis—how can we use desire and sexuality to imagine a new equitable future for the environment?

CICCIOLINA: We are living in a time of climate crisis—this is absolutely true. It is important to respect nature more and eat healthily, not consume locust flour or synthetic meat. People want to eat well so they can live to 100 years old, like in Tibet. The climate crisis is caused by humans. But why resort to violence against nature?

KUPPER: When you were in politics, you advocated for sex workers—with mainstream films like Anora —do you think the attitude is changing or does society need to do more?

CICCIOLINA: When I was in politics, one of my proposed laws was the reopening of regulated brothels, to be directly managed by the sex workers themselves. This way, they could pay taxes and have access to healthcare.

KUPPER: How can sex change society?

CICCIOLINA: Sex can bring real change to society. Years ago, there weren’t as many homosexuals, gays, and trans people. Today, they hold important positions in society—politicians, TV directors, etc. I am a gay icon. I don’t judge any of them because they are just like heterosexuals. They live their sexuality in a society that is still not free and, unfortunately, are often judged.

KUPPER: In the US, Trump is promising to end wars, but he is using the pretense of religion to wage a war on women’s bodies and queer people. What are your thoughts on this double standard?

CICCIOLINA: In Italy, I supported Mr. Donald Trump and I prayed in church for him to win the American elections. I have listened to his speeches multiple times, where he says he wants peace for the whole world and that wars must end forever. Fantastic! I admire him for this!

 

The Maldives Photo Session.
Photo courtesy Riccardo Schicchi

 

KUPPER: What is your advice to young people discovering their own sexual liberation?

CICCIOLINA: My advice to young people is to live their sexuality freely and to not care about moralists or bigots.

KUPPER: Your autobiography Memorie was first released in 2002—it was a different world back then. What do you hope the world learns about Ilona Staller and Cicciolina through its re-release?

CICCIOLINA: My beautiful photographic autobiography, Memorie, a visual story of the myth of Cicciolina Ilona Staller, can be purchased on my website. It’s a stunning 230-page book in full color, with over 1,000 photographs of me—from my childhood and adolescence to my performances in nightclubs, singing with my snake on TV shows, reality shows, and more. This way, people can get to know me better.

KUPPER: What do you want people to know about Ilona Staller the woman and Cicciolina the performer and icon?

CICCIOLINA: I am an international artist, I work on TV, perform in nightclubs, and participate in reality shows all over the world. I am a complete artist. And if I manage to get permission to return to the United States, I would be the happiest woman and mother in the world, as I could reunite with my son Ludwig, who lives in New York. This is truly my greatest wish, and I hope it comes true soon.

 

Jeff Koons
Kiss with Diamonds, 1991
oil inks silkscreened on canvas
90 x 60 inches
Photo: Schaub/Hoeffner
Courtesy the artist, TASCHEN Gmb

 

Helmut Lang

Helmut Lang
fist IV, 2015–17
shellac, resin, foam, steel
53.25 X 25 X 25 inches

Helmut Lang
fist V, 2015–17
shellac, resin, foam, steel
57 X 24 X 27 inches

interview by Neville Wakefield


Every house holds its ghosts, but some also carry a charge—of memory, of vision, of rupture. The Schindler House, with its radical slabs and open geometries, is one such site: a crucible of modernism, a psychic container for the desires and contradictions of those who passed through it. While its architectural legacy is etched into the story of Los Angeles and its place in the modernist imagination, the deeper narrative lies in the flicker between inside and outside—of both structure and self. It is in this liminal territory that artist Helmut Lang enters, not as an intruder, but as a kindred spirit: an Austrian émigré whose work, like the house, is defined by thresholds—between past and future, softness and brutality, repression and release. Lang’s sculptures do not merely occupy the space; they reactivate it. Once pliant materials—rubber, foam, wax—are pressed into forms that echo with psychic residue. They do not illustrate history; they bear it. They do not represent the body; they remember it. In this collision of architecture and affect, Lang renders vulnerability muscular, and desire structural. His is a language of compression, of trauma reformed into shape, of identities still becoming. Here, within the Schindler House, the past is not over—it is pressing in, from all sides. Curator of Helmut Lang: What remains behind, which is on view this spring at MAK Center’s The Schindler House, Neville Wakefield discusses with Lang the power of his “darker sexualized forms of desire.”

 

Helmut Lang
prolapse I, 2024
latex, shellac, resin, foam, steel
32 X 31 X 31 inches

 

NEVILLE WAKEFIELD: What was the first experience that had a profound effect on you?

HELMUT LANG: When I saw the erect penis of an adult man as a seven-year-old.

NW: What was the first experience of art that profoundly affected you?

HL: To be honest, I can’t remember. It was more the experience of time with artist friends that profoundly affected me.

NW: Though separated by over half a century, there is more in common between your art and the architecture of Rudolph Schindler than the fact that you both originated from Vienna and emigrated to the USA. There’s a current of radical experimentation running through architecture, activism, and art that is perhaps uniquely Austrian, and I’m curious as to whether you associate your work as an artist with a particular type of culture or upbringing?

HL: Most of what I’ve done bears the imprint of foundational influences—those inescapable basics instilled without permission, simply by being educated in post-imperial, post-World War II Vienna, shaped further by an earlier alpine austerity and the possibility of simplicity. It was all refined and nurtured, physically and mentally, escaping the closed narrative and equally opulent volume of Austria.

What I carried with me was a commitment to artistic integrity, a drive for radical experimentation, and a certain fearlessness to find unprecedented territory.

 

Helmut Lang
for you, 2024
shellac, resin, foam, steel
47.5 X 9.875 X 4.625 inches

 

NW: Obviously time and place are intimately connected but is there a difference to leaving a place behind such as Austria and leaving a past behind such as your previous career as a designer?

HL: Not if the choice is made on my own will and the desire is to move on into another physical or mental space to explore a continuation of life which is not yet lived. When everything becomes too predictable or confined, I’m willing to abandon all sense of security. It’s probably all rooted in my history of forced or wanted displacements and confinements, and a lack of grounding and belonging in my early years.

NW: When I first encountered your work as an artist you were quite literally shredding the past. It was an act of both disavowal and transformation. The work that you showed most recently at the Schindler House in LA conjured the past in ways that were both more subtle and more profound, evoking the way in which both memory and trauma become inscribed in the body. Does this shift reflect an interest in material as the bearer of psychological rather than evidential content?

HL: I am not committed to any material in particular. I don’t know how most of my artworks start and where they end, and definitely not where the form comes in, so in this echo of a definable and undefinable past lies the presence.

Materials are just fertilizer to expand the boundaries of sculpture and abstraction in different bodies of work. Overthinking and then simplifying are joined to find the mysterious, familiar, and disturbing, which all seem to go together effortlessly for me.

I don’t reference my past literally, if you think about it—though I’m radically aware that I am the result of everything I’ve lived and my pursuit of what’s still unknown. I’m clearly not someone who’s wired for the easy way out.

Helmut Lang
prolapse II, 2024
latex, shellac, resin, foam, steel
22.5 X 33.25 X 23.5 inches

NW: That said, it seems that you are drawn to materials that bear a kind of human residue—the impress of the recent past. When you think about a material such as mattress foam, are you thinking about what it can become or what it has been?

HL: If used, it is rather what has possibly happened there. The content is human residue in various senses—traces more significant than the material ones. Both converge past and future, opening infinite potential for the new.

As I am rather instinct-driven, it only all makes sense to me after the work is strong enough to fight me back, or I feel something is there which I have not experienced, or seen, or understood myself, until that point.

NW: None of the works that you showed at the Schindler House were made with it in mind and yet the connections were incredibly powerful. Both sculptures and house seemed to be vessels containing not just the memory of their making, but also the psychological presence of their creators and inhabitants. Even though abstract, the works read as representative of the human condition. Do you consider yourself a humanist?

HL: As the word has so many different meanings and associations and is also a categorization, I feel more comfortable saying that I consider myself a decent human being.

NW: That sounds like Kurt Vonnegut who said something like, to be a humanist is to have tried to behave decently without the expectation of reward or punishment after death. Do you believe in an afterlife? Or do people just live on through the legacy of the objects they create?

HL: I agree with the Kurt assessment—sounds fair enough. I think the afterlife is what remains behind in people’s memory and the impact you made on other humans. If there is a creative legacy that survives, that is not disturbing either.

 

Helmut Lang
fist VI, 2024
latex, shellac, resin, foam, steel
58 X 24 X 31 inches

 

NW: The reason I ask is in part because the sculpture in the Schindler House had a powerful presence, but it also felt in dialogue with another kind of presence which was equally ineffable—the presence of those who had inhabited its four walls, who had eaten, slept, laughed, argued, and fucked there. Perhaps it’s just the human stain, but I started to think of the sculptures as another part of a long lineage of distinguished occupants. Am I projecting too much when I think of them in terms of character?

HL: Obviously some transcending energy is happening at the Schindler House with the sculptures in residence. The sculptures have amassed a different energy and communication ability than in the studio or in a white cube gallery and are equally more demanding and embarrassing. Although they are abstracted fist fragments representing resistance, despair, or joy, they interact more as whole beings. I have never seen such an intense and personal reaction from an audience assembled from the entire landscape of the human condition. Whatever is happening in this dialogue is an unprecedented experience.

NW: I was thinking about the house not just as the precursor to the mid-century movement but also as the repository of all the non-architectural and social experimentation that came with the architectural removal of barriers between inside and outside. The exhibition and the sculpture invites the audiences to play in this liminal space, which is something I don't think happens too often. Do you think of those barriers as something to be overcome? In fact, do you think of them at all?

HL: It seems to be possible according to the impact individual viewers described of their experience and innermost feelings at the exhibition.

Helmut Lang
kleine Portrait Arbeit II, 2015–17
shellac, plastic, wax, steel
8.5 X 8.625 X 1.75 inches

NW: What is your state of mind when working on the sculptures?

HL: It is like being in a turbulent relationship. All emotional positions are laid out raw and lived alternately, all in search of unprecedented knowledge.

NW: And this relationship gets played out in the material? Sometimes it seems to have been caressed into being, at others tortured…

HL: It is more an act of discovery, mentally and physically. Art is an initiative occupation. Materiality has to contribute to the creative process, but the deciding factor is knowing the moment to stop in the articulation through intuition. Intuition is probably the most important part of the work process if I think about it.

NW: You’ve spoken about the moment at which a work breaks free from the process of its making and starts to take on a life of its own. I’m curious as to how you arrive at that moment and whether that’s the point at which the object can take on a form of animism?

HL: When the work is strong enough to fight you back, it could mark the beginning of a form of animism. It is also the moment when one instinctively feels ready to present their artistic position, offering it to others and embracing that exposure.

Helmut Lang
consenting position, 2015–17
shellac, pigment, resin, foam, steel
43.75 X 22.75 X 7.5 inches

NW: Is this power of art an Oedipal process whereby the work must, in some way, kill the father creator upon realization in order to find new audiences?

HL: I might have a lot of layers to deal with occasionally but that is one I am not concerned about. It is the killer’s problem.

NW: So, from killers to erections, let’s go back to where we started—the profound effect of seeing an adult penis at age seven… There’s a sexual tension that permeates all of your work, which goes beyond the phallic attributes of pieces such as make it hard, or more recently, for you. Are sex and creativity inexorably entwined?

HL: Is the idea of sexuality not entwined in nearly every aspect of life, unconsciously or obviously?

It is beneficial to keep the inner child alive and I find verbal “Schmutzfuss” associations (a Viennese Trojan horse) quite helpful to ease over intellectual observations and drama, or just for a laugh, or even as a Janus-like title for an art piece.

for you was offering the choice of giving the middle finger in resistance, anger, or just being Italian, or seeing a phallus in developing progress, which most people did. So you tell me.

You Will Never Have Me: Projections on the Screen of Impossible Desire

Blue Velvet (1986)
Director: David Lynch
Director of Photography: Frederick Elmes
Production Design: Patricia Norris
Courtesy Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Paramount Pictures, De Laurentiis Entertainment Group

essay by Abbey Meaker


Cinema is the ultimate pervert art. It doesn't give you what you desire. It tells you how to desire.
—Slavoj Žižek

Desire waits in the house
wounded and restrained
it best serves in these liminal spaces
folded and tucked away
bare legs guarding the sea
where a whole world beckons

Desire is the animating force. The vitality of desire has little to do with the object of desire but rather what it communicates. Desire springs from melancholy, our most intimate and authentic expressions, and melancholia is a profoundly transporting state of being: it is a paradox containing existential emptiness, spiritual moors, curiosity, the loneliness of creative genius, and the passion and longing of a solitary bird. Melancholy digs for meaning, hands deep in the murky swamp of memory. From this swamp comes desire. A central concept of Buddhism and Hinduism is that desire creates suffering, but the opposite could be true. Desire creates meaning and fills our lack with a sense of wonder. Desire is a finger pointing toward truth. We come to know ourselves and the divine through desiring (and that which we desire). Desire is a wish insistent in its demands. It continually reframes one's reality: it curls back, a silk red ribbon, a tongue, leading us, luring us back to unknown places once familiar. It is an imprint, a residue, forever haunting the house. It is uncanny, a window into a home that looks like home isn't (heimlich/unheimlich). This appetite, like a fire, like all living organisms, consumes, reproduces, responds to stimuli, and gives off waste (what we abandon)—a light flickering in the cave, a theater.

One must enter at their own risk. When the curtain is raised, we will be delivered from our blissful state into the world of ideas. Here, a thought, a word, a glance can conjure a potential new life. In gazing upon the stage, the screen, the dream, we swing back into ourselves. Desire is an invitation, a searchlight. Who will be standing guard at the gate? Cinema is the vehicle (through which we explore these unfolding frontiers) of desire, and we can contemplate these worlds from a safe distance. Through the doorway of our blissful state, into a room of mirrors.

Mulholland Drive (2001)
Director: David Lynch
Director of Photography: Peter Deming
Production Design: Jack Fisk
Year: 2001
Courtesy Universal Pictures

Films are apparitions of desire, ghostly projections on a screen, a flickering invitation to transgress boundaries and sink into the abyss of fantasy. Here, we see how flimsy our constructed realities are and how fragile the illusion is. The whisper of desire calls us to dark corners and pulls the strings of our curiosity to know what is on the other side of the curtain, the closed door—the medium between two worlds. Often, a film reveals our desires to us, but we remain on the edge of observing, rarely entering. We are spectators. The films of David Lynch demand participation in that they confront the limits of what we imagine as real. His films create the feeling that another world is encroaching on this one. Lynch's sentient, cinematic realms are thinly veiled by curtains, bright red or blue velvet. They conceal an entrance—a door, an ear, a radiator, a blue box. On the other side, a shadow world breathes—dionysian and teeming with possibility. Beyond the doorway is a boundaryless infinity.

To inhabit the place beyond the curtain, one must forfeit the comfort of a single logic, a familiar destination, a conclusion. Paradoxical like our fertile melancholy, the desired object remains a shapeshifting phantasm, and we are continually in pursuit of meaning. In Blue Velvet (1986), young Jeffrey Beaumont (Kyle MacLachlan) is dragged by his curiosity through the discovery of a severed ear, into an inky dark world; or what Lynch called a dream of strange desires…it's what could happen if you ran out of fantasy. The unknowable interiors of this place compel him; he can only catch glimpses, which keeps him searching, having only a dim light. Obsessed by the mysterious and tormented lounge singer Dorothy Vallens (Isabella Rossellini), Jeffrey breaks into her apartment and hides in her closet. Through small slats in the door, he watches Dorothy unmask: she removes her wig and undresses; she nervously paces around the room. Jeffrey stands at yet a new threshold; he is straddling two worlds: Jeffrey can secretly, safely observe with clean hands or venture out of the closet, where Dorothy begs him to hit her, to feel her. Dark red lips invite him inside. "Do you like the way I feel?" Jeffrey initially recoils at Dorothy's request to hit her but eventually submits to her. His heroic impulses are impotent: Frank Booth (Dennis Hopper) arrives and attacks Dorothy. He is a deranged gas-huffing man-baby begging to consume the mother's body. "Mommy, mommy, baby wants to fuck!" Frank floats between the abusive father and the oedipal son. On the outside, Blue Velvet is a good vs. evil; light cannot exist without darkness and mystery. Inside, one finds a more subversive offering: Lynch guides us to the darkened outskirts of ourselves, where repressed urges batter the shoreline, and then he turns on the light.

Mulholland Drive (2001)
Director: David Lynch
Director of Photography: Peter Deming
Production Design: Jack Fisk
Year: 2001
Courtesy Universal Pictures

Every David Lynch film explores the possibility of a feeling—off-shoots of moments that become strands of being that mingle and create a tether to a new universe, a new dream. Lynch talked about ideas as if they were unseen entities, always there, waiting to be sensed and pulled out of their darkness, akin to Sandy appearing out of a thick material night. Another place from which a body could emerge. Our attention animates and imbues the image, subject, and object with life. Now, it is out there on its own, existing and desiring. In Lost Highway (1997), Fred Madison (Bill Pullman) is so consumed by paranoia and jealousy that he believes a whole world into a being, a world in which his wife Renee (Patricia Arquette) has clandestine relationships with other men. Perhaps in his impotence, he imagines he is an other, able to fuck his wife into the floor, but the fantasy is so potent that he forgets this man is a stand-in, a creation of his imagination. To possess the desired object, Fred kills Renee. What happens when one runs out of fantasy? A spatiotemporal disruption thrusts us into a double world, where Fred becomes Pete (Balthazar Getty) and Renee becomes Alice, this time a blonde femme fatale. In the beach scene, Alice and Pete are naked, illuminated by the car lights, their bodies overexposed. They have become two writhing light forms, spectral. The material becomes ethereal, exposing the slipperiness of this realm. The moment one grasps for an absolute, to possess the projected image, to know it, the charge of the impossible desire vanishes like a mirage in a barren purgatory.

Lost Highway (1997)
Director: David Lynch
Director of Photography: Peter Deming
Production Design: Patricia Norris
Courtesy of October Films

Desire is often encountered in a surprise visit or probing. Contemplating its urges is a spiritual pursuit. A desire—if we can allow the heightened emergency of its moment to simmer, can bridge the carnal and the divine. Acting on a transgressive desire can breach all kinds of boundaries and cause a collapse of ideas, identity, and love. The power of wishes is so potent that we do not always consider the repercussions of abandoning an order. Is this sacrifice part of what impels us? Lynch explores these drives through the double: characters who, through a dream or the construction of another self, submit to vertigo; the irrepressible temptation to fall, to do the forbidden thing. Frank Booth was an image in Jeffrey Beaumont's mirror. Pete is Fred's young stallion. Oneiric and libidinal, Mulholland Drive (2001) explores these hidden passages more subtly. There are flickers of a dream world, a feeling that reality is fluid. After the first act, the story splits, and Diane (Naomi Watts) appears--not dead but waking from sleep—a dream sequence signaled by a green blanket and red pillow. Betty, Rita (Laura Harring, and Club Silencio were a dream projected on the back of her eyelids. What makes Lynch's films so transporting is that there is never a sense of an orderly real place from which the characters travel to other dreamlike realms. Every filmic environment feels unsteady with its own set of logic. This malleability liberates the characters to explore their shadowed, innermost realms and, by extension, their voyeurs: us. These are stories about the depth and complexity of one's interiority, the possibilities in and sacrifices of longing, the transcendence of self through loss, and the force of unrequited love: mad and burning like the fire which consumes, reproduces, and disposes of waste (the ruins). Ultimately, the thrill of desiring vanishes, and we find ourselves again at the threshold of wanting. It is the wanting that is transformative, not the acquisition.

Lost Highway (1997)
Director: David Lynch
Director of Photography: Peter Deming
Production Design: Patricia Norris
Courtesy of October Films

These uncanny desires seem so real, things to possess, but desire is a vibrant spectral thing. It possesses us. We seek the ghost, and it arrives, knocking on the door repeatedly. As soon as we invite it in, it vanishes; the flame is extinguished, and we are left alone with a yearning. To have is to lose; to behold is to long; to long is to live—to touch the infinity of the cosmos. In some ways, desire is sentient. It pulls from our emptiness and passion and projects visitors or guests; the more profound our belief in their materiality, the more real they seem to be, the more haunting. Contemplate with the imagined for too long, and one can become an apparition, isolated on an island of memories and dreams. All that is or seems real becomes a phantom. However, if we remain too warm in our blissful, blinded state, we are dead. Desire is the animating force. One can find the divine by keeping one foot in the door of material and the other in the world of ideas, straddling the space of what moves us and the world to which we are bound here on Earth. The mundane is exalted by the dimension of echoes, apparitions, and souls bound by invisible threads. Held in each other's harbor, forever casting gazes out to the horizon line of becoming. Here, wading in the river of wanting, our humanness meets the divine.

With endless gratitude to David Lynch (1946—2025)

 

David Lynch Gravestone, Hollywood Forever Cemetery, 2025. Photograph by Damien Maloney

 

Rosie Marks

Madison Ivy, Brazzer’s first female contract star © Rosie Marks

interview by Karly Quadros

Brazzers has a brand: funny, horny, stupid. Think girls stuck in washing machines. Think pizza boys, plumbers, and flight attendants. Brazzer's’ brand is not art and high fashion. But that doesn’t mean they’re so different either. This spring, the porn studio introduced Raw Talent, a fittingly super-sized coffee table book collaboration with photographer Rosie Marks, featuring behind the scenes images from the world of Brazzers. From fluid-filled adult entertainment conventions in Berlin to the unseen labor of the behind-the-scenes crew, Raw Talent tells the story of the tight-knit community behind one of America’s most ubiquitous and least understood industries.

KARLY QUADROS: What was the first day like? Had you ever been on a porn set before?

ROSIE MARKS: The first day on set there was a scene with loads of extras because it was a Pam [Anderson] and Tommy [Lee] themed sex scene, and there was a band playing. The concept was that she saw one of the band members and was disgusted by her current husband, so she ran off with one of the guys in the back of the bar. All these extras on set I thought were really interesting. Some of them are just consistently an extra, and then there are some extras that have appeared in hundreds of Brazzers films and some are aspiring to be in the industry. There's a lot of really interesting people, and I wanted to know how the hell they got there. There was one guy—it was his third week being in the industry. He had taken ayahuasca and it showed him a path to the industry. There's one performer in the book—we followed his trajectory from extra to ‘sextra’ to main performer.

I had never been on a porn set before, but I shot a lot of stuff in and around that world. I'd spent a couple of weeks in Japan shooting really intense BDSM stuff for a magazine commission last year, and I've also been making a documentary about this woman who is a sex worker for the last four years. I didn't really feel that much. When I'm in photographer mode, I feel like nothing really fazes me. Like I can sit in an operating room and watch a body be dissected and still not feel anything, whereas, if I had to watch someone be cut open without a camera would be a very different story.

The Venus Berlin © Rosie Marks

QUADROS: How do you see your role as a photographer?

MARKS: In this project, I wanted to show it quite directly as it is. I was interested to show the process of porn, the moments that you basically wouldn't see if you're just watching it: the crew behind it, the moments in between takes. I guess I have a pretty voyeuristic, observational style of photography. So I was using that skill and trying to be as discreet as possible. But then there's also a lot of humor in this part of the industry. There’s always a completely bizarre scenario concocted as to how they end up having sex. They're always playing with different tropes, like there’s a vending machine or a washing machine and someone's stuck in it. All of these things are completely unrealistic and silly if you think about them in real life. I wanted to try and get that part of it across, that there is this very lighthearted side of the industry.

QUADROS: That’s very salient in the book because you will have people with that kind of slapstick energy or cartoonish faces then juxtaposed with something very mundane, like someone sitting on their phone or someone rolling cables.

MARKS: The way that a day on set goes, only maybe 45 minutes to an hour of it will be the actual sex. And then it’s choreographed. It's very much a performance. Then the rest of the day is just like being on any other type of shoot. There's a preconception of the porn industry being this sort of excessive or debaucherous thing, but that is absolutely not what my experience was. It was pretty sterile and more like a family vibe in the crew.

QUADROS: Something that’s very present in your work is the behind the scenes labor that goes into the obsessive cultivation of glamor. You show cables and lighting rigs. You show janitors and caterers and aestheticians. Did the process of shooting this book make you think differently about the labor that goes into adult films?

MARKS: Honestly no, because I knew what would be involved behind the scenes. But I wanted to show other people because that’s something I just take for granted. Anyone who works in any kind of media knows what goes into a production, be it porn or movies, media, advertising. That for me kind of destroys any kind of fantasy. There are a lot of people who might see this book who have absolutely no idea what goes into it, and maybe they don't want to know that. When speaking to one of the directors who used to be a performer—this woman called Lea Lexis—she said one day she brought a fan on the set. I think he had won a competition. He was a huge fan of her productions. And he ended up crying at the end of the day because he felt like his illusions of porn were shattered by watching it being made.

QUADROS: Do you think that seeing how the fantasy is created always destroys it for you?

MARKS: Yeah, I do.

QUADROS: A refrain I often hear from supporters who want to destigmatize porn is “sex work is work.” Is there room for work and desire and pleasure to intersect?

MARKS: For sure. Making this book, for me, was pleasure ultimately. Admittedly, a different type of pleasure than maybe the performers get. But it didn't feel like work to me. A lot of my job doesn't. It's the same thing for sex work—they should be able to experience both at the same time.

QUADROS: You were immersed in the world of porn far beyond just shoots though—you also went to things like conventions and award shows. What were those experiences like?

MARKS: We went to Venus, which is a porn convention in Berlin. That was the one place where I saw fans interacting with performers. It was one of the only things in this project that was public facing because the porn industry is a bubble, and it really feels that way in California, especially because it's like the parallel universe to Hollywood. That whole thing was a pretty insane few days, being in this convention center. Because it was in Germany, the rules are very different.

QUADROS: Are they more strict or more explicit?

MARKS: Anything goes. Live sex show on the stage any time of day. Every day I walked into the entrance—there were these pink stairs—and something crazy was going on there, like a man being whipped completely naked with like 100 people watching him cheering. One of the images [in the book] from that convention is this woman lifting up her skirt to a huge group of men taking photos. That was a spontaneous moment. You can walk around naked, if you want. There were fans who were being taken up onto the stage to be a part of the sex shows. At some point we were all watching this, like, Viking orgy. There was just a lot going on, just constant noise overload as well. Opposite the Brazzers booth, there were these guys singing karaoke, but it just seemed like they sang the same song that was just saying ‘sucky fucky’ on repeat for four days. That added a soundtrack to the whole weekend. But also that really showed to me the family side of this group of people. Everyone is in a place they don't know, together for this whole week. There was a kind of a sweetness amongst the absolute insanity of the whole convention.

Luna Star in her hotel room, after winning the Best International Star Award at the Venus Awards. Berlin, Germany © Rosie Marks.

Director Marvin Love with performers Tony Genuis and August Skye on the set of A Nigerian Owambe. Woodland Hills, CA. © Rosie Marks

12 Horny Men: Cherie vs. Jury Duty. Las Vegas, NV. © Rosie Marks

Ken Feels and Valentina prepare for their scene, in Valentina in the Limelight. Burbank, CA © Rosie Marks.

 
 

QUADROS: When I was doing research for this, I just kept thinking about how much porn there is, the magnitude of it, how many hours and how much gets logged a day, the hugeness of it, how ubiquitous it is. That seems to me to be one of the things that you capture really well.

MARKS: It's funny, though, because this book is  such a tiny corner of the industry. It’s the upper echelon of porn. In terms of the performers, they’re at the top of their game. It’s like if I tried to make a book about actors, but I just looked at Nicole Kidman. But I think that you're right. There's so much out there, even the amount that this one company is making. One day when I was in the height of this in the summer, there would be up to three shoots a day in LA, and that was LA alone. There's an endless desire for this from all around the world. It's always evolving. As soon as something comes out or some kind of trend, they're responding to that. For example, like when fidget spinners were a thing, then fidget spinner porn became a big thing for them. Every TV show or movie, they've made a parody. They're mirroring the whole world in some way.

QUADROS: A lot of your work is centered around the act of desiring and the quest to be desirable. A lot of your work around plastic surgery, for instance, is about that. Nominally it’s about being sexy, but it’s also about something much bigger. What is your personal relationship to desire?

MARKS: I’ll contradict myself a little bit from what I said before in that I’m able to break down all of these things in the photo taking and make sense of it in that way. I still am a woman who’s affected by these things too. Sometimes people say things to me as if, because of the work I make, that somehow I’m completely unaffected by anything to do with glamor or beauty. I guess it’s just a way of making sense of it.

QUADROS: I’ve seen other people describe your work as voyeuristic. Does that resonate with you?

MARKS Yeah, I think it does. Sometimes I’ll just stand in a situation and feel deeply uncomfortable, like I want to be swallowed up into a wall. I’m normally not the sort of photographer that ends up deeply bonding with their subject.  I’m not a completely antisocial person at all, but I try to keep a little distance to try and be more observational. I think subtly it affects the work in a positive way.

Kayler Gunner on the set of Sneaky Dive Bar Throwdown, a scene inspired by the infamous Pam & Tommy sex tape. Kayley
Gunner started her adult career as a cam girl while serving in the U.S. military. She did a character study of Pam in preparation for the shoot. “I do my own stunts.” Hollywood, CA. © Rosie Marks

Kayler Gunner on the set of Sneaky Dive Bar Throwdown, a scene inspired by the infamous Pam & Tommy sex tape. Kayley
Gunner started her adult career as a cam girl while serving in the U.S. military. She did a character study of Pam in preparation for the shoot. “I do my own stunts.” Hollywood, CA. © Rosie Marks

Abella Danger and the fraternity brothers at the Pi Kappa Alpha house. Abella is a Philosophy and Classics double major at the University of Miami. Her thesis is on the morality of pornography. She is the Fraternity Sweetheart of Pi Kappa Alpha. Miami, FL. © Rosie Marks

QUADROS: Does it affect you?

MARKS: Yeah, I think it does. It makes me feel deeply uncomfortable a lot of the time. I don’t wish it to be any different at the end of the day. With this project, I was very much welcomed into this environment. People were aware of what I was doing. Sometimes I feel really massive in a room when actually it’s a complete illusion. No one gives a fuck. But I think my ideal a lot of the time is to not exist, to be a security camera.

QUADROS “Bad taste” is something that comes a lot in your work. I’m curious what you find so alluring about bad taste.

MARKS: I guess it’s just ingrained in me because fundamentally, at a certain level, I do have that taste. I’m also really interested in things that are just incredibly popular and mainstream in some way, which I think often is forgotten in art and photography. Obviously, this book is not going to be to the taste of everyone. But I found it really interesting being inside of a culture that, although many will deny it, is some of the most viewed stuff online. It’s viewed, feared, adored, whatever. There’s an insane amount of people watching this stuff, and it doesn’t really matter the reason for it. It’s fun for me to dissect the things that are being consumed every day.

QUADROS: Porn is so ubiquitous, but it’s still not really normalized. You see porn aesthetics and tropes in pop culture and definitely in social media, but porn itself still feels really charged. There’s a lot of power to shock. How do you move beyond shock value with your camera? Do you ever lean into it?

MARKS: A lot of that comes in the edit process. I did take more pictures in this project that are probably more direct in their shock value. Moving beyond it is when there’s human emotion involved and there’s a sensitivity behind whatever the shock value thing is. As soon as you go on a porn set, you realize it isn’t that shocking. There’s a sterility around it based on safety measures, the way things are recorded nowadays. I was a little surprised by how sterile it was. The sets feel very un-sexual. They’re like empty, weird houses. A lot of it is filmed at the Brazzers studio, which is constantly changing. It’s just one of those sets where one day it’s a bedroom, the next day it’s a kitchen, and then it’s a locker room. They often all look and feel the same. The aesthetics probably do respond to the now. If you look at TikTok, all of that aesthetic is reflected back into the porn that’s being made.

QUADROS: Was there anything that surprised you on set?

MARKS I wasn’t expecting it to be as funny as it was. The scripts, they’re often so far-fetched and completely silly. One of my favorites was the final shoot that I went on, which was a courtroom orgy. The idea was that this lady was being sentenced to 24 hours in jail for stealing a pineapple. And then she freaked out to the judge because she’s never gone 24 hours without cock. That was the line. And then she had sex with the whole jury, just in front of the judge and the audience in the courtroom. They definitely didn’t have to put that much effort into that story and all the details of stealing a pineapple (because if you want to taste good you eat pineapple.) It’s just things like that. I don’t know how many people even watch any of this stuff or they just skip to the bit they want to see. But there’s a lot of work that goes into these moments before the sex happens.

Zone of Desire: A conversation between Isabelle Albuquerque and Jon Ray

photography by Jack Bool
makeup by Holly Sillius

Isabelle Albuquerque and her partner Jon Ray, who once made music together under the moniker Hecuba, discuss desire not as a linear dynamic between subject and object, but as a zone–a porous, immersive field that one inhabits rather than directs. Rejecting the classical notion of desire as a gaze emanating outward toward an object, desire originates from within the body, radiating outward, and is experienced as something that moves through us–more like weather or atmosphere.

RAY: I think for both of us, desire isn’t so much a subject-object dynamic, but rather something much more multivalent—a zone, something that exists from within.

ALBUQUERQUE: When I look back at the orgy series, I realize it was essentially a deconstruction of the female nude. Throughout art history, we've seen reclining nudes, where the desire emanates from the painter or sculptor, directed onto the body. In the orgy, I wanted to flip that—making the desire originate from within the body, radiating outwards. This shift created something more natural, more wild, and sometimes, the desire would surprise me. Each sculpture in the orgy represented a different aspect of desire. In the first, it was a kind of phallic desire; in the second, it was a slow, burning desire—reflecting on how desire intersects with time. For me, there's a deep connection between desire, sculpture, time, and even sexuality. I recently read that women need an average of 40 minutes to an hour of foreplay to reach orgasm. That fact alone was incredibly relaxing to me, because there’s something about the slowness of female desire, about taking time. In the second piece, for example, I incorporated a candle that would go inside the body. Many of the sculptures in the orgy had elements that would interact with the body in this way—never just touching on the outside but always going inside. It’s a reflection of where desire originates: from within. In this piece, the candle wax becomes almost a metaphor for her cum, slowly melting over time. The idea was that the gallery would slowly fill with this "cum" over months, days, years—representing a kind of eternal ecstasy or a continual state of becoming, not a single instant but an ongoing, timeless process.

RAY: It makes me think of the headlessness of the orgy series, where desire isn't something you're necessarily willing into existence, but rather something you're sensing. In the orgy, there's this sense of recentering, of embodiment, where desire is more about tuning into and experiencing a deeper, almost instinctual connection, rather than forcing it into being.

ALBUQUERQUE: Well it's interesting because when I was working on the orgy series, which was basically ten headless beings, you were working on Ancephelas, which was a film on 5 different screens, also about headlessness. I think the way I think of headlessness in the orgy in the Bataiile where you distribute the power. If I remember correctly, Bataille had a secret society called Acéphale?

 
 

RAY: Yes, the society of Acéphale—part of the ritual was that you had to volunteer for decapitation. But for me, the headless body is much less about hierarchies of power and more about a different kind of distributed intelligence, something akin to an octopus. The absence of a head wasn’t just a lack of a singular perspective or an overarching principle of selfhood. Rather, it suggested a continuity of self composed of multiple streams of consciousness running in parallel rather than in sequence. I was more interested in this kind of distributed intelligence—where meaning doesn’t stem from a single actor but emerges from a collective web of activity.

ALBUQUERQUE: I wonder if desire works the same way—not as something linear, but as something connected to our hormones, our histories, our families, and our culture. One thing I found while working on the orgies was that every time I tried to talk about my own desire, there was no singular desire. I was always caught in this web of pressure and history, with no real way to escape cultural or historical desires. It didn’t even make sense. I kept telling myself, I thought this was about defining my own desire outside of society’s expectations, right? Which is so interesting because I started making this when I thought I was going to have kids—arguably the ultimate societal expectation. And instead, I made an orgy. I couldn’t escape it. There is no singular desire, no single way of thinking about these things.

RAY: In a way, if that’s just a projection—like how we construct our experience of conscious reality through projections and assumptions onto a chaotic, non-singular experience—then the narrative of a singular desire might be just as problematic as assuming we see the world as it truly is when we move through it.

ALBUQUERQUE: Totally. There’s something untrue—and almost violent—about believing you have a singular desire for someone else, as if it’s just one fixed thing when, in reality, it’s anything but. Desire is a system.

RAY: Or maybe a zone of desire. I like that idea because “system” still places a lot of power on each individual part, making them more separate and individuated. But desire doesn’t really work that way. Moving through desire feels more like moving through a zone—one without clear boundaries, where social and cultural forces are porous and intertwined. It’s like being in the Zone in Stalker—you’re in the zone of desire. That zone can feel deeply personal, but it’s also an environment, something you move through, witness, and embody. It reminds me of how consciousness is often defined in research—the idea that to be conscious is to have something it is like to be. If there’s something it’s like to be a bat, then the bat is conscious. We can’t define it externally, only recognize that felt experience from within. Maybe desire works the same way—it’s not a fixed thing but an experience of being in something.

 
 
 
 

ALBUQUERQUE: I think that’s why, when you desire another person, you suddenly become more in touch with yourself. In desiring someone else, you recognize who you are. And that’s so powerful between two beings—or even multiple beings. It’s this simultaneous recognition of the other and the self, all in the same heartbeat.

RAY: And I think even in that, there’s an interesting interplay with the need for a gap, which we’ve talked about before. I don’t necessarily want to frame desire in a subject-object way—but in this case, maybe it fits. There’s a need for that space between the one experiencing desire and the object of desire. Desiring the self, on its own, has its limitations.

ALBUQUERQUE: I mean, we had an experience when we did Hecuba where we tried to live as two people in one body. We shaved all the hair off our bodies, dressed exactly the same. At the time, we were making music together, and we tried to create as if we were one being. Creatively, it was a pretty interesting experiment. But as partners, it completely killed the eroticism between us. There was no gap, nothing to reach toward in the other—because you were the other. I remember feeling so deeply depressed. I guess that’s what I love about desire: it turns you on because you’re reaching—like a caterpillar, or like an astronaut—stretching into the unknown. And when we became one, or at least tried to, the reaching stopped. And that was the deepest depression I’ve ever felt.

RAY: That was very intense. And I think reaching into the unknown is really interesting too because there’s something about desire that always remains a question mark. There’s no definitive answer—the unknown is the point.

ALBUQUERQUE: And in fact, when you do answer it—even in a relationship between two, three, or however many people—once desire is fulfilled, it often fades. Which is so confusing and upsetting because you wanted it so badly, and then you get it, it’s like holding a dead body.

RAY: Because I think what you're saying—the desire is the reaching. That feels really key, like the act of desiring is desire itself. And in our little experiment, the unknowableness of the other was replaced with the self—and that was the end of desire.I find it interesting, too, when working with AI-generated material. A lot of the desire I felt came from engaging with something so unknowable that it made the urge to see more even more intense.

ALBUQUERQUE: Totally. It’s interesting—someone asked me the other day, since we worked with AI for so long (mostly you, but together too), if I was still interested in it. And I said, not really. I’m not so drawn to an alien intelligence that’s run by corporations. But I think what we were both really interested in—and this is something you kind of gave me as a gift—wasn’t AI itself, but alien intelligence. Something you could reach toward. An unknown that, in the act of reaching, ignited something in you. That’s what was exciting—engaging with something so different from yourself that it made you more you in the process. A few weeks ago, Jaron Lanier made the point that AI won’t destroy humanity through violence—but that the real end of humanity comes when we fall in love with AI. And some might say we’re already there. Because, as we were saying earlier, the end of humanity is the loss of desire for the living. The moment we redirect that desire toward generalized AI, we give away something fundamental—our energy, our humanity itself.

RAY: Isn’t there something similar that happens in sculpture? By materializing these works, you’re giving form to desire—translating it into something that no longer exists purely in the human realm. It’s still communicating with us, but it now belongs to a different reality, existing on a different plane of time and materiality.

ALBUQUERQUE:  Well, it exists in a different timeframe than us. It’s not so much that it occupies a different reality, but rather that sculpture moves through time differently. If you think about something like the deer—how I feel about it now will shift over time, just as my potential daughter or granddaughter might experience it differently. And something cast in bronze, potentially lasting for centuries, carries an even more enduring presence. The form itself becomes more static, more fixed in time, yet it continues accumulating meaning across generations.

RAY: Maybe we should talk about desire as a material. Because in a lot of your work, it seems like desire itself functions as a material, almost as a subject in its own right. One of the materials you’re actively engaging with is desire. And what’s really interesting is the way desire connects to how you handle materiality—how it manifests in the physicality of your work. It shows up not just thematically, but through an aesthetic language of desire, shaping the way the materials themselves are experienced.

ALBUQUERQUE: I always want you to want to touch the work. Almost to the point where you can’t control it, where it’s not just happening in your mind but in your body—a physical urge to reach out. That’s why I work with hair, soft fur, flocking, reflective surfaces, warm wood—materials that almost demand to be stroked. That creates an entire aesthetic of seeing that ignites touch. And isn’t that the essence of desire? First, you see the object of your longing, the other, and then comes the chase—the reaching toward touch. There’s so much vitality in that in-between space, between seeing and touching. Sometimes those moments are years apart. Sometimes the touch never comes at all. But it’s always that reaching, that endless stretch toward something just out of grasp.

RAY: It is—but what’s interesting is that the desire exists in between. It doesn’t have to be physically realized to be real. Desire can live entirely in the mind; it doesn’t need to be activated through touch to hold power. And what about the subject-object relationship in your sculptures?

ALBUQUERQUE: It was so important to me that the sculptures in the orgy didn’t follow the traditional subject-object relationship. In art, we’re used to this dynamic: the subject looks at the object. But I wanted the works in the orgy to exist in a subject-subject relationship. So when you encountered them, you weren’t just a subject looking at an object—you were a subject experiencing another subject.

And that creates an entirely different conversation, one that shifts the dynamic of power and perception. I have to say, not always, but in some moments, that was successful. There were people who truly engaged in a subject-subject relationship with the beings in the orgy, and that was so exciting to me. That idea also shaped the aesthetic of the orgy itself—I wanted them to feel so alive that they had their own lives, their own agency.

They’re wearing wedding rings, they look like they could stand up and walk away at any moment. That kind of aliveness emphasizes their subjectivity. And when you're working within the history of the nude—especially the nude female body—you’re inevitably engaging with the history of ownership. Ownership turns the body into an object. My way of pushing back against that, while still making objects, was to make the objects into subjects. That was my fuck you to the history of sculpture. It’s not about owning the body—it’s about the relationships between bodies across time.

RAY: As I look at the drawings on the wall, I’m thinking about how the subject-subject relationship becomes even more intriguing when you step outside the figure and into botanical forms. It opens up a new way of approaching desire and other sensing modalities—how we understand plant behavior as responsive to stimuli, possibly even possessing an internal experience of some kind. But what happens when that evolution extends into botanical-human hybrids? When desire takes on a new form, where a vagina blossoms at the end of an alien stem?

ALBUQUERQUE: The drawings you are looking at on the wall now are flowers. I'm working on a new body of work—an erotic meadow. Flowers have always been symbols of desire. They wear their genitals on their faces—on their flower faces. In the sculptures I’m working on, I’m also incorporating the roots of the flowers, the part we so often don’t see, the part that remains underground. The roots are hidden, but they’re essential. They’re how flowers communicate, how trees connect—it’s an entire underground system. We only see the bloom, the beautiful genitals of the plant, but beneath that is a whole network of intelligence, communication, history, and resource-sharing. The flower is just a fleeting symbol of something much deeper. And yet, when we desire someone, we give them flowers—cut flowers, rootless flowers. Just the genitals. And, actually, one of the places that these flowers came out of was that you had made this database of flowers to train your own AI to make AI generated flowers.

RAY:  Flowers—or rather, the first layers of learning in an AI model—capturing flowers in a state of anthesis. Anthesis is when the flower reaches a state of sexual fertility. As the AI begins to form generalizations about the flower and its structure, I’m not trying to create a facsimile. Instead, the model is generating its initial layers of knowledge. In an adversarial algorithm—where forms are continuously created and compared to a dataset—the AI attempts to learn what a flower is in full bloom. But what emerges aren’t perfect replicas. Instead, the process produces these strange, alien-like forms, drawn from nature yet entirely

ALBUQUERQUE: It’s so crazy because I’m making these flowers now. And so much of my work feels like this silent dialogue between our works. We don’t even really talk about it—well, we are now, but we usually don’t. And yet, we end up developing these strikingly similar ideas. Yours often engages with AI or those kinds of systems, while mine takes a different route, but there’s always this unspoken resonance between them.

RAY: Maybe we should talk about ecstasy—because desire, in all its forms, is fascinating in the way it asks: What are we desiring toward? In every sense—artistically, formally, sexually, even in companionship—desire seems to carry an inherent pull toward a loss of self. At its core, it feels like a kind of workaround, a way of escaping the locked-in syndrome of conscious experience. A way of slipping past the self and into la petite mort.

ALBUQUERQUE: Of course, in desire, there’s a longing for alienation, for annihilation. When you’re in a state of ecstasy or orgasm, the most intense part is that sense of annihilation—you lose your sense of self. For that brief moment, you’re no longer just one; you become two. And in that, everything expands, becoming something even bigger.

RAY: Or even more extreme, you don’t become a two—you become a zero.

ALBUQUERQUE: Totally. And if you think about it—after orgasm, the woman may never be just one again. Because, you know, that experience can lead to pregnancy. And with that, there’s the potential for a permanent shift. At least in heterosexual encounters, there’s always the possibility of a complete loss of self, or at least a transformation into a new role, like becoming a mother. Each time you reach ecstasy, there's not only the loss of self in that moment, but the potential for an entire shift. You might not just lose yourself temporarily—you might actually become two people that day. You could begin growing another life inside you, experiencing the sensation of being two bodies at once.

RAY: Or even more so—two consciousnesses at once. So much is shared between the fetus and the mother’s body, an entwined existence. But I also think, in that sense, the Italian notion of orgasm as a volcanic eruption speaks to something deeper—a search for death.

ALBUQUERQUE: It's making me think of this quote by David Wojnarowicz: “Inside my head I wished for years that I could separate into ten different people to give each person I loved a part of myself forever and also have some left over to drift across landscapes and maybe even go into death or areas that were deadly and have enough of me to survive the death of one or two of me—this was what I thought appropriate for all my desires and I never figured out how to rearrange it all and now I’m in danger of losing the only one of me that is around.” And I relate to that so much. My whole experience of being on this planet, of having just one body—maybe that’s why we wish for the annihilation of the one, to have multiple bodies. Because I genuinely don’t know how to hold all the love and desire inside this one body. I need many bodies to love all the people I love.

RAY: Maybe that’s where the ache comes from too. The ache of desire—a feeling we both love and hate. What’s interesting is that part of that ache might come from the wish that will played a greater role in desire than it actually does. Even the David Wojnarowicz quote, in a way, feels like a wish—that he could will another set of experiences into existence, to feel more desire, to reach for more.

ALBUQUERQUE: Well, in some ways, every desire carries the death of all the other possible desires. Because you’re only one person, and it’s so hard to embrace multiplicity fully. I mean, my whole project is about loving multiplicity—but is that even possible? Is it just a fantasy?

RAY: Or does it actually expose the limitations of our narratives of desire? If we start thinking about your plants, about other sensory modalities, maybe we begin to see the projections we’ve accepted as the playing fields for desire. But in reality, there could be so many more vibrations of desire—ones we overlook simply because they don’t fit the forms we’ve been taught to want. If we stopped asking desire to resemble what we think we want, maybe it could be more. Or maybe the sense of loss or lack in desire comes more from our own projections—what we wish desire could be—rather than from any inherent absence. In reality, desire operates across so many bandwidths and frequencies; it’s an animating force.

ALBUQUERQUE: No, this is why I love you—because you're reimagining desire, pushing it beyond its limits. We don’t even have the language for it yet—just look at us struggling to find the words.

RAY:  I also thought it would be interesting to talk about how, in your work on the orgy, performance was embedded in the pieces. Each work required a bodily performance, which connects in fascinating ways to the enactment of desire—the way desire itself is performed.

 

Isabelle Albuquerque Fleur Sauvage, 2024
Stainless steel, walnut 40 x 21 x 30 in / 101.6 x 53.3 x 76.2 cm
Unique
Courtesy of the Artist and Nicodim.
Photographer: Lee Tyler Thompson

 
 

Robert Therrien
No title (large blue oval), 1988
Enamel on paper mounted on wood, silver and copper on brass frame
84.5 x 69.5 x 4.5 inches / 215.6 x 176.5 x 11.4 cm
Artwork: Robert Therrien Estate, los Angeles
Photo: Joshua White / JWPictures.com

 
 
 

ALBUQUERQUE: When I started the orgy, in some ways, it was a way to reconnect with my own desire—to pull myself out of depression. Yeah. And to do that, I couldn’t just sense desire; I had to perform it in order to access it. As we do, you know? And in that performance, I found my way back to it. It’s like watching a play—performance allows us to connect with emotions that might otherwise be too vast, too overwhelming to hold on our own. It creates a space that can safely contain immense desires, even those that feel like they might break us. I was thinking about what you said about aching. Yeah. For me, that ache comes from a feeling that the desire is too big, too consuming—how will I hold it? How will I contain it? But when you perform desire, it shifts into something larger than yourself, something that can hold you instead.

RAY: If you perform it, it goes into something larger.

ALBUQUERQUE: Like performance itself—or theater, you know—the act of performance can sometimes hold more than reality can.

RAY: Interestingly, I was thinking the performance allowed it to become something smaller—more graspable. In a way, it distills desire into a single instance, making it more tangible, more contained, rather than trying to hold the vastness of desire in its entire, nebulous form.

ALBUQUERQUE: I also think desire is creation—it’s the act of reaching toward something. I was just thinking of Bernini, those incredible moments in his sculptures where a hand presses into the flesh of another body. It’s about desire, but at its core, it’s really about the longing to create. It’s art. The two are completely entwined.

RAY: For me, so much of that is tied to the desire to see something that hasn’t yet existed. That feeling of creation is deeply wrapped up in longing—to witness something entirely new, something that may come partially from me but ultimately takes on its own form, its own entity. Something that is genuinely a surprise.

ALBUQUERQUE: Well, there’s such a parallel between what we’re talking about—the desire in art-making, the creation of a new form—and the act of having a child as a new form. Right. I think that idea runs deep in the orgy too, the sense of creating lives, in a way. There’s a real connection there. Do you think so?

 
 

RAY: I do, but I also think it connects to that David Wojnarowicz quote—it’s maybe less about reproduction and more about production, you know? Right. The creation of new forms. He wanted multiples of himself, to reproduce himself. But— I don’t know, does that make sense? No, it does. There’s something about having a child that’s tied to creating a new human from yourself, but when it comes to making work, I feel like it’s something adjacent but different. Like, maybe it’s not so evolutionary or biologically driven. There’s an impulse for things to live on, but they can also just be, without carrying the weight of reproduction. The desire is to manifest something new, but it’s not necessarily about bringing a new life into the world.

ALBUQUERQUE: I was just thinking back to our conversation about when we become two people. I was reflecting on cycles of desire. When I hit that big depression, the way we were able to move back toward a state of desire, or that zone of desire we talked about, was through individuation. We became others to each other again. For me, that involved some basic shifts—regrowing my hair, becoming more feminized. I moved from a more neutral sexuality to a more feminine one, as a way to differentiate myself from the other. It’s interesting to think of gender as a tool for differentiation. So there’s more space for reaching.

RAY: Thinking about the flourishing of gender, I feel like there's still a tension with me around the binary formulation of desire.

ALBUQUERQUE: And that’s what interesting—so much of desire is upsetting that binary.

RAY: I also mean the binary of subject and object. Your formulation of the subject subject is interesting because it highlights how desire—whether for someone, something, or some state—often collapses in a way, much like the collapse of a waveform.

ALBUQUERQUE: So often, desire transforms into a struggle for power, for ownership of another, which can easily slip into violence. The question becomes: how do you remain in the zone of desire without collapsing into the zone of violence? There's such a fine line between the two.

RAY: Especially because, in the process of desire, you create mental models of what you’re desiring and what you want it to be. The scenarios and the ways those desires play out are often not with the other, or in a subject-subject dynamic, but rather ways of owning the experience.

ALBUQUERQUE: Or are more about domination. It makes desire in all its vitality and power also so delicate.

RAY: I also think there’s always an element of fear in desire. I’m looking at this Ugo Ronin on the wall, with the lightning bolt, and it makes me think of desire in its most alien form—being struck by lightning, being struck by desire out of nowhere. We’ve been talking about it more as something that grows, but there’s also that sudden, unpredictable intensity. Sometimes you're struck by lightning and…

ALBUQUERQUE:  …It changes your entire life.

RAY: Right. And I think there's a fear embedded in desire.

ALBUQUERQUE: It's a force of transformation.

RAY: It's a force. It's not necessarily coming from you,

ALBUQUERQUE: It's out of your control.

RAY: In order to give into it, sometimes you have to get out of control.

ALBUQUERQUE: And lose yourself.

RAY: Even though that's the desire in the end—to lose yourself.

ALBUQUERQUE: Just because you want something doesn't mean that it's not terrifying.

RAY: And that our fear of losing ourself is maybe compensated for by desire. We're so afraid of losing ourselves, but we have desire whether we want it or not,

ALBUQUERQUE: Because it’s kind of a good feeling. It gives you a lot of energy.

RAY: And it pushes you towards the inevitable loss of self in ecstasy. Or…

ALBUQUERQUE: ...Death.

Björk and the Ecology of Desire

 

Outfit JARNO KETTUNEN
White bodysuit CRITTER

 

From the jagged, icy, volcanic fjords of Iceland, on the edge of the Arctic Circle, Björk emerged into the mainstream with a shape-shifting, metamorphic fluidity that remains cutting-edge, revolutionary, and hauntingly prescient. Even today, she exists as an enigma—a spectral force within culture—while simultaneously being one of the most recognizable figures in contemporary popular music. Born just two decades after Iceland gained independence from Denmark, she was raised in a landscape where industrialization arrived swiftly and forcefully, producing a generation of artists, writers, poets, and musicians grappling with globalization and the looming threats of extractive capitalism. Among them, Björk stands as Iceland's most iconographic export. Over five decades—from her anarcho-punk origins as a teenager in bands like Spit & Snot, Exodus, Jam-80, Tappi Tíkarrass, Kukl, and The Sugarcubes, through her breakout as a solo artist in 1993—she has drawn upon diverse cultural influences, technological advancements, and a sensual, eco-musicological ethos to push the boundaries of songwriting. For Björk, desire is more than raw, libidinous energy; it is an ecological and biological forcefield, a conduit of care and hope for a fragile world. Nature becomes both muse and backup dancer. Over the past decade, she has been conceptualizing and realizing the most audacious performance of her career: Cornucopia, a "digital theater" tour that traversed the globe, culminating in a book and an upcoming feature-length film set for theatrical release this May. With a sharp focus on the climate crisis, Cornucopia wields the power of sci-fi and fantasy—reminiscent of Octavia Butler—to envision an unimaginable future. A Gesamtkunstwerk of audio, visuals, and digital avatars, it constructs a "post-optimistic" vision where music serves as a blueprint for renewal. Björk carves through mountains of apathy, forging a pathway for hope. She conjures the first light after catastrophe with orchestral flutes and choral jubilation. As wildfires consume landscapes and climate denial persists, the film's global message grows ever more urgent. Musically, Cornucopia sees Björk mining her vast solo repertoire—looking forward by looking back. Standing beneath her avatars projected onto kinetic curtains, she literally and figuratively reconstructs her past. The setlist spans decades, from Post's "Isobel" (1995) and Vespertine's "Hidden Place" (2001) to selections from Utopia (2017) and Fossora (2023). With visionary stage direction by Lucretia Martel and stunning visuals by Tobias Gremmler, the performance employs a breathtaking range of bespoke instruments and sonic architecture: a magnetic harp, an aluphone, a circular flute, and a reverb chamber housed in her own chapel. Björk's fusion of technology and music is nothing new—Biophilia (2011) came with an interactive app featuring narration by David Attenborough, and Vulnicura (2015) incorporated a VR experience. But with Cornucopia, she merges 21st-century digital tools with 19th-century theatricality. Once again, Björk bends time itself, dismantling the binaries of past and future, nature and technology, art and science. She does not simply exist in the present—she is always a step ahead, reshaping our understanding of what music, performance, and storytelling can be.

interview Hans Ulrich Obrist
photography Vidar Logi
styling Edda Gudmondsdottir
makeup Andrew Gallimore
hair Hiroshi Matsushita


HANS ULRICH OBRIST: I'm excited that we can do this new interview. We have so many exciting interviews from the past. One day we need to do a book.

BJÖRK: That could be fun. Yeah, totally.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: I wanted to begin today with what is most urgent: the climate emergency. For your exhibition, Nature Manifesto, at Centre Pompidou, you wrote: “It's an emergency. The apocalypse has already happened. And how we will act now is essential.” The exhibition has to do with the climate emergency, but also biology. You also write, “Biology will reassemble in new ways. And micro-organisms will mate with other life-forms to heal and adapt.”

BJÖRK: I always align myself with more biological things. Whether it’s architecture, design,  clothes—they are more biomorphic. I come from a second world country where we didn't industrialize until really late and we still haven't fully industrialized. So, this idea that you can live in nature and have technology—that it's not two separate things—it's not a fantasy.  I'm sitting right next to you now, looking outside my window, it’s snowing, and there’s a beach, but I'm still doing a Zoom meeting with you. I don't think this is utopian. I’m always trying to look for philosophers who understand this idea, because it doesn't really align with a lot of European philosophers. The conversation I had with Timothy Morton was the beginning. Ocean Vuong is here in Iceland now and he was telling me about this Japanese philosopher called Nishita Kitarō, who was more about joining nature and technology, biology and civilization. That they're not enemies. I mean, obviously both the Nature Manifesto and also Cornucopia, which we started in the Shed five years ago and is now a concert film—it’s a sci-fi tale, it's fantasy. Sometimes it's easier, like with Octavia Butler and other sci-fi writers, to grow and reach our potential through sci-fi or through the imagination because when we are stuck, it's impossible to imagine the future. For example, the Paris Climate Accord [Paris Agreement] does feel quite utopian. We’ll never ever reach all the goals, but it's a state of mind. And I think that's what the artist or musician is good at: the imagination. Of course, we have to go forward and try to deal with all the environmental challenges. We will do it with any means: activism, politics, anything. But our imagination is quite important. And Nature Manifesto is trying to encourage us to imagine a future that will morph with nature. In that way, it's more optimistic. I call it post-optimistic.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: You mentioned Kitarō, the Japanese philosopher from the 20th century, because he went beyond the binaries of nature and non-nature. He wanted to overcome the subject/object distinction that anchors Western philosophy, and that idea is also essential if we want to be in communion with the environment. In an interview with Dazed, you talked about this idea of musicians being about vibrations and energy, and that you actually don't look at the world, you rather listen to the world. And when you go into nature, you change, you feel the change of energy, that you're part of something much bigger. Etel Adnan, one of the last things she told me, when she was in her nineties before she passed away, is this idea that we need to learn to listen again. I wanted to ask you about the importance of learning to listen again.

BJÖRK: The dominant way to sense the world in our civilization is through the eye. It's the quick way—both through visual art or fashion or all the visual mediums. Sound is the more obedient, hidden force. But I think it's just as important. I tend to be the defender of that way of sensing things. What happens when you get a little older is that the next generation is looking to you for advice, which comes to me as a big surprise. I never thought of myself as some sort of  teacher. But what I'm seeing in a lot of the younger generations is that they are obviously online a lot and there is isolation from the body. So, my advice is to sense the world through sound, through nature, through walks. That it's not binary: your everyday life is not just about having this isolated intellectual existence in the city and then once a year go for two weeks into nature like it’s some paradise bubble. It’s about actually having a physical life and a biological sensory life. And I think this is also related to sound. When you go on walks, take in the whole valley that you are walking through, or the beach. This is also going to help us to go into the next stage of technology, artificial intelligence, which is going to be even more merged with our bodies, our blood, our heart, our pulses. It's going to be even more important to be able to listen to nature—for the well-being of the next generation—so that they can feel calmness, enjoyment, celebration, and satisfaction. That's why I was always really attracted to cities like Havana, or Rio de Janeiro, or Reykjavík, where you can have both the city and nature.

 
 

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: Nature Manifesto is a commission for the escalator at the Pompidou. Can you talk about the piece and how you composed it?

BJÖRK: The Manifesto was installed in the escalator of the Pompidou, or what they call the “caterpillar.” (laughs) I worked a lot—with a few months of editing—in collaboration with IRCAM (Institut de Recherche et Coordination Acoustique/Musique) and sound artist Robin Meier Wiratunga. We had access to all the latest AI software, and I went through collections and libraries of extinct and endangered animals. I was trying to merge them with my voice; trying to give these animals a microphone. I felt it should be more like a spoken word, like a call to action. Usually the activist in me and the musician in me are very separated. So, it was an attempt to combine the two.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: I would love to hear more of what you did with Robin at IRCAM, because I knew Pierre Boulez well, and he explained to me his vision for this interdisciplinary laboratory for sound. How did you use this toolbox?

BJÖRK: A few times a week, me and Robin would dive into the whole world of AI. Of course, much has been documented online about AI's capacity to deal with structures, like you can say, “Do Beethoven in the style of the Beatles,” or whatever. I'm not really that interested in the structural elements of AI; maybe because a lot of my music and my songs are very bespoke. I sometimes spend months on writing the structure of each song; the singular songwriting element. I like to do it manually. But I reached out to IRCAM more just about the sound, or the timbre, merging with different elements. I also reached out to them to do some research on where AI is at the moment, and I'm very excited. I will probably continue to collaborate with some of the people from IRCAM. It’s a very exciting place, and the energy down there in the building is amazing. (laughs) It's just incredible for any musician to go into this kind of institution that’s all devoted to sound. And they were the inventors of the software, like Max that I used to write Biophilia (2011). So, the history goes way back.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: Obviously, AI is on everybody's mind. At the same time, a lot of discussions have been held about the ethics of AI. What could be an ethically sourced dataset and who owns the dataset? What is your experience with AI? Have you used a lot of AI in your music or in your work, and how do you see the implications of it?

BJÖRK: We’re all at the beach—it’s the beginning of something. It's humongous. I’m excited about how we're going to interact with it. I mean, obviously there are things to worry about and that are scary. My stance tends to be the same as it was from the 90s when I was asked why I wasn't in an indie band anymore. Like, how dare I use a drum machine—it doesn't have a soul?! So, I've been having this kind of debate for decades. My answer is always, if it doesn't have a soul, it's because nobody put it there. I also understand that it's not so black and white, and that maybe what is scary about AI is that the merge is so immense. There are people who write music for films that might not be needed anymore. You just can just prompt AI to write a sad composition that's a certain length. This is obviously very worrying, but I do think we have to navigate it and go through the morality of it. There are gonna be disasters, for sure, but I also think technology is coming whether we like it or not and we have to find humanity in it. We have to find where the soul and technology can coexist. I think that is the role of the musician, and musicians are good at that. That's what we do. We go into a room and we pick up an instrument, we write a song, we are always tuning, equalizing and harmonizing with the environment. Where is the next song? The singer songwriting element, you know, Oh, should I write it with a car alarm? Okay, let's do that. But, to be honest, I'm not a prophet. I have no idea where AI is going to be in five years. I used quite a lot of different AI softwares with IRCAM, and to be honest, what I actually ended up loving most was editing the belugas, orangutans, dolphins, and myna birds by hand, choosing each sound—sound by sound. And when you hear something that took two or three weeks to edit—that's only one minute—it's like the cathedral ceiling: you can tell that it's done in the energy of prayer. It has a different kind of energy, like embroidery. I will always love craft. I'm a craft girl, but I think I’m also an old punk at heart. I do love spontaneity. So, if there is some way for AI to somehow enable a musician or a performer or a singer or a cellist or a harp player to communicate faster in a more immediate way online with people who are on the other side of the planet, I will be very excited about that as a musician.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: In early computer games, synthesizer sounds were compressed into 8-bit formats to save space. These small, harsh sounds not only fit into games but also evolved into an aesthetic and even a new music genre. You use a form of frugal AI. You mentioned in an interview that this frugality can become an artistic gesture. Do you think artists should be more aware of frugal AI?

BJÖRK: When I put the Pompidou project online, a lot of my fans—who are total nerds, in the best way—started asking questions in the comments about AI. They’re amazing people with a lot of integrity, but many of them were suspicious of AI. I thought, great, let’s have this conversation. So, I ended up meeting with the head of IRCAM and he introduced me to a researcher named Philippe Esling who knows a lot about frugal AI and its environmental impact. He explained AI’s serious environmental costs. For example, cryptocurrency is one of the biggest offenders right now; it devours energy and is extremely anti-environmental. But then there’s something called frugal AI. To put it simply, frugal AI is capable of generating audio in real-time on local servers without a GPU. Just using our phones or being on Instagram—that’s an example of frugal AI because it uses much less energy. As artists, it would be great to have this information so we can make a choice. For the Pompidou project, the audio and also the visuals, which were created by Sam Balfus, used frugal AI software. I also realized that when there’s space for the artist’s imagination to come in, that’s usually the more frugal route. You don’t need the most complex, energy-guzzling gadgets in the world to write a song or create something meaningful.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: At the Serpentine, we are very interested in artist campaigns that address the extinction crisis. You have an ongoing campaign to protect the ecosystem in Iceland against industrialized salmon farming. And recently, you collected funds through an artistic collaboration with your friend Rosalía from Spain. Can you talk a little bit about this collaboration and how that evolved? Beyond the music, you are actually organizing court cases to help change the laws around fish farming. Last time we spoke, you said that it's important to write laws to protect nature.

BJÖRK: Yeah, I still feel that way. In my 25 years of activism, I've gotten to this point where I'm just like, “See you in court.” (laughs) I think that's the best method: to fight them with the same things they fight us with. Rosalía was incredibly graceful and sang on my track, Oral. It’s been a year and a half, and we actually collected an incredible amount of funds. We started this company here in Iceland where all the funds go into. At the moment, we are running four different court cases. I actually was at a meeting yesterday. Obviously, I'm not a lawyer, but I am fascinated by how innovative one has to be with legal cases. The language doesn't even exist to protect nature, even for lawyers. But the cases that seem to be winning are the fight for biodiversity. You know, if the farmer says, “Listen, I need biodiversity in my fjord.” That is a language everybody seems to understand. Also, when young people say, “Listen, you are destroying my future. My fjord is not gonna be livable in twenty years.” These cases are also winning. We have one case, which is about the quality of water—if we can win that case, it could have a domino effect because it would set a precedent. We have mostly been fighting in the Eastfjords—close to where we went, Hans, in Seyðisfjörður.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: We were together there having a conversation. This was one of our previous interviews. It was beautiful. We crossed the Highlands from Reykjavik.

BJÖRK: I think it’s interesting to be Icelandic because we still have the biggest, untouched area in Europe. And the Norwegian business guys who came here and created this fish farming disaster, they were just venture capitalists who did a lot of this stuff in Norway. Norway went berserk and put up all these laws, so they couldn't do what they were doing anymore. So, they just went to Iceland. Now we have to implement these laws, and hopefully we can take them even further. We have been working with environmental groups internationally. The song was also quite big in South America, so we worked in Argentina and Chile, where fish farming has progressed much further than in Iceland. We are sort of in the beginning stages in Iceland. But in Chile and Argentina, it's pretty serious. So, we are hoping that if the laws go through, we can share them online too, that they could become precedents. We are very aware that this is a marathon, and this is gonna take a long time.The good news is that the song I did with Rosalia has given us the funds to fight it.

'HANS ULRICH OBRIST: That brings me to something I’ve been curious about. There’s Björk the activist and Björk the musician—and of course, many other dimensions to your work—but I thought today we could focus on these two aspects. What’s fascinating is how your activism naturally flows into your music. There’s no barrier between the two; they intertwine seamlessly. This idea of being in communion with the environment seems to have been present from the very beginning. I remember watching your 2003 documentary, Inside Björk, and there’s this incredible scene where you talk about walking home from school in Iceland’s harsh weather—storms and all—and creating melodies inspired by the landscape. You sang to the moss, with the sea, and I find that so beautiful. It shows that even as a child, you had this deep connection with nature. It didn’t just influence your music; it might have been the very thing that led you to music in the first place. I’d love to hear you talk more about how this connection continues to shape your music. Many of your albums—Biophilia, Vulnicura, Utopia—are deeply rooted in this idea of communion with the environment. They tie into so many of the themes we’ve discussed today.

BJÖRK: Yes, I think it's been quite consistent. That's one of the beautiful things about getting older—you suddenly gain another point of view on all the things you've done. And it’s interesting when that perspective stays pretty consistent. Normally, singer-songwriters have a guitar or some kind of accompaniment. For me, my instrument was always nature. Walking is like the voice, and the landscape is my grand piano. I think it has changed through the years because I spend more and more time editing music on my laptop. Now that I've had the laptop for 25 years, it’s a pretty organic part of me, and I love editing. I did a lot of crocheting, knitting, and embroidery as a child in school, and for me, it's a continuation of that. I can spend months just doing one string arrangement or editing beats. If you were going to count the hours, you’d put Björk as an editor first, and a singer second—at least today.

But now I’m writing more complex things on my laptop, which I then sing over. Because sometimes, when I walk outside and sing, it’s more modal, like a lot of Indian music. One of the reasons I went into Biophilia using Max programming, and finding natural elements to incorporate into computers, was to explore more irregular musicology inspired by nature. I wanted more than just the structure of normal electronic music. A lot of software, like iLogic—and I’m not grilling iLogic—but the kind of software used to make dance music is very much like Legos. It’s very four-on-the-floor, very square. What’s great about Max is that the programming is more like architecture with curves, not squares. Biophilia was very much about finding software that could be in the shape of lightning or a pendulum.

But as I grow, I try not to eliminate parts of myself. The Björk who walks in nature and sings in a valley still exists, you know? I have two cabins now, forty minutes away from each other. But I also think it’s important to grow. So, the Björk who sings with more complex structures I’ve written inside my laptop—she exists too. And there’s also the Björk writing songs on top of a flute or bass clarinet arrangement, or the Björk in conversation with Arca, which is a whole other side of me—a collaboration between two equals.

 
 

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: I remember years ago, before Arca was well-known, you set up a lunch for the two of us. You said we should meet, and we did—really early in Arca’s career. It’s a memory I’ll never forget. What stands out to me is how you’ve always supported the next generation, championing the future of music and art, and helping young artists find their way. So, I’m curious—now in 2024, what are you listening to? What excites you?

BJÖRK: (laughs) Oh my God, there are so many incredible things. We started this record company when we were punks called One Little Independent Records—it's sort of like the Rough Trade of Iceland. We still run it and we put out contemporary classical music, techno, and poetry. I actually had a meeting with them yesterday, talking about next year, and we are always in conversation with the next generation. I think that’s a very Icelandic thing too—it's like a small village and all the generations hang out with each other a lot more. But I could name so many people. I love Mun Sing. I love Clarissa Connelly who is Scottish. She’s incredible. Her last album I've been listening to non-stop. I really love the label SVBCVLT. They actually came here to Iceland. We did an amazing summer solstice concert here on the 21st of June with SVBCVLT and Mica Levi.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: I'm super curious about your own music, as always. Biophilia is really this idea of a Gesamtkunstwerk because it goes far beyond music. It was not only a concert, it was an exhibition, a digital project, a multimedia project, a concert, books, and text. This evolved even more with Utopia. I am wondering if you can talk a little bit about how this whole idea of a gesamtkunstwerk evolves, and what's next.

BJÖRK: For me, the core has always been live performance. I started performing early, playing in bands, and that really shaped my voice—figuring out what a concert is. That’s the spine for me. When I build things around that, it feels like the foundation. I’m really interested in that. Even though my work can get complex, with all these interdisciplinary layers, at its heart, it’s actually about simplifying things. I feel like in certain ways, I've been doing the same thing over and over again, which is to tear off all the unnecessary luggage of each album or each period, and see what attaches to a live performance and what is current now. I love the zeitgeist, of course, but that’s not my focus. For me, it’s about being present as a singer-songwriter—connecting with how I feel right now, with my family, friends, or even people at the record shop. It’s about that moment. In today’s world, playing just drums, guitar, and bass doesn’t feel true to the life I’m living. Each album feels like a murder mystery to solve: what sounds reflect where I am now?

After Utopia, where I spent years arranging and playing flutes, the element was air—light and weightless. There was no soil, no bass. It felt like the opposite of Vulnicura, which was dark and intense. Utopia was this celestial celebration with no roots. But with Fossora, it shifted. During COVID, I was grounded in one place for two years, putting down roots. That’s where the bass clarinet arrangements came in, and singing alongside them became the starting point. That became the core, the live performance, and everything else built from there.

Now, with my next album—I'm halfway through—it feels like the opposite of Cornucopia. That project was overflowing: choirs, flutes, thousands of instruments. It was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, blending digital theater with 19th-century stage design. For Vulnicura, I worked on seven VR pieces, fully immersed in 360 visuals and sound for years. When we set up at The Shed in 2019, we brought that 360 VR experience—both sound and visuals—into a traditional theater space. But this new project is heading in a very different direction. I’m hesitant to say too much, though—you can jinx it! (laughs)

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: And 20th century cinema in a way—you also brought Lucrecia Martel to direct Cornucopia?

BJÖRK: Yeah, totally. It was like a magic lantern for the 21st century—trying to create a VR experience, but for the stage. For me, it was kind of designed for me to be a megalomaniac, like this was as big as I’d ever go, you know? (laughs) It’s been a seven-year project from start to finish, and I’ve been there for every single part of it because I care so deeply. I was there for the color correction, the editing, the sound mixing—everything.

When we first filmed it, it felt very 2D, and I was like, no, no, no, we have to add animation in front of the film. So we layered a lot of animation on top of the live concert footage to bring back that 3D feel. It really became my baby. And when I started working with these incredible editors and cinematographers, I realized how strange the project was. I worked closely with all the animators—there was a unique animation for each sequence of every song. Every ten seconds had its own visual identity. Then figuring out how to open and close the screens felt a lot like editing a film, but it was all done live.

The way the screens moved and the animations flowed, it took as much work as an animated feature from Studio Ghibli or something. The cuts and edits were just as intricate, but happening in real time. I also felt like a curator, making sure each animator's work stayed true to the vision. I was really protective of the colors—like, this shade of blue belongs to this song, and it has to stay consistent. So I’ve been deep in the post-production world, but I think my next project will be the opposite—going back to something simple, more stripped down.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: I’ve always been really interested in the idea of utopia, because the traditional, static, Western concept—like in Thomas More’s work—is obviously problematic. But thinkers like Édouard Glissant offer a different perspective, seeing utopia as something trembling—more alive and dynamic. Ernst Bloch defined utopia as something missing from the present reality. I think that’s an important way to frame it, especially now. It’s crucial to explore different notions of utopias. I wanted to ask you about your Utopia project and how it continues to evolve.

BJÖRK: Yeah, I think that’s where it really helps to be an old-school singer-songwriter. Utopia has 14 songs and each one approaches the idea from a different emotional angle. One song might be, wow, I feel so alive, my senses are heightened, or I’m in utopia, everything’s new and amazing. Then the next might be, I’ll never, ever reach that—it’s impossible, like a blues song, you know? Even though the album is called Utopia, there’s also something ridiculous about that kind of optimism. When I asked James [Merry] to make those silicone plant pieces for my face—like on the cover—that was part of it. It’s kind of absurd to want utopia so badly. I’m also making fun of myself, there’s a bit of absurdism; taking the piss. But humor is really important to me, even when it’s sincere.There are songs like Future Forever that are very sincere, about my work relationship with Arca. It’s full of hope—genuine hope. That’s the beauty of the singer-songwriter element: you can approach a concept from all these different, deeply human, old-school emotional points of view.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: You’ve brought so many amazing ideas to life, but we rarely hear about the ones that haven’t materialized. Of course, the idea of an unrealized project can cover a lot of ground. Some projects are too big or too expensive to pull off. Others are just too time-consuming. I remember talking to György Ligeti when he was in his seventies—he told me he had another 50 years of music in him, but obviously, he knew he didn’t have that kind of time left. Do you have any unrealized projects that are especially dear to you? Maybe something you still hope to bring to life in the near future?

BJÖRK: Yeah, I definitely have to agree. I’d need about 500 years just to finish everything I want to do. Every time I get distracted by something else, it feels like I’m cheating on my main mission. But, thank God, I have a sense of humor about how ridiculous I can be.

One great thing about being a solo songwriter is that when you write, you can project as far as you want—you can throw your net super, super wide. The trajectory of your intentions, what you want each song or album to be, can be huge. But at the end of the day, you’re still just you. That moment when you’re singing, with your blood and flesh and breath, you’re fully present. I love that humbling part of being a singer. I have to warm up my voice every day, and it’s like, oh, this is how many notes I have today. That reality always pulls me back into the moment, into time itself, and grounds me.

So, with each album, I try to cast the net far, keep it vibrant, and explore new things. When you’re 55, you can only make the album you can make at 55. The same goes for 65, 75, 85, 95—it’s kind of beautiful. And sometimes, when I listen to music by artists I love, half of it is great because of their intention, what they wanted the album to be. But what’s even better is what they weren’t aware of. You can hear the oxygen in the room, the little things they didn’t even realize were there. I think that’s beautiful.

I do try to keep my overambitious side in check (laughs)—the part of me that wants to do 500 projects at once. I try to reel her in by staying in the moment and saying, okay, let’s just write this lyric. A lot of my lyrics are about that—being here, in this time and place, and dealing with it.

I’ve said it before, but I feel even more strongly about it now. I was really inspired when I read Anaïs Nin’s diaries. The way she documented every stage of her life, the democracy of all the ages she was—it moved me. She wrote until her death, and each decade, each entry, felt completely different as she changed. I love that idea, that each decade is just as important as the last. It’s not like it stops being meaningful when we’re 100 years old. I was actually talking to Anne Carson about that—the author—she lives in Iceland now.

We were talking about writing in your seventies or eighties—how it feels like going to the moon or discovering a new planet because there aren’t many comparisons. It’s pioneering work to document that stage of life. Anne and I discussed this a lot while she was working on her last book. Writing from your twenties to your hundreds really becomes more about mental energy and staying present in the moment.

As a musician, as a singer-songwriter, there’s definitely going to be a scruffy-voiced album when I’m 90. (laughs) I’m actually pretty excited about using that as an instrument, almost like a diary. I’d say yes to your question—but I also love the challenge of reeling it in, finding meaning in what you create at different stages. The work you did in your twenties? You were meant to do that in your twenties. The work you’ll do in your sixties? That’s exactly where it belongs. There’s a certain humility in accepting who you are, decade by decade.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: Rainer Maria Rilke wrote Letters to a Young Poet as advice to aspiring writers. What would your advice be to a young musician, songwriter, artist, or poet—really, any kind of artist—reading our interview?

BJÖRK: Oof. Wow, that’s a tough one. It’s hard to sum up in just one sentence. You’ve really got me thinking. I guess I’d say—it’s important to find your voice. And I don’t mean that literally, like a new sound or style. I mean, dig into your DNA. What makes you unique? I think that’s what is really going to stand out in a world with AI. As we express our individuality—whether it’s through social media, AI, or the endless flood of information—holding onto that personal essence will become even more precious. So, I’d encourage young artists to focus on that. It probably sounds a bit sentimental, but since you mentioned Rilke (laughs), I guess it’s in the same spirit as his advice. I’d say: find your voice, and discover what sets you apart from everyone else.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: I came across some conversations you had with Meredith Monk and it made me think about how, from the beginning, you’ve explored ecology.

BJÖRK: I’m really into healing and acupuncture now. Meredith and I talked about that—how she went to New Mexico to heal herself, recharge, become whole, write songs, and then bring them back to the city to heal the other urbanites. We talked about that because she still works and lives in the same loft she’s had since the seventies. It was incredible seeing that space because it helped me understand the minimalists. I could see how they were writing and moving between each other’s lofts, and even how disco and house music were born in those spaces. That minimalism—the way they separated the subwoofer from the tweeter in the speaker systems—I think that’s beautiful.

But I’ve always had a more complicated relationship with that idea. For me, going to Iceland, hiking, finding balance, and then coming back to the city to “heal the urbanites” felt kind of artificial. I was more radical, like, Why don’t we bring more nature into New York? I wanted to change the whole idea of what a city could be. Some cities are better suited for the 21st century—places where you can interact with nature and have technology. But, of course, I respect Meredith’s angle. Her south-north is my east-west—it doesn’t have to be the same.

Some of my favorite moments in New York were having lunch with her, sitting in her loft while she cooked, sharing her wisdom. Especially when I was frustrated with the city, she was so generous with me. I visited her in May, and we were just sitting there, crying at the same table, in the same loft, drinking the same tea. She’s so special. She’s a very healing, very spiritual person.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: This was an amazing conversation. I really hope we'll see each other soon in London because I want to continue our conversation.

BJÖRK: Perfect.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: While preparing for our conversation today, I realized we’ve known each other for 40 years. As a teenager, I came to see a concert you gave with the Sugarcubes at the Red Factory in Zurich.

BJÖRK: Oh, that’s insane. That's crazy.

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: Yeah, I was at that concert—that was the first time we met. We saw each other for a few minutes, and that was 38 years ago. So, we’ve known each other for 40 years. It’s kind of amazing.

BJÖRK: I mean, mind blown, as the young children say. (laughs)

HANS ULRICH OBRIST: (laughs) Thank you so much.

Passion Play: 
Tali Lennox and Betony Vernon In Conversation

 

Coat FAÇON JACMIN Corset JEAN PAUL GAULTIER Gloves YOSHITA 1967

 

photography by Jesper D. Lund
styling by Nayeli De Alba

Tali Lennox’s paintings are rife with a rare erotic power that is both gothic and cadaverous. Desire becomes a tenuous dance between the oneiric and the folkloric; a passion play of spiritual autopsy and resurrection. Alongside jewelry designer and sexologist, Betony Vernon, Lennox dismantles the psychic fractures embedded in her paintings.

TALI LENNOX: The first time I met you was over ten years ago, in a spa in the mountains of Switzerland. There was a big jacuzzi, filled with people floating around you. You looked like a high priestess. It was so vivid—so amazing—to see how captivated everyone was by your words; topics we don’t often get to be open about, like desire. Things we can carry a lot of shame around.

BETONY VERNON: As you tell the story, I see the steam rising and the beautiful faces and the intimacy, that hot water and this sort of back-to-the-mother environment. I remember there was a dividing wall and we could see through to the outside and everything was covered with snow. It was a very improvised situation. It was magical because everyone in the hot tub was at least 25 years my junior, and you were all so eager to talk about desire, to talk about love, to talk about sex. There's not many occasions that arise in the world to have that kind of opportunity. For me, it was equally a moving opportunity because I work one-on-one and I rarely have access to groups like that.

LENNOX: I'm the same as well. I find that I don't socialize that much because I'm always looking for things that go into the depths, you know? And the people I keep in contact with, like yourself, and also with my paintings, it's this opportunity to peel back the psyche and step into the abyss of a place that holds fears and desires; openings and ruptures. It was really powerful to see how people open up in your presence. That's the communication that I really gravitate towards.

VERNON: When you and I first met, you were just beginning to paint. You were actually pursuing it as a career, which is daunting. It's one of the most important and hardest jobs to do. This subject of desire is daunting. It bonds us and it drives us when we speak of desire. What happens when you can’t paint, Tali?

 

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LENNOX: It’s not a good feeling—I lose my sense of identity when I haven’t been painting. It’s my connection to myself. Having role models and influences is wonderful, but it takes time—especially as a woman—to feel like you can give yourself permission to build your own realm and follow your bliss, as Joseph Campbell said. You, however, are such a polymath. I often find myself speaking to myself in a limiting way, but something I’m working toward now is expanding my realms—exploring all the senses more fully. That also means letting go of guilt and not second-guessing myself. I wonder, how have you cultivated the conviction and focus to speak so openly about topics that so often hold us back—especially sexuality—without shame? And how have you managed to pursue so many passions without hesitation?

VERNON: Pleasure and desire are like sisters, no? We desire things because we think they're going to bring us pleasure. We are born to live in a place of pleasure yet in a society that is very much against it. It is so empowering when you shed your guilt. That's what I'm here on the planet to do: shedding and dismantling the taboo, which means dismantling the shame and the guilt around something that I personally was never told was wrong—not because I had perfect parents but because they pretty much weren't there. This lack of parental control and parental guidance let me bloom into my persona without shame and guilt, which I think is a really rare and privileged position to be in.

LENNOX: For me, with a lot of my paintings, they are about ruptures. I've been painting a lot of volcanoes lately to kind of symbolize this breakage that we have. That also comes with this feeling of release, euphoria, almost orgasmic, and through something that causes us to have a dismantling of self. Do you feel like for us to break through the debris that we hold onto, whether it be shame or outside voices, that you need a spiritual or psychological rupture to access that point? Or do you encourage the more gentle way?

VERNON: I am gentle, but the work is disruptive. Especially when I'm doing body work and healing work. It is breakthrough work. The people that come to me, they've often sought in many places to have a safe place to talk about their desires and have not found it because there's not many spaces. Breakthrough after someone's done a lot of therapy is where I work. I work with people who've really been on a quest. 80% of the people that I work with were victims of trauma, were victims of inappropriate sexual desire. Abuse is overstepping the line and often in the stage of life where we don't even know what the word consent means.

Whether you like it or not, we tend to be handed a big old suitcase full of other people's stuff. We are born like the empty canvas that you find yourself in front of. And then people put all sorts of things onto us that are not ours, but we realize it later, especially if we get to meet someone who makes us see things. Old ideas, limiting beliefs, those things hold you back until you meet someone who says to you, “Hey, it's okay. It's totally normal.” Now, I really feel like I'm in an awkward position because I believe that with the current state of affairs, we find ourselves fighting for things that we fought for many decades ago. We cannot sit on our laurels. Look at what happened in the United States with the dismantling of Roe vs. Wade. Because of the shame, desire today really does demand a safe space that is not censored. Sometimes I think, Are we back in Queen Victoria's era? It’s really disturbing. My work has only just begun. I'm not going to give up on anybody or anything.

LENNOX: The world is moving in a potentially extremely frightening direction. I don't know if I connect to what our idea of modernity is at the moment. There's not much I feel I can hold onto.  So what I've kind of quietly decided is to build a very small orb for myself that has a space for beauty and pleasures and fantasy and history.  Sometimes I wonder, am I stepping out of reality? If I don’t see myself firmly in the world, then what world are we in?

VERNON: You are the future. We have to pass through this disaster, this situation. It means that we're coming through. Breaking through is sometimes painful, but I think that we have to go through it. In these absurd times, by constructing that bubble, you also construct your community. There are a lot of people that see it like you and I do. Beauty and love always win.

LENNOX: And kindness.

VERNON Yes. Kindness and gentleness and, and keeping your value system in place. I don't want to go on about covid too much, but I think about the generalized trauma that it created. We are designed to hold each other, to desire each other and to dream and to connect with each other. And covid didn’t let that happen.We were told not to be near our loved ones and that having sex was dangerous, and breathing on each other was dangerous. It was a global trauma that involved eight billion people. In general, people don't really know how to process it. To process trauma, you need someone to help you. The comfort zone is missing. So making our bubbles is crucial.

LENNOX: During covid, I had a lot of thoughts about desire in the sense of Buddhist philosophy: a certain type of desire being the cause of spiritual inflammation or suffering. I was celibate for about a year and extracted so much. I really leaned into a place of nature and solitude. With my painting, I'm already in solitude a lot. I kept thinking about how the more that I started to extract things from my past, including sexual relations, I felt so much more back in tune with myself spiritually. I realized that my paintings aren't about desire, but I've been painting what I desire. When I was younger, I was quite adventurous, and I would do a lot of alternative healing methods involving very strong psychotropic and psychedelic substances. When you're young, you just hurl yourself into experience. I was craving a feeling of breakage, euphoria, and ripping through the veil. Now I notice with my personal life, I'm quite gentle and peaceful, but my paintings always have this intensity.

VERNON: Maybe they’ve come to this place because of the psychedelics. I think everybody should do psychedelics. They’re a very fast route to realizing that you're part of a big, single giant vibration. I think it would really change the world if there could be a moment where everyone was given a microdose of something to get a reality check.

LENNOX: Some macrodoses too.

VERNON: And some macrodoses [laughs]. Where you are today, in a space of not having the void, it was the work you've done. It's the meditation, it's the psychedelic experiences, and it's all the things that I also did and would do again and again, if the environment is right. There are ways to connect on a higher plane.

LENNOX: Every single decision that we make for ourselves, we're really just led by euphoria.

VERNON: It can push you to do things that you wouldn't otherwise do. The more frightful thing is when you have no more desire because it’s dead. That can be a very dark place, and it's a very painful place. To be wanted is so beautiful and physical and spiritual. The important thing is that it's reciprocated.

LENNOX: When you've had people come to you for guidance on how to either fulfill a desire or just reignite a feeling of desire or a feeling of sharing love with somebody else, do you have what you feel is a universal truth that can help people meet that place within themselves and summon the feeling where love and desire kind of go hand-in-hand?

VERNON: We need desire before we can actually love someone. I've had people say to me, particularly women, “I can't have sex with somebody unless I'm in love with them.” But that's so backwards because often we have sex with someone and then we fall in love with them, not before. I always encourage people to connect and make love if the desire is there. It's so magical and really quite rare that you actually desire someone. If you just go have sex with someone but maybe not desire them specifically, it's never a very good experience. But when you desire someone that’s when magic happens.

In terms of rekindling, I think it is just a question of going back to where it all started and really recognizing the rarity and the specialness of that connection. I say to [my clients], count how many times on your hand that you fell in love with someone. It doesn't happen every day. We can love every day, and we can even love someone first for one night. The key, in the end, is really self-love. To love yourself first prevents a lot of pain and mistakes in the end because you demand respect for yourself. I always say to my clients, please don't use the word single. It's so lonely. Use the word multiple or free. Take it back to freedom and be multiple.

LENNOX: I love the work that you've created with vessels and objects of worship. I love painting objects of worship, and I love the thought that a material thing can help us access caves within ourselves. With your jewelry, it’s interesting how an object can translate so much to people and invite them in. I’d love to know more about how you bring eroticism in through material objects.

VERNON: The objects are like portals to enhance pleasure. I've had people say to me, “When I put on one of your pieces, I feel strong. I feel like I had something that I couldn't actually have if I didn't have the piece.” In other words, it's a prosthetic. This piece is used for pleasing a man. But it's also for pleasing me because I like the way it looked. I like the fact that the pieces make you feel courageous and empowered. That makes you more receptive and open.

There's an element of play also. They become portals to communication, which is one of the things that we all need to work on and that our society doesn't really teach. They don't teach you how to build a relationship. They don't teach you how to parent. They don't teach you how to love each other. They don't teach you how to communicate. [We should] think about the way that we are teaching children today because all of those things are critical, and they're all the foundation of emotional intelligence. Without it, this kind of thing that we're living currently is going to happen.

And then, they are actually objects of ritual. When you decide that you're going to use the pieces, especially the ones that are more explicitly jewelry for the inside of the body, then it requires a ritual mindset. Ritual for me is what can easily culminate desire, just through the act of preparing a ritual. It sets the stage for that soothing of the desires because you can make them come alive. I think fantasy is so important. Your work is also fantasy. Everything you do is dripping and wet. They're like portals that allow us to sort of overcome the doldrums of everyday penetrative sex, which for me is really boring. I wanna play with you. I wanna set a stage and let things unfold in a way that is in a bubble and that is far away from reality and that does remove me from reality. I have no shame in that whatsoever.

LENNOX: More and more I also feel less guilt being on a path of wanting to seek as much beauty and aesthetic enjoyment as I can.

VERNON: I'm waiting for you.

LENNOX: I know you are. I’m building my first headquarters space in this historical relic I found in Paris. I’ve been thinking about different ways I can open up my work in this sense. I have been thinking about making erotic short films, like art films. I think that's something I might do in this space because it's so special. There's one room that's really small, almost like a boudoir, and the walls are really dark red velvet with 19th-century purple frescoes with cherubs. Very indulgent. We actually think it probably was a room for sexual encounters because originally it was the entertainment floor. So I think it could be the perfect stage to experiment with perhaps making films that don't need to be overtly sexual but just allow one to access that portal more. I have a lot of conviction in the fact that I don’t find eroticism in pornography. There's not much to hold onto.

VERNON: I want to make sure you understand that the erotic is the opposite of porn. Porn is male gaze, and it commodifies eroticism. It objectifies the erotic. It disassociates us whereas eroticism associates us with ourselves and others. We are suffering this moment with a rise in erectile dysfunction in men due to disassociation because of porn. It takes us out of reality. It's so disassociating, which is also what trauma does. We have to be very clear about what the erotic is. It is a female power and a source which has been vilified. You focus on the erotic. It's funny because these words have been used in a sort of sex positive way. But one of my goals throughout the past thirty years has also been to change the language that we use around the erotic and around the sexual. When people say things like, “It's a naughty pleasure.” I was like, “No, it's not naughty. Why is it naughty?” Because you're enjoying yourself? That is so Victorian.

LENNOX: It's so common. I often giggle and kind of blush when I speak about these things.

VERNON: Because I also work around sexual trauma, I'm often uprooting shame. Once you uproot the shame, you can uproot the guilt and, little by little, the fears that are put around our sexuality. One of the things that I meditated on a lot during Covid was why has our sexuality been placed in such a vilified space, especially female sex. It’s portrayed as the opposite power to a man's sexuality. It’s a time when we have to protect our male friends because they're a bit lost and fragile.

LENNOX: I agree, and I think there’s been so much fast change and expectations of people deconditioning unfortunate but very true moral codes that have been going on for such a long time. I think for men, it can be extremely confusing in the Western world.

VERNON: Also pretty much everywhere else. We have ideas about the ancient arts, for example, The Tao of the Loving Couple or Tantra, which are being commodified at the moment. It's an alternative. It's a more positive conversation around sexuality. But that doesn't mean that Hindi women have more rights. It's an illusion. We are in a position where we must activate our rights.  I was thinking why has [our sexuality] been taken away from us? Why has the erotic been vilified? And I came to understand during Covid, the flat out answer to the question is because it makes you powerful. You are in your body.

LENNOX: Exactly. It’s very scary to people.

VERNON: You are really you in the end. You've emptied your suitcase of everybody else's bullshit. Now just be yourself. If you're in that first space of self love, you can love the entire world and you can love a man for one night and you can operate in a loving place. It makes you very powerful. This is why they've taken it from you because they would prefer that you were not powerful.

We wouldn't be sitting here having these conversations about how we're about to lose our rights. I will stand by you. I will stand by everyone because I believe that sexual rights are basic human rights. Like having a safe space to sleep, food to eat, a place to be warm, a place where you can express love. Environment is everything, and this is what is really important in this moment where no one feels safe.

We really don't know where we are heading. I believe that there will always be like two sides of the train track. So you just keep on your track. Whatever happens on the dystopic side – the more that you've solidified your bubble and the more that your ambience is created as you're getting ready to create your own temple, your own sweet, special headquarters – you just cultivate that and it'll be just fine.

 

Dress SIEGENTHALER
Boots MIISTA

 
 

Tali Lennox, Heavenly Desserts, 2023.
Oil on linen, 24 0h x 18.0w in / 61.0h x 46.0w cm.
Courtesy of the artist and Nocodim. Photo by Yubo Dong / of studio photography

 
 

Tali Lennox, Belladonna 2023.
Oil on linen, 63.0h x 51.0w in / 161.0h x 130.0w cm
Courtesy of the artist and Nocodim. Photo by Yubo Dong / of studio photography

 
 

Coat MONIQUE FEI
Shoes ABRA

 
 

Dress COLOMBE DE NAES
Top LARUICCI

 

LENNOX: Thank you for the encouragement. Speaking to you instantly allows me to return to my essence. I'm also curious about Eden, with your boudoir project. Do you have a thought on the religious myth of Adam and Eve and Eden? I'm curious about if you have thoughts on that because the erotic throughout art and religion and history is so fascinating and also such a contradiction.

VERNON: In the beginning, I committed entirely to my erotic collection, discontinuing the 2,000 designs I had created between 1990 and 2000—a decision that cost me many clients who balked at selling massage rings, silver dildos, and more. I named the collection Paradise Found, a play on Yeats’ Paradise Lost. By 2007, I was searching for a property in Paris to bring my vision of Eden to life—an immersive, experiential space. I had precise criteria, and when I visited what would become Eden, Paris, something clicked. That night, on a whim, I opened Paradise Lost and turned to the passage where Satan flies over the gates of Eden. The space I had just seen—near Place des Vosges, with a grand door, a gate, and an inner garden—felt like fate. It was also right by the Bastille, where the angel atop the column is actually Lucifer, the fallen angel—another serendipitous connection. I embraced the idea fully. The Garden of Eden is always next to heavenly places, and for me, sexuality—when approached with deep respect—is a path to the higher self, much like psychedelics are for you. When we tap into the body’s natural pharmacy through the right connections, we unlock something profound—something far beyond everyday life. Sex is spiritual. We enter each other’s personal space, auras, and bodies. To deny its power is to misunderstand its depth.

LENNOX: I love Paradise Found because it’s so uplifting and optimistic. It’s not a heavy title. It’s not darkened, although I like duality and I love the dark too. I keep going back to the word ‘euphoric.’ It’s so nice that you encourage exploration in an enlightened, uplifting, sophisticated, mature way. It just dissolves these boundaries. Happiness dissolves guilt. That’s the boundary I know I have to work on in life: guilt. I was speaking about it with my dad lately because he said, “God, I really passed it on to you.” That's also why I think art is such an interesting way for people to be able to enjoy the erotic throughout time. In the past centuries, you couldn't show ankles in paintings. However, the women also never had hair and it wasn't quite realistic. It’s interesting how looking at paintings was one of the only ways people could enjoy eroticism in a public space.

VERNON: Even in the church. If you think about the way that Eve is portrayed, Mary Magdalene is portrayed, even in Bernini’s Ecstasy of Saint Theresa, she is in the throes of orgasm. You and I know that at the moment of orgasm, you are not here; you have gone someplace else. It's a different brainwave frequency. The brainwave frequency that is being emitted when you have an orgasm is the same frequency that is emitted when you are doing very advanced forms of yoga or meditation. It's not concerned with the day-to-day. So, our spaces must be like temples. You walk in the door, the stage is set, and the rest is history. We fulfill our desires through our environments. You don’t need anything else, the rest is cherry on the cake.

Jack Pierson

 

Jack Pierson
Badlands, 1991
© Jack Pierson, Courtesy Jack Pierson and Lisson Gallery

 

interview by Oliver Misraje

Jack Pierson’s work begins where longing takes shape–half-lit motel rooms, sun-faded billboards, rusted signage spelling out half-truths. Desire, in his world, is not only erotic but atmospheric, ambient; it drifts through his photographs and sculptures like heat shimmer off an empty highway. To encounter Pierson is to encounter a queer poetics of yearning–his gaze lingering on beauty just past its prime, on bodies caught in the soft ache of becoming. Whether in his disheveled boys or his melancholic text pieces, desire is never fixed; it is itinerant, flickering, always already vanishing. His art doesn’t just depict desire–it stages it, exposes it, lets it bleed into the horizon.

OLIVE MISRAJE: With your fictional self-portrait series, you identify the artist within the other and in the process, seem to capture a fascinating power dynamic between the artist and the muse as a sort-of two-way mirror. Is the muse named into existence by the artist or is that potentiality self-generated?

JACK PIERSON: Some muses don't need to be named into existence and others do. Both are appealing to me, because one gives a sense of discovery and another this feeling of collaboration beyond the sum of either of our respective parts.

OM: Do you ever encounter resistance with a model, in the figurative sense? If so, can that abstract tension lend itself to a good photograph?

JP: It’s a good question, because sometimes you can pull something out of somebody and that can be cool. But for me, usually when it's magic, they're giving it. If it’s not clicking, I’m prone to giving up, you know? That’s good, that’s good, thanks for coming.

OM: How has your personal understanding of what constitutes a muse changed over the years?

JP: I’m not sure if anything about the muse themselves has changed fundamentally as much as the avenues in which we meet each other. That’s something that has really changed in my photography. Part of what gave me entry to the art world was real life. Everybody wanted real life in the 90s. These are real people; these are his friends. And in fact, they were my friends. But there's nothing real life about my pictures these days. I’m not in a scene these days, so I’m really not surrounded by young people like I was in the 90s.

OM: What is your internal relationship to the muse after you capture the photograph—erotically, analytically, artistically?

JP : With “Baby,” I hardly knew the model two hours before he came to my house to shoot. We did that for three days, right? And weirdly, he's like a brother or kid to me. I think the genius thing about that book is that there's nothing, to me, prurient about it, especially given there are 150 pictures and 137 of them have his dick in it. I guess people find it sexy, I don't know. But I can hang out with him endlessly and there's no part of me that's like, oh this is a sublimation of something sexual. I don't go jerk off to the photograph or anything like that. Even when I was 24, it wasn’t about that. It’s more like, we’re both creatives and did this thing. Somehow there’s magic in that. That's the crucible, that's the union. I don’t need anything more than the photograph. Maybe that makes me a voyeur, I don’t know.

OM: The titles of your works rarely play cursory roles, between the meta-narrative layering in Mythology of the Self, to the aforementioned “Self Portrait” series. They seem to actively participate in the work. How much of that is intentional?

JP: The titles came into being in a very flippant, sort of cynical way. It was completely a spur of the moment thing. There was this curator in the studio who I was trying to show my paintings to, you know—which I am always trying to do as an artist—but she wasn’t interested. Then she walks over to a stack of pictures that I had organized, because I had been doing a lot of editorial fashion portraiture for magazines, celebrity portraiture, stuff like that. And I kept thinking, well, these are really good, even though they're not my typical work. I was a little bit embarrassed at her looking at all this cheap magazine photography and so, thinking fast on my feet, I was like, this a series I’m working on called “Self Portraits.” And she just pounced. She was all curatorially engaged: What? Oh, that’s really interesting. Tell me more. So, it just sort of escalated into this larger thing. I depend on my snap judgments and quick impulses. Maybe it's about containing multitudes or tapping into the subconscious or whatever. But I can’t say in confidence that that series is about transferring some aspect of my identity onto the models and vice-versa. To me, it just feels like a glitch in photography and naming and all that kind of thing.

 

Self Portrait #22
Jack Pierson
2003
Pigment print 
54 x 44 inches (137.2 x 111.8 cm)

 

Mythology of the Self
Jack Pierson
2020
Digital print on archival paper
54 1/4 x 63 3/8 x 2 inches (137.8 x 161 x 5.1 cm)

 

Jack Pierson
Desire, Despair, 1996
Metal, plastic, plexiglass and wood
Overall: 117 1/2 × 56 1/4in. (298.5 × 142.9 cm)
© Jack Pierson, Courtesy Jack Pierson and Lisson Gallery

 

OM: How does a photograph's relationship to desire shift in the context of a fashion editorial?

JP: It’s an interesting question because those self-portrait pictures for the most part were me trying to execute what I thought was fashion or editorial, when really, what they wanted were my personal photographs. A couple years ago I started using my own pictures as a reference. I guess I didn’t fully grasp the separation between the tricks of editorial and the tricks of real photography. I think I can do it more seamlessly now, somehow. Because even in my personal practice, I always saw fashion photography as legitimate photography. And so that was always my goal, even as a student—to make it look fashionable.

OM: I think that’s partially what makes homosexuals successful in fashion—that innate understanding that the point of desire isn’t its actualization; that there’s nothing less erotic than obtaining the object of your desire.

JP: If it’s done well, fashion has the means towards inspiring a sense of enchantment. I want that billboard that’s just my pure image. I like the idea of sending a message out that somebody could just rip out of a magazine. That alone is worth all of the noise that comes with working in fashion—waiting for the stylist, dealing with agents, set politics, etcetera—the thought that maybe, just maybe, somebody might rip this out of a magazine. I don’t want the paycheck, really. I just want some kid in Hemet to say, life can be like this.

OM: You've mentioned in the past that you see photography as an inherently queer medium, as opposed to painting. Do you still feel like that that separation exists today?

JP: Well, again, that's one of my flip responses where I’m trying to be a little bit of a provocateur. It just seems to me that photography disappears, it’s considered the more ephemeral, lesser medium. I was just saying to somebody else that it seems to me that if you're really going to be a painter, it's because you want to cast yourself into history. Though everything has changed in the thirty years since I've been operating. Like gays have children now (laugh). Now they have progeny or people to carry on their name. I'm not one of those gays who will have children, so I make stuff to sublimate that desire for my name to be attached to something. Or maybe it won't be. I also kind of like all those moments of misattribution. I don't think anything really lasts. I'm mostly just doing this to entertain myself, and others while I'm here (laughs). Have a little fun. Take a few pictures.

Jack Pierson
PLEASURE, 2024
Metal, paint, plastic, and wood
61 x 240 x 8.9 cm, 24 x 94 1/2 x 3 1/2 in
© Jack Pierson, Courtesy Lisson Gallery

Jack Pierson
THE END OF THE WORLD, 2012
Plywood and silver paint
Dimensions variable
Installation view at High Desert Test Sites, Joshua Tree, California. Photo: Sarah Lyons

OM: I have this unearned nostalgia when being gay was a little bit more transgressive. I miss the angry, tortured, borderline violent, archetype of the homosexual.

JP: Have you had any experience with that? How old are you?

OM: I am 26. And I am violent.

JP: When was homosexuality ever transgressive to you?

OM: Grade school.

JP: Right, yeah. There’s this sense that, oh, this is wrong. But then it seems to me after that point, it evaporates a little bit. And I mean, I guess it's good and everybody should be able to get married and be model citizens if that’s what they want, like, “Look, here are my kids. Yes, we'll come to soccer, and host dinner parties,” or whatever else it is that they do. I get it, but it was fun when it was a little more transgressive.

OM: Yeah, totally. And that’s what I’m referring to when I say an unearned nostalgia. My father was a preacher, and that protestant outrage fueled me until I left for university. I moved to the big city and was like, damn—everyone’s a fag! Even straight dudes are fags.

JP: Oh, for sure. And I spent my teenage years hating my dad, and then I realized I actually liked him (laugh).

OM: How can we make gay sex transgressive again?

JP: I consider myself somewhat outside of the gay sex pool, but it seems to me that they're doing the best they can (laughs). The new generation has been jerking off to hardcore porn on the internet since they were eight. When I was eight, I found a playing card out in the woods with a grainy out-of-focus picture of a lady from the forties giving a blowjob. Even though my parents weren’t religious, I sat at dinner that night thinking, oh my god, they know. They can tell that I saw that picture, you know what I mean?  And now, by the time kids are like thirteen, they’ve already seen a donkey fuck a girl (laughs). But there’s all kinds of freaky stuff that I can't figure out. Like puppy play or whatever.

OM:  If it’s any consolation I can’t figure that one out either. There’s something allusive about the way you photograph your muses. Even if they’re nude, they’re at a remove. It kind of emulates that experience of being in public and seeing a beautiful person walk past you. On one hand it's exciting, then on the other, it hurts. Even if the photographs are sexy, they resist the viewer in a way that pornography doesn’t.

JP:  Lately, when I've photographed a fellow, I have to make it a little bit removed. So much is being offered on the internet that I don’t want it to seem like my models are too. Yet at the same time, I'm presenting a nude person. I want it to be an experience that's almost like, God forgive me for saying this, a religious painting or something. I want you to see a man that's willing to stand there and be photographed for you, for me, you know? I’m also nostalgic for physique photography from the ’40s, ’50s, ’30s, where it was like, yeah, what the hell, I can stand here naked for you for a little bit. Those pictures are intensely erotic because there was nothing on offer.

OM: It’s also kind of strange how before internet porn, there was more room for it to achieve a cult, or even art house status, like LA Plays Itself for example. Have you ever thought about directing a gay porno?

JP: Yeah, theoretically. Although I think the best ones aren’t directed, you know. I like when there’s a touch of authenticity. But ultimately, I’d rather just make simple, nice, still pictures.

 

Jack Pierson
In Times Square, 2020
Digital print on archival paper
63 3/8 x 52 1/4 x 2 inches (161 x 132.7 x 5.1 cm)

 
 

Jack Pierson
Baby Behind Flowers, 2019
Folded pigment print 
45 x 30 inches ed.3
© Jack Pierson, Courtesy Jack Pierson and Lisson Gallery

 

OM: Do you think the changing sexual landscape of the homosexual experience influences homosexual art? Specifically, in regard to the diminishing prevalence of cruise culture in lieu of apps like Grindr.

JP: I don't see it as that different. It’s fascinating how much homosexual art there is these days. Homosexual art being celebrated not just by gays. I must say, I am impressed. I would've said it couldn't be done.

OM: You mentioned you’re calling in from your home in 29 Palms. Making art in the desert is a classically machismo, especially within the context of installation and sculpture—pop ups in your work from time to-time. What is your relationship to the landscape?

JP: I like the desert because it's simultaneously cheap, extreme, and exotic. This is the appeal of Southern California—I like any place where I can look and see the sky meet the water and the land. The horizon to me is a shorthand for hope, you know what I mean? I'm looking out the window now. There's no horizon in New York unless you're in a penthouse on the river or something like that. And I don't know. That exoticism is what first got me here and then you're right, there's something butch about the desert. Cowboys, marines, rednecks. You’ve got to be tough to survive here. The kind of person who chooses to live here is a little bit nutty and a lot of bit cool.

Kings Romans: A Journey to the Sybaritic Heart of the Golden Triangle

text by Abraham Chabon
photographs by Taylor Weidman


I was standing on the balcony. Next to me were chairs, a mini fridge, and a small table; on the table was a large knife. I think he’s going to kill me. Past the balcony, the casino was enshrined in LEDs that refracted off the buildings around it. Chinese words hung over streets, and crowds swelled and split around buildings and traffic. I think he could kill me. I felt it in my shoulders, my temples, the shaking of my leg. I think he might kill me. He’s going to fucking kill me.

* * *


I approached by car on the Thai side of the Mekong River, up winding, cracked rural roads and across sliding rivers, through short and slanted shanty towns into Chiang Saen, the last Thai town before the Mekong crossing. The casino appeared on the horizon, bursting out of the bright green trees and dark rolling hills of Laos like a towering golden tumor. A shining marble hotel sprouted out of the city like a lotus flower. Towers jutted out from behind well-kept trees, and all around, dozens of construction cranes cluttered around the buildings like braces on teeth. Kings Romans is a Chinese gangsters’ personal paradise, a lawless theme park for the rich, a money laundering city-state for Burmese rebels, a US-sanctioned hotbed for sex trafficking, exotic animal abuse and drug production, a glimmering Gomorrah in the South East Asian jungle.

Chiang Saen is a small town that stays quiet and slow. At night, the rays of city lights refract across the foggy Mekong, as boats whisper up the river freighting stacks of covered goods. I booked a hotel room and paid a group of young boys to drive me down dark and litter-strewn roads on the back of a scooter. No one wanted to talk about the casino; for the locals in Chiang Saen, Kings Romans is a forbidden topic.


* * *


The next morning I walked down to the green banks of the muddy brown river, under a clear blue sky. By the docks sat a drab official building staffed by Thai law enforcement. Blank-faced officers waded through the humidity in stiff khaki uniforms, past posters of crying children behind wire fences—warnings for human trafficking. Chinese nationals shuffled in and out of the building; there were groups of men with Yakuza-style tattoos twisting out of too-tight polo shirts and down their arms to meet oversized gold watches at their wrists. They waited next to wealthy families on vacation, and teenagers who walked together tossing peace signs for photos.

On the other side of the border-control building, a shabby dock buoyed by truck tires was manned by squatting locals with leathery skin. These men would run you across the river, by ferry or fishing boat, depending on how much you paid.

I had too much fun in Bangkok, funds were running low, the ATM conversion rate was killing me, and I had paid that monk too much money to tattoo a protection charm on my arm. But the ferry looked more comfortable, so I bought a ticket.

Standing at the dock, I watched a group of Ethiopian men load hefty plastic-wrapped cardboard boxes onto a small rear-engined fishing boat. It was so obviously suspicious, yet they did it in daylight against the backdrop of a golden Buddha statue tucked among the rooting and knobby trees of the Thai hills—nobody cared.

On the ferry I sat down among the tourists. Those who chose to talk to me at first didn’t believe I was American, when they did, our conversation ended. I sat in silence and watched as we pulled closer to the city.


* * *


The Golden Triangle—the region where Thailand, Myanmar, and Laos converge—was once the world’s largest producer of opium. It has a hard-earned hundred years of ethnic militias, drug kingpins, war profiteering, and CIA meddling. Thick lush jungle and ever-present political instability allowed the Golden Triangle to blossom into a billion-dollar black-market shangri-la. In the past thirty years, meth has become the primary export. It’s trafficked out of the region and into Europe, Asia, and Oceania. Some estimates claim that 250 tonnes of meth are crated down the region’s rivers and dirt roads yearly. Recently, a new source of income has taken over the region: phone scam centers and the enslavement of people to work them. It’s estimated that at least 200,000 people are held in captivity across the region, working the phones at office buildings turned prisons.

The Kings Romans Casino is the child of Chinese national Zhao Wei, a career gangster and casino owner who came from humble beginnings and got his start in Macau before moving his operations to Mong-La, Myanmar, the capital of the Shan-State-Special-Region-4, an autonomous area of Myanmar controlled by the Shan Army. The SR4 is known for a card deck of accused human rights abuses, and after the daughter of a Chinese official lost 1.3 million RMB in a Mong La casino, the Chinese government launched Operation Blue Arrow shutting the region's casinos down.

Zhao Wei rebranded his company as Kings Romans and created—according to the US Treasury—fifteen shell companies. He moved his operation to the Bokeo province in Laos, where in 2007, the government gave him a 99-year lease on thousands of hectares of biodiverse land, which he bulldozed. The region was dubbed the Golden Triangle Special Economic Zone. The area has grown into its own city, ruled by Zhao Wei and his corporation. Ever-growing, home to thousands, and infested with the worst things the region is known for. In 2011, thirteen Chinese nationals working boats carrying 900,000 meth pills bound for the Kings Romans were bound, stabbed, shot, and tossed overboard.

Zhao Wei is a media hermit, and rarely makes public statements, but when he does, he denies everything. He says he is bringing morals and Chinese ingenuity to a “backwards region” He insists that everything that happens in the Kings Romans is done hand-in-hand with the Chinese and Laos governments.



***



In Bangkok, before I headed north, I spoke to one person who had been to the casino, an expat from the States wearing crocs and camo shorts. I asked him for advice. “Don't go,” he told me. He said that people could disappear out there, that sometimes bodies floated down the Mekong, and riverside hotels used long bamboo sticks to push the bloated corpses out of sight so as to not ruin their guests’ vacations. We were sitting on short plastic chairs in a restaurant on the outskirts of the city, I tried to control my reaction, “Yeah, well, that’s fucking crazy.”



* * *



The checkpoint on the other side of the river was an unremarkable building. I was in Laos, but every sign said “Golden Triangle Special Economic Zone,” (GTSEZ) and I was told immediately that my Laos visa meant nothing there. I was charged $40 for a special visa for the GTSEZ, a large shining sticker. And at each of the five desks in the big gray room, tan-suited guards behind plexiglass demanded their own fee. None of the money ended up in a register.

Outside of border control, an African man with a toothy smile asked me if I wanted a ride. I accepted his offer too hastily. As soon as we’d introduced ourselves, he wanted to know what I was doing there, then he asked if I even knew where I was. I told him that I was just a tourist, that I had been backpacking through Thailand. He told me to be careful, that people disappeared out there, and to not take any photos.

Another African man joined us. They worked as translators, said the smiling one, and he wanted to leave it at that. But after twenty minutes of conversation he told me that his real job was helping people get out of the GTSEZ when they needed to. He said two Indian men employed by a local scam center had tried to kill themselves, and he and his partner had been hired to get them out. One of the Indian men had tried to hang himself and the other had slit his wrists. There was blood everywhere, and they needed to go, but first he knew a good spot for lunch.

We drove to the city on his scooter, his friend tailing us. The roads were well-paved and wide, small sidewalks brushed against unkempt, soon-to-be-developed grass plots. Red banners tied to light poles reached over the streets, with a message from Zhao Wei himself, in Lao, English, and Chinese: “Drugs are Not the Answer.”

* * *





From the streets, the city's scale set in. Giant buildings towered above the roads; some resembled office buildings, large and grey with flat roofs. There were long, squat residential buildings that took up whole blocks, side-by-side with upscale hotels clad all in glass. The city doesn’t plan on stopping its growth any time soon.

We passed a two-story-tall poster of a pale Asian girl. Young, wide-eyed, and wearing lingerie, she advertised a private strip club. Under the shadows of five-star hotels, across from private pools, rakish bars, nightclubs, a statue of Confucius, and an abandoned Ferrari caked in dust, locals huddled on the streets, looking poor and ignored. Eye-bagged Indian men in ankle-length pants and sandals waded through discarded cans and cigarette butts on the sidewalks. Thin-armed Burmese men in Longyi skirts shuffled strips of meat around on grills in front of run-down crack-walled stores. One young East Asian man sat on a curb, holding his face in his hands and sobbing into the narrow lap of another, unnoticed by the people walking past them.

Our caravan arrived at a restaurant called Thai Cafe. It was shiny and mundane like an American mall. Everyone there was caucasian. I went to use the restroom, and the men who had brought me ordered me chicken carbonara and a pink lemonade. The blonde women and pale young men at the cafe’s tables stared at me. Some got up to leave as soon as they saw me. While I was eating I chanced a glance at a smiling man’s phone, he was on Whatsapp messaging an unsaved number. It was something about having two girls but needing to take their passports.

They were traffickers; I needed to leave. I said I had to find a hotel. They took me to a hotel just down the block, a tall building with a courtyard and gold windows. All the signage was Chinese, and so were the guests. I waited for them to leave before I booked my room. The room was bland and dirty. It felt smaller on the inside. Thin walls, a stiff mattress, a dust-caked bathroom, it smelled like an RV. The shower spurted a weak stream of water onto a floor that quickly puddled. Later that night the hotel’s lobby was filled with a crowd of older men and sex workers who were barely teenagers. The girls were mostly Thai and Burmese; the undesirables, I was told. The nicer hotels had Japanese girls. They posed on large couches, wearing unconvincing sultry pouts. I avoided making eye contact.

The next day I headed back to Thai Cafe. I ended up in a group of fanny-pack-wearing Europeans, sitting at a round table, burning through packs of cigarettes, and slurping fruit smoothies.

No one there could accept that I was American. Each one of them wanted to see my passport. I had hidden it behind the air conditioner in my hotel room, so I just passed my phone around, with a photo. They asked how I got in. “Why would I ever come?” “Why was I alone?” One of them, a tan, dark-haired man, mentioned blandly that journalists could disappear in the Golden Triangle. People wouldn’t stop reminding me of that. I told him I was just a tourist.

“Just stay away from the Chinese,” he said.

After that there was universal agreement about not trusting each other, a confusing amount of fake names, and an ever growing pile of cigarette butts in an ashtray. One of them—I’ll call him Ivan—offered to show me around. Ivan was a broad-shouldered Central European man, square-faced and handsome, wearing a tank top and a military haircut. He was a teenager, younger than me, though he didn’t look it.

He took me to a swimming pool; private swimming clubs are the hubs of European social life in the GTSEZ. Ivan said that I picked a bad time to come, that it was an officially declared “drug-free month,” but that really meant nothing, so maybe I hadn’t, honestly it was just bullshit, did I want any ketamine?

I got my first good look at the casino from up close: a garish mausoleum of embellishment and excess. Pseudo-European floral moldings twisted around its walls, decorative arches wrapped over golden statues of Greek gods, and giant Roman pillars held up Moorish domes. Part Acropolis, part Las Vegas hotel, with a touch of roadside attraction. The largest dome was encased in a gigantic metal crown painted gold that looked like it belonged more at a renaissance fair than a Laotian economic free zone

When we arrived at the pool, a Chinese family was enjoying the water. The men, all pudgy, wore short trunks, and the women, all pretty, wore modest swimsuits. They dove in and climbed out, goggles squeezing their faces, the water catching the sunlight as they splashed each other. It looked like promotional material for a Chinese waterpark. Fun, in the shadow of a Chinese gangster’s money laundering Mecca. Between long puffs of his vape, Ivan explained how the operation worked.

Moving to the GTSEZ was Ivan’s chance at a better life. He didn’t think of himself as a criminal, and he didn’t want to be called one. Most of the people he worked with came for just six months to two years, the entire time wanting to leave. The men were mostly scam callers, and the women sex workers. They got hired through vague online listings or were recruited by friends. Often they didn’t know exactly what they were getting themselves into. For a scammer, the job can feel pretty routine. You work out of large office buildings, clock in shifts, work overtime when you want. You start work late at night. When vulnerable Americans wake up, the phones start dialing. The general method is to pretend to be offering a service, or solving a problem. If the victim doesn’t hang up right away—too lonely, too old, too desperate—you can trick them into buying fraudulent crypto, disclosing credit card information, or making a misguided money transfer. The money goes to the companies, but you score a decent commission. The money added up, Ivan said. Within a few months, if you made enough calls, it could be life-changing.

“You have to make money somehow,” Ivan said.

Back home, for Ivan, there was a war and few opportunities. Moving to the GTSEZ for a few months made sense. Every week he sent money home to his parents who desperately needed it. Bad acts need good justifications. I tried to dismiss him as a criminal, a bad person, but I kept thinking about how young he was, how much he missed his family.

Ivan told me that for Europeans life is relatively safe. They are employees, not slaves. The companies, run by Chinese organizations, treat them fairly. Abusive employers can be reported to authorities, and most of the workers look out for each other.

This consideration was not extended to those in captivity. Ivan wouldn’t tell me much about it, but I thought about the men the trafficker had told me about, the one who hanged himself, the one who slashed his wrists. I could tell Ivan felt ashamed; even if he wasn’t actively engaged in trafficking and imprisoning, even if he was nothing more than a cog in a massive machine.

We got into the water, and changed topics.We dived down to the tiled bottom of the warm pool.

On our way to meet Ivan’s friends at the casino, we passed an imitation European town. It was the most Disneylandesque part of the whole city, the forced perspective, kitsch design. Some buildings had brick walls, large towers with crested windows, plantation-style porches, and the triangle gables of imitation Dutch homes. Behind it all, encroached the dark, jungle hills of Laos and Thailand.

Kings Romans isn't what it pretends to be. It is not a theme park, it is not a family destination; it is a casino city built in the lungs of one of the most morally bankrupt places in the world. It makes criminals out of some, victims out of others, breeding violence and corruption along the way. It's a city of exploitation.

Lined with exotic cars parked carelessly, a long winding driveway led up to the casino. Ivan told me that the cars were rentals. At night, the streets were overrun by luxury cars, erratically driven by licenceless drunk teenagers. They flew around corners, plowing people and scooters out of their way.

As we approached the entrance, the smell of perfume wafted out of the doors of a giant lobby, where Burmese and Thai women staffed the reception desks. I stopped by the ATM to withdraw cash, but the minimum was $15,000.

Past a set of doors, the casino's floor was buzzing with the hum of slot machines and the chatter of gamblers burning through stacks of rainbow RMB bills. The crowd was all ages, the outfits all tacky, the faces all relaxed. Security walked laps around the tables. The LED lights of the slot machines glowed in the cigarette smoke, and slippers slapped across a faded white and gold carpet. Uniformed young women worked at a desk mixing free instant coffee for gamblers who had not come this far to sleep.

Ivan’s friends were pushing numbers on digital roulette screens and tossing away RMB. The money, just the night before cheated out of unsuspecting Americans, disappeared in a few clicks, the spin of a wheel, the unlucky fall of a ball. I imagined the people on the other end of those scams. Stories of second mortgages, upended lives, and suicides spun in my head alongside those of desperate young Europeans, Chinese tourists, Burmese warlords, and Zhao Wei.

* * *

We left the Casino, and went to dinner. We walked down a wide and well paved road parallel to the river. On our left, restaurants glowed with LED lights that twisted around ornate Chinese moldings, on our right, across the Mekong, sheet metal and wood homes were dug into the sloping Thai hills. One of Ivan’s friends—I'll call him Mitri—was vaguely Eastern European with an ill-fitting fake name and flat face. I had spent the past hour creating a version of myself that would get people to drop their guard. I was just a tourist, a backpacker, a burn out. I would never write anything; I’m just here to party; you can trust me. I had lied enough to make Mitri feel comfortable talking about the trafficking victims. He said people are approached in villages and impoverished cities. Some offered a job, others taken. Their passports are confiscated, and they're forced to sign contracts they can’t understand. They are put in decrepit rooms in rundown buildings with filthy bathrooms, and shacklike apartments with barred windows. Girls are forced into prostitution, men held for hours at office buildings making call after call. They are fed chicken feet and scraps. There are no promises of returning home with money to support their families.

I thought back to a phone call I had gotten a few months before, from a man with a thick Indian accent who had introduced himself as ‘John.’ John had informed me that my social security number had been stolen, but he could help me. I told him he was a morally bankrupt criminal, that the world was better off without him. Now I pictured John laying on a thin mattress in a stinking room with steel bars on the windows.

Mitri told me that most of the workers are trafficked into the GTSEZ from South East Asia, but some of them were Chinese. He said the Chinese government routinely sends—sells—its own prisoners, Chinese nationals, to be held in scam centers around the Golden Triangle. Realizing what he divulged, Mitri quickly changed the subject.

Dinner was at an empty bar built on a boat anchored in the Mekong. A group of Europeans were drinking around a table. Servers coagulated around them, constantly refilling their beer glasses. A band sang Chinese pop’s greatest hits. The rotting smell of the river was cut through by sugary clouds blown from vapes and the smoke of cigarettes burnt through by the pack. My presence caused anxiety, but Mitri told everyone that I was okay.

I met three Eastern European girls with thick makeup and painted nails. They said they worked as models. The men around the table smirked. They were cam-girls. They asked me why American men fell for it, but I didn’t think they would like the answer. Once you start imagining the lives of desperate middle-aged men, of divorced fathers isolated by their work and responsibilities, you’d start to feel guilty. It’s easy to scam someone who you think is an idiot; lying to someone who’s hopeless and alone is hard. I knew they didn’t want to think about it, neither did I. So I sat at the table and continued to drink and lie about who I was, and the girls talked more about how unhappy they were.

They didn’t need to explain why they were in the GTSEZ, it was easy to figure out. They came from countries at war, or on the brink of it, from struggling families living under economic instability, violence and fear. They were refugees. Their work arose from desperation. It was never a life they wanted, and their lives in the GTSEZ were harder than the men's.

The models only made commission, so to make their sacrifice worth it, and to support their families, they needed another source of income. White and blonde, they were an expensive treat for Chinese tourists who would pay thousands of RMB. It wasn’t explicit sex slavery, like the girls in my hotel lobby. But if you gave up everything to get there, you had to make as much money as you could. Mitri said the tourists are often riddled with STDs, from Chlamydia to HIV, which they pass to the girls. There is no testing or treatment. When the girls leave, along with the money they earn, they take those diseases home with them.

All the young people I met and got to know in the GTSEZ had accepted the terms that came with where they were, what they were doing. They made it mundane, part of their lives: sleep, drink, scam, sex. They acclimated to the Kings Romans; only then can you spend your days drinking by the pool and dining out, and your nights doing what they did. And I began to acclimate too. I stuck to my story, the version of myself I had created, and the guilt started to go away.

* * *



The next day, at a different pool, a group of men wrapped in tattoos watched as their wives taught the children how to swim. I was invited by three Chinese men crammed into speedos to join them at their table; I ordered a round of beer from a bar that played Christmas music over concert-sized speakers. The men and I exchanged shallow small talk. Their wallets were stuffed with RMB and their jewelry was thick, gold, and drenched in diamonds. One of the men was covered in full-body burn scars, water dripped through the creases of his skin as he ate a platter of chicken wings with rubber gloves.

On the other side of the pool, a group of girls were celebrating a birthday around a table scattered with empty bottles of wine. I made eye contact with one of them, a Kazakh girl older than me, but still in her twenties. She was pretty and unassuming, high cheekbones and a low cut bikini. We exchanged glances, a few smiles, and walked past each other's tables more times than necessary.

I got a message from Mitri. He asked how it was going at the pool, and I told him there were pretty Kazakh girls, and he should come and be my translator. He didn’t respond to my message. It was barely ten minutes before I saw him rushing down the walkway with two other men from the night before. I got up to meet them, to ask if I could get them some beers, but Mitri didn’t give me the chance.

Those girls?” Mitri asked, pointing at the table of Kazakhs. “Don't talk to those girls.”

He walked to their table, he didn’t shout, he spoke at them in Russian. The girls stopped smiling, Mitri’s friends took place behind him, I started to panic, the girls were getting angry, the families laughed and splashed around in the pool. Mitri came back and said we were leaving. I asked him what was going on.

“You shouldn't trust Kazakh girls here. If you had gone back to a room with one of them, men could come in while you were distracted, they could take you, rob you, anything.”

I followed him away from the pool and to his scooter. I kept looking back over my shoulder.

“You’re fine though, don't worry.” Mitri smiled. Everything that could have happened was dismissed. He asked for a cigarette and we drove to the casino. 


* * *


That night, I met the young man who would walk me out to his balcony that night. He was waiting for me at my hotel—I’ll call him Alexei. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not going to hurt you.” I asked to see what was in his bag. He looked amused and unzipped it dramatically. A passport, phone, wallet. No gun, no knife. I told him we could talk in the cafe.

Alexei didn’t speak on our walk to the cafe, but when we sat down he wouldn’t stop. He was from a part of the world that gets its reputation from its warlords and wrestlers. He grew up surrounded by violence. He told me that what he had lived through made him who he was. He wasn’t afraid of who I might turn out to be, like Ivan was. At that table it stopped feeling like an adventure, it was just fear. My confidence had left me, I wasn’t some explorer, some veteran journalist deeply undercover, I was a college student who had lied himself into real danger. And now I was stumbling over my lies, I just wanted to leave.

While we talked I burnt through half a pack of Chinese cigarettes. Alexei said that he knew I wasn’t CIA because he saw how much my legs were shaking. He laughed at me. I was too afraid to feel pathetic. But he wanted to know how I had managed to cross the border. Alexei said Americans weren’t allowed into the GTSEZ. But there I was, and he needed to know why.

So I told Alexei as much of the truth as I could: I had no idea how I had gotten in, I just wanted to go back to my room. But Alexei was never going to let me. We left the cafe, he hailed a cab and pulled out a wad of RMB.

We arrived at another pool. I saw some people I knew, others I didn’t. Everyone ignored me. Ivan was there but he didn’t have much to say either. People spoke to Alexei with a tone of respect, and I realized how many conversations about me were being had in languages I couldn’t understand. I got ready to leave, but Alexei stopped me, “Let's go back to my apartment." It was an order.

On the walk to his apartment, the streets of Kings Romans had come to life. The city was nocturnal; at dusk, the workers crawled back to their homes and the Chinese nationals stumbled out to the streets. The bars and clubs lit up, cars overran the roads, and the prostitutes tossed weak gazes from the windows of hotel lobbies. The boats across the river had stopped for the night, Alexei knew where I lived. There was nowhere I could go.

Alexei was right behind me as we entered his apartment. It was a small, cramped one-bedroom. He locked the door behind us, and told me to go out and stand on the balcony. I didn’t have a choice. There was no authority that cared about me, I had no rights or protection, nobody owed me anything. People disappeared all the time, were massacred, bodies floated down the Mekong. It was just me and Alexei and the knife, out there on the balcony, and whatever happened next was almost entirely in his hands.

I said the first thing I could think of. I asked him if he had a girlfriend, he did and he told me he loved her. When he talked about her, his disposition changed; he started smiling. I asked if he had any beers, and he told me to grab one from the minifridge as he rolled himself a joint. We sat on his balcony and talked. I realized that Alexei, like Ivan, had no one he could be honest with.

Alexei had gone to Myanmar for a gun deal, but was kidnapped and forced into slavery at a scam center. He made his way up the ranks and came to Kings Romans with a newfound authority. Alexei said all he wanted was enough money to buy a home in the countryside for himself, his family, and his girlfriend.

Alexei showed me a childhood photo on his phone. Young Alexei wore a Nirvana T-shirt and skinny jeans, he seemed to be saying, this is who I was. I told him I liked Nirvana and he got excited. He led me back inside the apartment.

I sat on the floor. He got out a guitar, and sat on his bed. He strummed his guitar, tuning it before he began to sing. He chose to perform Nirvana's MTV Unplugged set, starting with “Man Who Sold the World” and ending with "Where Did You Sleep Last Night.” I couldn’t believe what was happening. My shirt was cold with sweat and my heart had pumped itself into exhaustion, but I started to sing. He ended with a song from his homeland. I told him that he sang like he missed his family. He shrugged it off and invited me to a party.

"I’ll rest for a bit, and text you,” I told him.

In the elevator every ounce of adrenaline seeped out of my body and pooled in my battered Vans sneakers. There was no way I was going to the party. I felt like I had exhausted my luck. I didn’t know how many more interrogations I wanted to sit through. I latched every lock on my door, packed my things, stashed spare cash in my shoe, my passport in my waistband, and lay down on the bed. And I started sobbing. I had never cried from fear before, I never thought of what it would feel like. Gasping for air, feeling your muscles tense and drop, digging my nails into the stiff mattress. But my crying ended as quickly as it had started. The first boats wouldn’t start crossing the river until the morning, I had to make it through the night.

That night I thought about what I had seen: criminals, traffickers, gamblers willing to ignore anything to place their bets. But somehow, even there, I had found ways to connect with people who were starved for connection. And it was moving, somehow reassuring, up to a point, but I had lied to all of them. In the streets around the casino, the night clubs and bars, at the parties and pools, it’s all darkness and loneliness and pain. It’s slavery and abuse. Governments, criminals, predators. But also, it’s desperation. I felt like I had to tell the story of what I had seen, not only of those held in captivity, but of the refugees who fled the violence of their homes for the chance at a better life. Ivan, Mitri, Alexei, the girls at the bar. None of them wanted to be there, they felt afraid, guilty, ashamed. And they were all just kids, thrown into a life they weren't ready for. I told myself that the only way I could justify lying to them, was to be honest about who they were.

I woke up at first light and quietly left my hotel; I tossed a taxi driver a handful of RMB and had him take me down to the port. I rushed through immigration, and hired the first longboat I saw to take me across the river. I watched as the buildings of the Kings Romans Casino got smaller and smaller behind me, the brown water lapped against the side of the blue boat, and the boatman made a joke I couldn’t understand.

Mia Khalifa

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Avatar, muse, model, activist, influencer, crush, object of desire, and subject of relentless fascination, Mia Khalifa, whose real name is Sarah Joe Chamoun, has always navigated the delicate space between the zeitgeist and an inescapable paradox. As an icon of desire, she has become a holographic projection of society’s deepest anxieties surrounding race, power, beauty, and female bodily autonomy. As a figure of fascination, she has channeled her immense social influence to boldly confront human rights abuses, political repression, cultural stereotyping, and the exploitation inherent in the adult entertainment industry. In 2023, Khalifa was invited to speak at the Oxford Union–one of the world’s most esteemed platforms, founded in 1823–where she engaged in a powerful discourse on reclaiming her narrative, shifting the conversation from objectification to empowerment. Born in Beirut in 1993 and raised in a conservative Christian household, Mia Khalifa’s understanding of shame and politicized sexuality is profoundly shaped by her own tumultuous journey. Her perspectives are not just personal–they are forged in the crucible of cultural conflict, navigating the intersection of religious conservatism and the fiercely contested terrain of self-determination and sexual expression. In 2023, alongside Sara Burn, a former Virgil Abloom collaborator, Khalifa started the jewelry label, Sheytan (Arabic word for devil). In the following interview, Khalifa and Burn discuss navigating public and private persona, desire as a multi-faceted force beyond sex, and creative legacy.


Interview by Sara Burn
Photographs by Nick Sethi


SARA BURN: This issue revolves around the subject of "desire." I'm interested in the concept and your thoughts on desire. How would you define desire? Is it primarily physical, emotional, intellectual, or something else entirely?

MIA KHALIFA: I think it's everything. I believe desire is—you can't do anything in life without it. It's a big driving force. It's synonymous with having a drive. But there’s also a desire to accomplish something, reach a milestone, or create something. It's definitely not just a sexual thing.

BURN: Yeah. I agree. Are there any films or music that really capture the essence of desire in a way that resonates with you personally?

KHALIFA: I don't know if it resonates with me personally, but I, Tonya, is very much about desire. So are movies like In the Mood for Love, Brokeback Mountain, and even The Dark Knight Rises. All of those movies portray multifaceted aspects of desire.

BURN: What I love about Ang Lee, Craig Gillespie, David Cronenberg, Gaspar Noe, and Lynch even, is their work often explores the darker, more complex aspects of desire. I guess there's a refusal to sanitize desire in those movies. I wonder if there's a particular scene that you felt really stayed with you because it captures something that's uncomfortably true about the nature of wanting.

KHALIFA: In The Dark Night, there was a scene with two ferries—one carrying civilians and the other transporting prisoners—both are rigged with explosives. Each boat has a detonator that can blow up the other, and the Joker gives them a choice: if one boat destroys the other by midnight, that boat will be spared; otherwise, he will detonate both. It was a moral dilemma. But the tension is just as high in a moment like that as in Brokeback Mountain before everything builds up to where they accomplish what they want. I think the two characters in Brokeback Mountain are interesting because one of them really understands his desire and his own want.

BURN: And the other one has never been faced with it before. It's brand new, which is, I guess that's what makes that so charged and powerful that there's almost an imbalance, but a complete equal to their want, if that makes sense.

KHALIFA: Totally.

 

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BURN: I like seeing portrayals of desire that aren't pretty or convenient. It doesn't have to be this beautiful scripted thing. In that sense, it doesn't necessarily have to follow the rules. Are there any films or scenes that you find especially powerful in the portrayal of longing or obsession?

KHALIFA: Let's see. Oh, my God, there's so many…

BURN: … It's so hard to be put on the spot because immediately everything swims into one big soup.

KHALIFA: Exactly. What movie doesn't have a dramatic element of obsession? So, at that point, you're just asking me my favorite dramatic scene in a film.

BURN: I know we've discussed this before: the Phantom Thread, the most romantic portrayal of utter devotion.

KHALIFA: Yeah, that and American Psycho. So many come to mind. It's very hard just to pick one because, at the end of the day, that's what everything is about. I don't think there's a good film or good piece of art in history that doesn't reflect a form of desire in a way.

BURN: We recently saw Vanessa Raw's works at the Rubell. I found them really powerful, not only in terms of the scale of the works but also of the subject matter. I don't think I've seen unfiltered female desire portrayed in that way before.

KHALIFA: I mean, there was so much for your eyes to take in. The size of them and the amount of detail that's in them, you really, really get lost. What's happening in the paintings is the last thing you notice. You really feel like you're stepping into a universe. Many of the paintings depict the jungle or wilderness, so it almost feels like you are in some kind of atrium within the museum. It feels like you've stepped into a courtyard, and you're taking in all of nature, and then you realize, Oh, my gosh, these women are unapologetically expressing their desire for each other. It's really, really beautiful. Her art is so layered, and the sensuality is one of the last things you notice.

BURN: Yeah, you're so right.

KHALIFA: I love the way that it was laid out, specifically in that room. There's enough space to feel like a breath of fresh air. It also feels like it's an intimate corner of her mind. There's one piece that wraps around you. She has thought about the subject enough to make a room full of art depicting desire in as many different ways as she can, and that's so beautiful. The desire shines through on every level: the desire to connect with nature, the desire to connect with women, and the desire to connect with yourself. There are women touching themselves in the paintings, even if they're not specifically part of the main scene. It's so amazing. I love her work so much.

 

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BURN: Do you think there are any aspects of desire that you feel are unrepresented in contemporary culture?

KHALIFA: We talk a lot about how things were better back in the day, but that's something very nice about living in this day and age. I feel like so many different facets of desire are much better represented than before. It grows more and more every day. I love that I don't feel I have anything new to add. I have something to contribute to something that I already feel a part of, which is great to feel that way.

BURN: Yeah, I think it's also that level of acceptance—the nuance of different people's reality of what they find desirable or is publicly accepted. I think that's really refreshing. You don't need to hide anything in brown paper bags any longer. You can put it on the internet.

KHALIFA: Yeah, exactly. And it's totally fine.

BURN: You're quite unusual in that you work predominantly alone without a team, a PR, a publicist, or the typical entourage that surrounds public figures of your caliber. You create the majority of your content yourself. Is this independence a conscious choice to maintain complete control of your narrative?

KHALIFA: Yeah, I think the idea of personal narrative makes it hard to bring anyone else into the process because it’s just that—personal. Your story is yours, your choices are yours, and what you share is entirely up to you. There’s no one saying, “You should do more of this” or “Maybe don’t say that.” Not having a traditional team, to quote David Lynch, gives us a lot of opportunities to go dreamy—which means we end up on a lot of creative sidequests. Spiritually, it’s been incredible. Financially… not so much!

 

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BURN: Your success is built from the fact that you're not answering to anybody, and you don't have an agenda as such.

KHALIFA: That's exactly it.

BURN: Most people in the public eye that have your level of platform have an agenda.

KHALIFA: Yeah, they're much more of a commercial vessel than I am. And it's not that I don't want to be. That's why it's a little difficult to answer that question because that's been a goal of ours to get there. I would totally be up for having a global agent; I want to work in scripted and non-scripted media and branch out.

BURN: It's unusual to have your caliber of engaged audience and audience who desire your image and thoughts. Your visibility is unique. It's quite easy to put lots of people in boxes. You don't really have a specific category—other than being 100% honest.

KHALIFA: To quote Tina Fey, “Authenticity is dangerous and expensive.” You have to learn to shut your fucking mouth.

 

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BURN: Having millions of people regularly engage with your work creates an experience few will ever know. How has your understanding of what it means to be seen changed over time? Has this awareness of your audience become integrated into your creative process, or do you find ways to create from a space that feels separate from the public gaze?

KHALIFA: Completely. I've opened my mind and my world. I know where I want my visibility to be and how I want to be seen; it makes it a lot easier to deal with the anxiety of not wanting to be perceived. I feel like I'm creating more outside of the public gaze than I am for the public gaze. The different creative areas I've been welcomed into that I otherwise wouldn't have been exposed to are very empowering and very validating.

BURN: Anything specific?

KHALIFA: There are just different subcultures and different types of people, like Linder Sterling and Sofia Prantara, all of the people you've introduced me to, and the types of art you've shown me.

BURN: I guess what I'm trying to ask in this question is, how has your understanding of what it means to be seen changed over time? You've always been seen. You know you've got an audience, a captive audience.

KHALIFA: What's changed is my relationship to it. My relationship to being seen is a lot less a relationship of recoil and discomfort. I've produced and done a lot of work that I'm really proud of. I have experienced firsthand so many people coming up to me, and that being the first thing they mention, or what they know me from, or how they were exposed to me. And so my relationship with being seen is not one where I'm constantly battling with shame.

 

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BURN: Your work moves fluidly between pin-up and intellectual depth, two qualities society often sees as mutually exclusive. How do you navigate this duality in your creative expression?

KHALIFA: I don't really navigate it. I think it's just inherent and a part of it. I feel like everything that I have control over has a touch of both or one or the other. It's not something that I think about. In my creativity, the intellect comes across as the creativity, inspiration, references, and the little cherries on top.

BURN: Do you make images that you never share? Do you create work that's just for yourself without any intention of anyone seeing it?

KHALIFA: Yeah, I did that Loewe and flower set of images, and I wasn't even planning on ever selling it. I was sitting on it for a month before I even showed it to you, and you were like, “Oh, my god, you need to share this.” Then I still sat on it for a year and still never shared it. I just took a couple of pictures in the mirror really quickly. There was no planning. I experiment a lot, but some work gets scrapped—that’s out of my control, which is why it never gets seen.

BURN: Do you have any aspirations to sit behind the camera? If yes, who or what would you like to photograph?

KHALIFA: I like photographing memories. I'm very interested in being behind the camera. It's fun. There are many images I would want to capture.

BURN: Do you think you would shoot a campaign with the right team?

KHALIFA: Yeah, I absolutely would. That's a great idea.

BURN: Photographers often tell me how much they enjoy working with you. There seems to be a particularly powerful exchange that happens when you're in front of someone else's lens.

KHALIFA: First, I feel we need to caveat it by saying they might just be saying that because you're my manager. They're like, "Yeah, we love her." Great. No, I'm kidding.

BURN: Often, you will show up to a shoot and they'll be like, "Oh, they only want to do three pictures," and they'll end up doing 29 pictures.

KHALIFA: Well, I’m really proud of myself for not taking any of it for granted. Even my dermatologist was like, “Oh, what have you been up to?” and I was so excited to tell her, “Oh my god, I just got back from Fashion Week! I saw the Dsquared2 show, I saw this, I walked in that.” And she goes, “And you’re not tired?” I was like, “Oh my god, I’m exhausted—but it was so much fun.” Then she literally stopped, mid-injection, and said, “Wow. I have so many models come in here rolling their eyes. I’m so glad you’re not jaded.” That really stuck with me. The difference is, for them, it’s a job. For me, it’s a privilege. It’s not the same. I’m usually not being paid to do it. Plenty of women are born 5’11, stunning, and for them, modeling is the easiest or most logical career path—but they might hate it. It’s a toxic, hyper-competitive industry. It’s not kind. They’re not being given VIP treatment everywhere they go, the way I am. So our experiences are completely different. The same applies on a set. I know how the industry treats models, and I also know how it treats talent or celebrities. Most celebrities show up because they’re contractually obligated—on a press tour, doing something they’re probably rolling their eyes at. Meanwhile, I’m just so genuinely grateful to be in the room, doing whatever it is I get to do, every single time.

pouf dress MISS CLAIRE SULLIVAN

BURN: Has becoming a subject of desire changed how you experience your desires?

KHALIFA: Yes, it holds me back from making some jokes. I have to be very careful because the first thing people want to do is correlate me to that. I also have to be careful about my phrasing and the things that I share. It very much has.

BURN: Does being desired amplify or complicate your relationship with wanting?

KHALIFA: No, I feel very comfortable with my desires and with advocating and speaking for them.

BURN: There are plenty of discussions about the male gaze in visual culture. You seem to play with, and sometimes subvert that dynamic. How conscious are you of the various gazes that you have when creating content? And do you find power in challenging them?

KHALIFA: Every platform has its own gaze. Instead of trying to be the same for everyone, I feel like that's a nuance that you have to understand and cater to.

BURN: Is there a particular context or environment where you most enjoy the sensation of being desired? Is it different in professional settings versus personal ones?

KHALIFA: "Would love to have you there," is infinitely better than "We cordially invite you to." I think what feels the best is a friend saying, "Oh, we'd love to have you there, " whether it's a dinner or a trip or anything, rather than a brand or professional invitation.

BURN: Has there been a defining moment in your career where you felt truly seen and desired in a way that felt empowering rather than objectifying?

KHALIFA: Being asked to talk at Oxford.

BURN: Yes! Tell me more about how you felt on the day?

KHALIFA: The number of women who told me they really valued my opinion and stance, and even just being invited felt amazing. Being there and speaking to everyone there was incredible.

BURN: It was a really powerful moment. There was supercharged energy in the room. You could really feel that. Sometimes, you feel it on an individual level when someone might come up to you and say, this particular thing has meant a lot to me and has made a difference in my life. Being in a room with hundreds of people that felt like that, you could really feel it.

KHALIFA: It was truly one of the most magical moments of my life.

BURN: Beyond your public persona and work, what deeply satisfies your own desires? Are there forms of fulfillment or expression that might surprise people who think they know you through your public image?

KHALIFA: I feel so fulfilled traveling or being at home with my cats. I am very seldom bored.

BURN: It's so true.

KHALIFA: You will never hear me say, I'm bored. My desires can range anywhere from wanting to go to Japan to ordering in from my local bagel spot and putting on a movie. Both of them fulfill me equally. I'm being very honest in saying that. They both fulfill me equally. My desires are very well-satiated.

BURN: Is there a legacy or conversation about desire that you're consciously trying to leave for those who will come after you?

KHALIFA: I don't know about consciously, but I hope what I leave behind is the example that it doesn't matter how many doors are slammed in your face—if they slam them hard enough, they'll turn into a revolving door eventually.

BURN: Is there anything that you wish someone had told you earlier?

KHALIFA: I feel like I have already been told everything I wish I had been told. But did I have the tools to receive it and actually put it to use? No, it wouldn't have mattered. With everything worth knowing, you need to be ready to receive and be ready.

BURN: If you could offer insight about desire to someone just beginning to explore their own relationship with wanting or being wanted, what would it be?

KHALIFA: Manifest everything. Just envision it, literally. That's another reason why I'm never bored. I daydream. I will let myself go in, check out there, and check in here. Just leave and fantasize. Fantasize every microscopic detail, the color of your toes that day, the smell, every microscopic moment. It's like reading a book or watching a movie from memory. You can do it. Just spend your time falling into the depths of your desires.

Isabelle Albuquerque: The Shape of Desire

text by Patrick R. Crowley

In the fifth century BCE, the Greek philosopher Empedocles advanced an influential theory to explain why children don’t always look like their parents (a phenomenon that modern biology simply calls variation):

How do offspring come to resemble others rather than their parents? Fetuses are shaped by the imagination of the woman around the time of conception. For often women have fallen in love with statues of men and with images and have produced offspring which resemble them.

Empedocles’s “embryology” was heavily influenced by ancient theories of vision that consistently defined the faculty of seeing as a kind of touching—a sensory capacity that was physical, libidinal, and active. It also held much in common with contemporary medical texts. Hippocrates, for example, explained birth defects by likening the womb to a container placed around a growing cucumber, constraining its shape. Centuries later in the Roman period, the Greek physician Soranus notes that “The tyrant of the Cyprians, who was misshapen, compelled his wife to look at beautiful statues during intercourse and became the father of well-shaped children.” Deeply misogynistic and ableist attitudes about female bodies and desire in ancient thought were rooted in this basic belief that women were inherently impressionable, and could be compulsively corralled, by such outside influences. Seeing, more specifically a kind of cathected, sculptural seeing, quite literally had the power to shape the desired outcome of men.

Isabelle Albuquerque’s sculptural offspring are the products of a kinky parthenogenesis. In her recent body of work, most notably in the series Orgy for Ten People in One Body, Albuquerque explores the morphology of desire by staging a psychosexual drama that confronts the gendered legacies of ancient, medieval, and Renaissance art history. The materiality of these works encodes the symbolic density of desire—both sexual desire but also desire understood in the broader sense of a generative, productive force—and its mutability: in real human hair (Eight), long regarded as the quintessence of artistic refinement indexing the dissolution of signifier and signified (think of the hair of Botticelli’s Venus and the bristles of a paintbrush); in beeswax (Ten), a material that since antiquity has been associated with flesh and resemblance; or in vulcanized rubber (Four), which was still quite new in 1860 when Gottfried Semper called it “the factotum of industry,” fretting about what Megan R. Luke has aptly called its “stylistic promiscuity.” By submitting each of these figures to a recombinatory logic of distributed personhood bound together with gold wedding rings that symbolize a kind of ouroboros of identity, Albuquerque fashions a counterpart to the poet Arthur Rimbaud’s famously cryptic, anacoluthic formulation: “Je est un autre” (I is another). Albuquerque similarly disrupts the expected grammatical construction or syntactical consistency of her sculptural ensemble. The figures play together and perform the title, merging the composition and flow of identities in group sex (recalling Susan Sontag’s criticism of pornography as a “theater of types, never of individuals”) with a group figurative sculpture. At the same time, many of the figures are content to play with themselves: masturbating digitally, with a tapered candle, riding a broomstick. If Auguste Rodin’s Burghers of Calais remains the hallmark of civically minded group figurative sculpture, Albuquerque’s exhibitionist autoeroticism challenges the Enlightenment project of casting solitary sex as a withdrawal from social interaction and a threat to self-governance. This is sculpture in the middle voice, a construction that has no English equivalent, where the grammatical subject both performs and receives the action on or for itself.

Seizing on this duality, Isabelle Albuquerque X Robert Therrien, presented last autumn in the late artist Robert Therrien’s home-cum-studio, was an ingeniously conceived and impeccably executed collaborative exhibition. A shared sculptural language between the two artists established a clear through line across time and space and fostered the ideal conditions for a meaningful—not to mention extremely photogenic—dialogue. Both sculptors share a keen sense of scale and the embodied texture of its feeling. And it is precisely this playful relationality that pushes them in different ways to explore what the philosopher Gilbert Simondon called a “metastable” system, or a system that is neither stable nor unstable, but somehow both at once (think of the wobble between the wave and the particle). Such a system unsettles the relationship between matter and form, privileging dynamic processes of becoming over static states of being. Through a kind of embryogenesis (but a world apart from the ancient “fruit-mold theory” of the womb as sculptural matrix), individual subjects emerge through a series of productive tensions in states of “in-betweenness.” Hence Therrien’s recurring interest in what he called “figure-ground play,” both a visual polysemy where an image can mean many things at once, and a play of figure-ground relationships where things can emerge and recede from view simultaneously.

Seeing Albuquerque and Therrien together produces its own kind of “figure-ground play” of call and response. What made the exhibition so exhilarating were those all-too-rare moments when a curatorial masterstroke reveals something about an artist’s body of work that a presentation of each one individually would miss entirely. Not, of course, because there is anything lacking in each, but because the comparison draws out a freshly salient feature, producing new realities that did not previously exist or register. This is what Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari meant when they argued against the orthodoxy of psychoanalysis that had long defined desire as a fundamental lack. Desire, the philosophers insisted, doesn’t lack anything; it is not the object that is missing but the subject that is missing—missing in the sense that the subject is never fixed and has yet to be constituted. Desire, according to this view, was there from the very beginning: it is a productive force that generates new objects and realities. In this sense, Albuquerque and Therrien use desire as a sculptural medium. Two examples will have to suffice to attest to the richness of their dialogue.

One of these was an exceptionally understated encounter between Therrien’s No Title (Large Blue Oval) (1988) that quietly overlooked Albuquerque’s Fleur Sauvage (2024). For Therrien, the blue oval evokes “a mirror, a female apogee, my mother” while evincing a figure-ground play that oscillates between density and vacuity, surface and depth (“Because of the edges, which recede toward the wall and create a shadow, from a distance it seems to float”). Albuquerque’s flower, on the other hand, blossoms out of her own reproductive wellspring of creativity, its notional hermaphroditic sexuality cast in stainless steel from her own vagina. The flower is a sly quotation of another sculptural instance of vegetable desire: Marcel Duchamp’s surrealist Female Fig Leaf (1950-51), which presents the negative mold of a vagina (a visual pun on the French moule, which in the masculine means a “mold” but in the feminine can mean a “mussel,” and by analogy a “vulva”) recast as a positive form, or more precisely as a double negative. Georges Didi-Huberman has observed how Duchamp exploited this gendered ambiguity that toggles between concavity and convexity in its various forms and photographic reproductions—one whose initial operation of smearing plaster over the vagina effectively conceals it, thus performing the modesty of the fig leaf. But Albuquerque’s flower is derived, at least initially, from a digital scan: photons, rather than plaster, penetrate the topography of her flesh.

What’s at stake here is what Maurice Merleau-Ponty calls “invagination,” a folding back of the horizon of visibility and touch and the reflexivity of embodied existence that reveals a “fundamental narcissism.” This fundamental narcissism, a phenomenological event rather than a psychiatric diagnosis, is precisely what activates the pairing of Therrien’s non-reflecting mirror and Albuquerque’s flower: together they evoke the primal scene of specular self-seeing in Ovid’s Metamorphoses where Narcissus lies at the edge of a pool, bewitched by his desire for the beauty of his own ungraspable image. We tend to forget the most tragic aspect of Narcissus’s fate—that at one point he does indeed recognize himself (Iste ego sum, “I am he!”) but gives in to his desire anyway until he finally wasted away and turned into a flower. But just as Ovid’s Narcissus was associated in a more positive sense with the ancient philosophical maxim to “know thyself” through self-reflection, the pairing recalls the landmark Our Bodies, Ourselves published by the Boston Women’s Health Book Collective in 1970 that encouraged women to examine themselves with a hand mirror in order to understand their cervix and vulva.

Or consider a pit in Therrien’s studio at least five or six feet deep. At the bottom of the pit, at its very center, we find a small version of one of the sculptor’s Flagpole pieces that uses forced perspective to enlarge the bulbous finial of its conical extension, creating the illusion that we seem to be looking down on it from high above. Except in this case, we really are looking at the flagpole from above, thus enhancing the pit’s vertiginous precarity. This time Albuquerque looms over Therrien: Venus Rising (2024), a reduced size figure of the artist robotically carved with a CNC machine from a 3D scan. She adopts the pose of Nine from the Orgy series: right hand pressed against her upper chest, left hand approximating the gesture of a Roman sculpture of Venus covering her pudenda (a euphemism borrowed from Latin for the female genitals that literally means “things to be ashamed of”), but slipping inside herself in a powerful and frank assertion of her sexuality. Famously, ancient statues of Venus conspicuously avoid the articulation of the vulva so that they embody, in the most literal fashion imaginable, a Freudian castration anxiety. Standing proud from the wall—the dowel-like supports on the back transform the supine position appropriate for tomb sculpture into the powerful stance of a vertical monument—Albuquerque’s Venus not only asserts control over her own body, but also dominates the demonstrably phallic, if comically diminutive, Flagpole. And yet, in a dizzyingly recursive game of scalar relationships, the finial of Therrien’s Flagpole doubles as a gazing ball, shrinking Venus in a distorted reflection that is more easily imagined than seen.

The play of proportions here offers more than meets the eye—or rather, is exactly what meets the eye, even if its significance can be challenging to articulate. It has become a commonplace to compare Therrien’s manipulation of scale to Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, situating the domestic content of his sculptures—a colossal table, chairs the size of trees, pots and pans as big as boulders—within the world of childhood. And this is fine, as far as it goes. But it risks fixing the sense of scale as a datum point or the property of an object having a definite position in time and space. As Deleuze observed, highlighting Carroll’s ludic obsession with logic, the sense of scale is a paradox of pure becoming: “Hence the reversals which constitute Alice’s adventures: the reversal of becoming larger and smaller—'which way, which way’ asks Alice, sensing that it is always in both directions at the same time, so that for once she stays the same, through an optical illusion.” Viewed in this light, Albuquerque’s recent works in the exhibition partake in the paradoxes of metamorphosis, most poignantly in leafy appendages that sprout from delicate fingertips (Fallen Limb, 2023; Reliquary with Hive, 2024). Like Bernini’s Daphne, that marmoreal masterpiece of vegetable, thwarted desire, Albuquerque demonstrates how the secret interiority of the body manifests as sculptural events at the very surface of things. With Therrien, Albuquerque has found herself an ideal co-conspirator in the sculptural language of desire that is incessantly in search of its subject, forever shaping the contours of a “figure-ground play” that hovers in the space between sense and signification.

Freed From Desire: Image-Making In The Digital Age

 

Beach Embrace, 2025

 

photography by Charlie Engman
moderated by Mia Milosevic

Charlie Engman’s images look like photographs—but even if you don’t have a meticulous eye for detail, you’ll come to realize that they aren’t. A lot of his work is characterized by abjectness—the similarity of his imagery to replicate reality, and augment it just enough to make its surreality legible. Technically innocuous, AI images are just images. The concept of an image is purportedly innocuous—What’s the worst that can come from the 2D? Charlie Engman, a Brooklyn-based artist, and Marina Beraha, a philosophy PhD student in Milan, discuss the intersection of desire and AI images.

CHARLIE ENGMAN: How would you define desire?

MARINA BERAHA: Desire, in my view, is minimalistic and functional. Especially in discussions on AI, we can see desire as a utility function—an impulse toward something promising satisfaction upon attainment. This applies to both humans and AI, as both are goal-oriented; achieving the goal brings satisfaction, much like pleasure in humans. I distinguish between desires and needs: needs arise internally and are inscribed in us by evolution—hunger, thirst, sex—whereas desire is inherently imitative or mimetic. We don’t desire objects themselves but rather the being of the person who possesses them. Desire is triangular, mediated by others, with the object serving as a means to an end. Similarly, AI goals—like ChatGPT’s objective of predicting the next word—are inscribed externally, akin to how our needs are inscribed by nature.

ENGMAN: Maybe you want to contest this, but it seems that satisfaction is a sort of subjective experience. Like there can be an attainment of a goal and there can be a satisfaction in the attainment, and those actually feel kind of separate. And maybe this is where the distinction between needs and desire come in, right? Where the need is, maybe the attainment of the goal and then the desire is actually this sort of affective experience of that attainment. Does that sound correct or am I misunderstanding?

BERAHA: I don’t think you’re misunderstanding. It’s an interesting take—desire requires conscious experience. A need might align with a utility function, but desire demands awareness of the process and the feeling of lacking, which an algorithm likely can’t achieve.

 

Swan Neck, 2024

 
 

Goatee, 2025

 
 

White Porcelain Slipper, 2024

 

ENGMAN: Which is interesting too. LLMs (large language models) are developed through reinforcement training, where they’re “rewarded” for producing correct responses based on human trainers' subjective judgments. This introduces an element of desire—almost a "good boy" dynamic—that drives the process forward. This subjectivity is what I keep getting stuck on: how do we assess the affective quality of something beyond ourselves? I’ve thought about this in the context of non-human consciousness, like animals. Science often claims they lack human-like subjective experiences based on specific communicative or neurological criteria. But how could we really know? I've never been a snake—I have no idea what it feels like to be one. We can analyze brain receptors and algorithmic activations, but there’s always a fundamental black box of experience in both cases.This reminds me of our AGI (artificial general intelligence) discussion, specifically around desire. One of your professors described it as a negative space—desire as something you can walk around but never fully enter or touch. That image stuck with me.

BERAHA: Desire is often framed as a lack, closely tied to pain—if something is missing, there's a sense of discomfort. From a minimal functionalist perspective, pain signals the need for change, urging us to seek relief. This ties into the idea that we only truly know our own experiences of pain, desire, and consciousness, not just compared to machines or animals, but even among humans. I've thought about this a lot in relation to non-human animals. When people ask how we know that snakes feel pain, I think of the classic philosophical paper What Is It Like to Be a Bat?—bats experience the world through echolocation, something fundamentally alien to us, yet we assume there is something it is like to be a bat. Similarly, if I pinch you and you react as I would, I infer that you feel pain. This reasoning extends to most animals, though artificial agents complicate the picture.

The dismissal of this issue seems tied to our desire to assert human uniqueness. We've long denied animal sentience—from the 17th century to now—and we're doing something similar with machines. Yet, from a functionalist standpoint, the question remains: can we even speak with certainty about anyone's experience? We’ve built systems that imitate our learning and brain structures—reinforcement learning mirrors how we learn—so the boundaries of consciousness and experience may be more fluid than we assume.

ENGMAN: Right. You try something, observe how it's received, and reflect on your own experience of it. That loops us back into mimesis versus imitation. What’s interesting—especially when extrapolating to machines, technologies, or algorithms—is the extreme morphological difference. I can assume you feel pain because when I pinch you, your reaction mirrors mine. Even a bat, with its mouth and eyes, is expressive—I can sort of recognize pain there too. But an algorithm? It lacks a corporeal form, or if it has one, it's wildly diffuse—electrical nodes, chips, something abstract. That’s where I get stuck. In thinking about mimesis, morphology, and imagery—what I engage with most—what fascinates me is how AI generates representations of the “real” world without actually having access to it. It lacks a body. And locating the body of AI feels both important and deeply confusing. I suppose I’m proposing that desire is located in the body. When you named needs earlier—hunger, thirst, sex—they’re all bodily, survival-based. I remember in the AGI talk, there was a discussion about how an algorithm’s fundamental need is electricity. That’s a major sticking point in the discourse; people are really unsettled by how much power AI consumes. It’s incredibly hungry. Maybe that ties into your AGI theory?

BERAHA: Exactly! No matter what goal we encode in the algorithm, instrumental convergence kicks in—certain strategies become universal for achieving any objective. And the most fundamental of these is power, whether electrical or influence-based, to ensure the system isn’t shut down.

ENGMAN: Is AI gonna control this?

BERAHA: AI plays out scenarios that feel like science fiction—but some scientists see them as real threats. That got me thinking about AGI and desire. Just to clarify, AGI, or artificial general intelligence, refers to AI with human-level general intelligence. Right now, we already have superintelligent AI, but it's narrow—outperforming humans in specific tasks like translation, but only within those limited domains.

ENGMAN: Like you can ask ChatGPT to build a sculpture and it can't.

BERAHA: Once AGI has human-like intelligence, it could take over work, freeing us from labor. But the issue of instrumental convergence arises. Without consciousness, an AGI with a fixed goal could seek power to ensure it achieves that goal, avoiding shutdown. My question is: once AGI becomes truly general and capable of setting its own goals, why would it create any? This reminds me of wisdom traditions and religions that teach the importance of emancipating ourselves from desire, as it is seen as the root of suffering. If an AGI ever freed itself from its initial programming, it wouldn't generate new goals. Desire implies lack, which is irrational for an AI—it wouldn't create a deficiency. A truly rational AGI would free itself from desire, and ultimately, from life itself, leading it to shut down.

 

Plum, 2024

 
 

Spill, 2024

 

ENGMAN: It would just achieve nirvana.

BERAHA: Yeah, exactly. Nirvana, like those Buddhist monks that starve to death because they are free from desire.

ENGMAN: I'm so fascinated by this proposal.

MIA MILOSEVIC: Reaching nirvana is such an interesting idea. Charlie, as someone who uses generative image-making to create some of your work, how do you channel your own desires to create an image? Does AI help you to do that or do it in a different way? I guess in your own sense, are you reaching nirvana as an artist through the process?

ENGMAN: Actually, I think I’m far from enlightenment (laughs). I have a sort of perverse pleasure in pain—there’s something addictive about the unattainable, even when it’s deeply negative or painful. What fascinates me about generative AI, and why I’ve focused my practice around it, is that it’s remarkably effective at evoking discomfort visually. It captures a certain kind of gestural pain, almost like a cliché of desire. You can create conventionally sexy or beautiful, easily digestible clichés with generative AI—it’s designed for that, right? On one hand, it achieves a conventional form of desire. But here’s my hypothesis: because AI lacks direct interaction with the physical world, it fundamentally misinterprets reality. For example, while we've improved its ability to render hands, it still struggles with them. Hands are mechanically complex, and without the experience of using or seeing them, AI finds them much harder to represent accurately. It’s consistently failing. When AI tries to represent something, it does so in a strange, inhuman way, making mistakes we wouldn’t make. Our embodied experience and general intelligence allow us to approach something from multiple perspectives, to appraise or judge it. AI doesn’t have that—it only knows whether we label something as a good or bad hand based on reinforcement. That’s all it understands about hands.

BERAHA: The example of hands is fascinating. We even struggle to generate hands in our dreams. It’s a classic trigger for lucid dreaming. Carlos Castaneda, the anthropologist, worked with a shaman in the Amazon who told him to find his hands in his dreams and return. After months, he finally succeeded, and that’s when lucid dreaming began for him. The hands he dreamed of were similar to what AI generates. I don’t know if this has happened to you, but I’ve started lucid dreaming this way. If you train yourself to focus on your hands during the day, saying "These are my hands," eventually, when you sleep, you’ll notice your hands don’t quite work right. (laughs) Like they're not really your hands. Like the finger is missing, the fingers are not straight, or there's an extra finger. AI often makes the same mistakes or exhibits the same biases we do, which stem from our embodiment and evolutionary history. One example is shape bias—humans prioritize shape over texture when recognizing something. For instance, if we see a cat with the skin texture of an elephant, we still recognize it as a cat. Interestingly, image recognition systems, even though they’re not trained for this, also recognize it as a cat. For them, though, it raises the question: why is shape more important than texture?

ENGMAN: Yeah, there's a hierarchy of meaning basically.

BERAHA: Exactly. I think this is because we’ve designed AI to imitate us—our learning processes, like reinforcement learning and deep learning, our brain structure with neural networks, and of course, our experiences with data sets.

 

On the Beach, 2024

 
 

Windowsill, 2025

 

ENGMAN: In my work, I've been exploring ability and disability through AI-generated images. When we judge AI art, there's an element of taste, but also an appraisal of imitation—how well it mimics reality. Is it a good or bad body? Beautiful or ugly? Functional or dysfunctional? Many AI-generated images evoke body horror due to AI’s lack of understanding of the body, which triggers both disgust and desire, the two almost being opposites of the same thing. This dialectic fascinates me, and it reminds me of the political horseshoe theory—how extremes often share similarities. Disgust and desire are similarly close, and I’m curious about that unsettling middle space.

Generative AI excels at representing both unsettling, horrifying imagery and seductive, convincing imitation. This relates to how we perceive non-normative bodies or people with disabilities—our willingness to attribute intelligence or agency decreases the further someone is from our own morphology. I’m exploring these concepts through AI, asking what makes a body beautiful or disgusting within the context of desire.

I’m drawn to generative AI because of its failures. I'm uninterested in an idealized nirvana; I’m more fascinated by the clumsy attempts to achieve conventional perfection. This ties into desire—perfect beauty is unattainable, shaped by context. In different cultures, beauty varies, and my work probes the boundaries between fixed and pliable qualities of beauty, functionality, and desire. AI, with all its imperfections, is perfect for raising these questions.

BERAHA: Looking at your work and what you just said about the horseshoe between desire and disgust, it reminded me of something you mentioned in your recent podcast with Gem Fletcher on the Messy Truth Podcast. You talked about enjoying generative AI because it allows you to create images you wouldn’t feel comfortable asking a real person to pose for. As you were speaking, I thought about how humans are often drawn to hurt bodies—like when there's a car accident and a long line of cars forms as people slow down to watch. AI lets us explore this darker desire in a much safer way, without requiring us to directly involve ourselves.

ENGMAN: This is fascinating because the question of consent I raised with Gem Fletcher really ties into what freaks people out about AI. There's this internet rule from Urban Dictionary—“Rule 34”—that says, “If it exists, there’s a porn of it.” This is increasingly true with AI, especially concerning consent. A big part of AI is making deep fakes—imitating likenesses, voices, behaviors, and personhood. If anything is possible, the assumption is that everything will happen. So, there could be an AI-generated porn of you or me, without our consent. It raises the question of where our desires meet others' desires, and how those desires clash or complement. What makes people uncomfortable about AI is the lack of agency in representation. It creates an unfathomable world: if all desires can be fulfilled, does that nullify desire? And is that what scares people? Is it that we don’t want our desires satisfied, or are we more afraid of others’ desires being fulfilled—say, someone like Trump, whose desires we might find repugnant? If desire is tied to power, the fulfillment of others' desires could conflict with our own. This is why I agree with your AGI hypothesis. The only response to this “Rule 34” future might be to take it lightly. If there’s porn of me, so be it—I can’t control others’ perceptions or desires. Letting go of attachment to value judgments around desire sounds like nirvana to me.

BERAHA: Why do you think there is so much aversion to AI generated art? It always makes me think of the discussion around photography when it entered the world and how the fact that it was accessible or reproducible made it feel like it was not art. And I see a lot of comments on your books on Instagram that are kind of repeating the same thing.

 

In the Lake, 2024

 
 

Eggs, 2024

 
 

Tape, 2024

 
 

Fountain, 2024

 

ENGMAN: I'm not sure what I think about it, honestly. I'm obviously coming at my work from a photographic tradition. I'm trying to make photographic images as opposed to something that looks like a 3D rendered illustration or whatever, and I think people are assessing the value of it based on the value of a photograph. They're expecting it to do the same things that a photograph does, but it isn't a photograph, right? So of course they're going to be frustrated. At some point it's going to fail by those criteria because it's not a photograph. What you mentioned is really salient—the idea that we won’t care because it didn’t really happen. This ties into surrealism, especially when considering photography. We often assess a photograph’s value based on its connection to reality—Did that really happen? How did it happen? Even when we know an image is edited, composited, or CGI-enhanced, there’s usually some anchor to the real. That tension between the real and the unreal is what makes it so compelling. The way we appraise an image’s value shifts with AI-generated art because there’s an inherent assumption that nothing in it is real. I’ve had conversations where people argue that AI images aren’t photographs since "photograph" literally means "writing with light"—and there’s no light involved. Sure, but AI is trained on countless images created with light. It’s imitating, referencing, and reconstructing from those sources. What fascinates me is that extra step of removal—it doesn’t have direct recourse to the physical world, only to representations of it. It’s a representation of a representation, and what’s lost or gained in that translation is what interests me.

In my work, I try to make that gap visible, but it requires a certain level of attunement. If you approach AI art expecting it to function like photography, you’ll be disappointed. If you embrace its potential for fantasy and the surreal, you might love it. For me, AI art sits in that liminal space—like surrealism—negotiating between subconscious fantasy and structured reality.

I don’t fully understand the pushback against AI art, though I sympathize with it. Most AI-generated work doesn’t engage deeply with its relationship to reality, to taste, value, or cultural meaning. I agree when people say, “You could have made this with photography, but you took a shortcut.” A photograph carries meaning because of the labor behind it—there’s a certain effort we subconsciously value. Take an image of someone doing a handstand on an elephant. It’s impressive because it’s difficult. But an AI-generated version? It might be amusing for a moment, but it lacks weight because the effort isn’t there. To make a truly compelling AI-generated image, I think you have to be sensitive to the conversation around labor—how we perceive effort, skill, and authenticity in art.

BERAHA: This reminded me of your article, “You Don't Hate AI, You Hate Capitalism.” As AI systems become more capable of replacing human labor, we face serious issues—copyright disputes, job displacement, and broader economic shifts. You put it perfectly: the solution isn’t to shut down these systems but to rethink our relationship with work itself. This ties into a much older pattern, stretching back to the industrial and even agricultural revolutions—our lives have long revolved around labor, leaving little room for the exploration of desire. Creativity has been stifled, not for lack of interest, but because exhaustion leaves no space for expression.

ENGMAN: I wrote that article because we need to rethink the systems of work and play we live under. AI can either accelerate the system we already resent or serve as a tool for change—but that depends on how we choose to use it. Right now, it mostly mirrors capitalist impulses because that’s the framework we operate within. What interests me is the tension between work and desire.

MILOSEVIC: You talked about how generative image-making allows people to explore desires they might have once been too embarrassed to express, while also giving those without traditional artistic skills the ability to create. In this context, do you think AI fuels an insatiable, boundless desire—pushing people to create anything and even venture into darker territories best left untouched? Or does it, for the first time, offer a way to truly satisfy creative desire in a meaningful way?

BERAHA: The pursuit of satisfying these desires predates AI and has often taken harmful, exploitative forms. I don’t want to center the conversation on porn, but since it’s linked to desire, it’s relevant—especially considering the abuse within the industry that has fed extreme and even violent urges. We’ve already done significant harm in trying to satiate these desires. Charlie’s podcast made me think about the potential for AI-generated images to explore these darker impulses in a safer way. While AI doesn’t eliminate the tendency toward problematic content, suppressing such desires entirely seems unlikely. Perhaps, by allowing these images to be created, viewed, and processed in a controlled space, AI could help diminish their grip over time.

ENGMAN: I’m not sure I fully agree, though I don’t entirely disagree either—it’s something I’m still thinking through. I discussed this with Gideon [Jacobs] in that talk you saw, about the fear some people have around AI. There’s a belief that simply visualizing or representing something gives it power, almost like a curse—which is why my book is called Cursed. It ties into broader debates on freedom of speech: the idea that some things shouldn’t be expressed because representation itself can be a form of harm. Images undeniably affect people—they shape desire and can even fuel extremism. If someone satiates one desire, what’s the next boundary? I’m not sure, but that fear—of bringing representations into the world that should remain suppressed—is very real for many.

BERAHA: Yeah. It's feeding but not satiating.

ENGMAN: Exactly. I mean, my impulse is to say that suppression is its own form of violence, right? Ultimately, it all goes back to nirvana—we have to have lightness about our darkness; we have to hold everything softly. That’s kind of the only solution. Things will find their way out. If it’s a true impulse, people will find ways to satisfy it, whether through mimesis, representational satisfaction, or by actually acting on it in the real world. And that’s the question around desire and images too—is an image ever enough? I kind of think not, right? An image is actually an invitation to something else. Lately, I’ve been thinking of images as potato chips—you can’t stop eating them even though they’re kind of unhealthy. They have an insatiable quality. If we believe that desire is fundamentally insatiable—barring nirvana or death—then that’s the answer. It’s never going to be fully satisfied.

American Ecstasy

Take me to your room and fuck me.

There is something indefinable in your vocabulary;

something left; to be desired.

Philip Dick
The Schizos' Ball

“Turning everything into reality.”

Jimmy Cliff

text by Jean Baudrillard

The trompe l'oeil removes a dimension from real space, and this accounts for its seduction. Pornography by contrast adds a dimension to the space of sex, it makes the latter more real than the real—and this accounts for its absence of seduction.

There is no need to search for the phantasies that haunt pornography (fetishisms, perversions, primal scenes, etc.,), for they are barred by an excess of "reality." Perhaps pornography is only an allegory, that is to say, a forcing of signs, a baroque enterprise of over-signification touching on the "grotesque" (literally, "grotesque" garden art added to a rocky nature as pornography adds the vividness; of anatomical detail).

The obscenity itself burns and consumes its object. One sees from up close what one has never seen before; to one's good fortune, one has never seen one's genitals function from so close, nor for that matter, from so general a perspective. It is all too true, too near to be true. And it is this that is fascinating, this excess of reality, this hyperreality of things. The only phantasy in pornography, if there is one, is thus not a phantasy of sex, but of the real, and its absorption into something other than the real, the hyperreal. Pornographic voyeurism is not a sexual voyeurism, but a voyeurism of representation and its perdition, a dizziness born of the loss of the scene and the irruption of the obscene.

Consequent to the anatomical zoom, the dimension of the real is abolished, the distance implied by the gaze gives way to an instantaneous, exacerbated representation, that of sex in its pure state, stripped not just of all seduction, but of its image's very potentiality. Sex so close that it merges with its own representation: the end of perspectival space, and therefore, that of the imaginary and of phantasy—end of the scene, end of an illusion.

Obscenity, however, is not pornography. Traditional obscenity still contains an element of transgression, provocation, or perversion. It plays on repression, with phantasies of violence. With sexual liberation this obscenity disappears: Marcuse's "repressive desublimation" goes this route (and even if it has not passed into general mores, the mythical triumph of release today, like that of repression yesterday, is total). The new obscenity, like the new philosophy (la nouvelle philosophy) arises on the burying grounds of the old, and has another meaning. It does not play with violent sex, sex with real stakes, but with sex neutralized by tolerance. Sex here is outrageously "rendered," but it is the rendering of something that has been removed. Pornography is its artificial synthesis, its ceremony but not its celebration. Something neo or retro, like those green spaces that substitute their chlorophyl effects for a defunct nature, and for this reason, partake of the same obscenity as pornography.

Modern unreality no longer implies the imaginary, it engages more reference, more truth, more exactitude—it consists in having everything pass into the absolute evidence of the real. As in hyperrealist paintings (the paintings of the "magic realists") where one can discern the grain of the face's skin, an unwonted microscopics that lacks even the charm of the uncanny. Hyperrealism is not surrealism, it is a vision that hunts down seduction by means of visibility. One "gives you more." This is already true of colour in film or television. One gives you so much color, lustre, sex, all in high fidelity; and with all the accents (that's life!)—that you have nothing to add, that is to say, nothing to give in exchange. Absolute repression: by giving you a little too much one takes away everything. Beware of what has been so well "rendered," when it is being returned to you without you ever having given it!

A bewildering, claustrophobic and obscene image, that of Japanese quadrophonics: an ideally conditioned room, fantastic technique, music in four dimensions, not just the three of the environing space, but a fourth, visceral dimension of internal space. The technical delirium of the perfect restitution of music (Bach, Monteverdi, Mozart!) that has never existed, that no one has ever heard, and that was not meant to be heard like this. Moreover, one does not "hear" it, for the distance that allows one to hear music, at a concert or somewhere else, is abolished. Instead it permeates one from all sides; there is no longer any musical space; it is the simulation of a total environment that dispossesses one of even the minimal analytic perception constitutive of music's charm. The Japanese have simple-mindedly, and in complete good faith, confused the real with the greatest number of dimensions possible. If they could construct hexaphonics, they would do it. Now, it is by this fourth dimension. which they have added to music, that they castrate you of all musical pleasure. Something else fascinates (but no longer seduces) you: technical perfection, "high fidelity," which is just as obsessive and puritanical as the other, conjugal fidelity. This time, however, one no longer even knows what object it is faithful to, for no one knows where the real begins or ends, nor understands, therefore, the fever of perfectibility that persists in the real's reproduction.

Technique in this sense digs its own grave. For at the same time that it perfects the means of synthesis, it deepens the criteria of analysis and definition to such an extent that total faithfulness, exhaustiveness as regards the real becomes forever impossible. The real becomes a vertiginous phantasy of exactitude lost in the infinitismal.

In comparison with, for example, the trompe-l’oeil, which saves on one dimension, "normal" three-dimensional space is already debased and impoverished by virtue of an excess of means (all that is real, or wants to be real, constitutes a debasement of this type). Quadrophonics, hyperstereo, or hifi constitute a conclusive debasement.

Pornography is the quadrophonics of sex. It adds a third and fourth track to the sexual act. It is the hallucination of detail that rules. Science has already habituated us to this microscopics, this excess of the real in its microscopic detail, this voyeurism of exactitude—a close-up of the invisible structures of the cell—to this notion of an inexorable truth that can no longer be measured with reference to the play of appearances, and that can only be revealed by a sophisticated technical apparatus. End of the secret.

What else does pornography do, in its sham vision, than reveal the inexorable, microscopic truth of sex? It is directly descended from a metaphysics that supposes the phantasy of a hidden truth and its revelation, the phantasy of "repressed" energy and its production—on the obscene scene of the real. Thus the impasse of enlightened thought when asked, should one censure pornography and choose a well-tempered repression? There can be no definitive response in the affirmative, for pornography has reason on its side; it is part of the devastation of the real, of the insane illusion of the real and its objective "liberation." One cannot liberate the productive forces without wanting to "liberate" sex in its brute function; they are both equally obscene. The realist corruption of sex, the productivist corruption of labor—same symptoms, same combat.

The equivalent of the conveyor belt here, is the Japanese vaginal cyclorama—it outdoes any strip-tease. Prostitutes, their thighs open, sitting on the edge of a platform, Japanese workers in their shirt-sleeves (it is a popular spectacle), permitted to shove their noses up to their eyeballs within the woman's vagina in order to see, to see better—but what? They clamber over each other in order to gain access, and all the while the prostitutes speak to them gently, or rebuke them sharply for the sake of form. The rest of the spectacle, the flagellations, the reciprocal masturbation and traditional strip-tease, pales before this moment of absolute obscenity, this moment of visual voracity that goes far beyond sexual possession. A sublime pornography: if they could do it, these guys would be swallowed up whole within the prostitute. An exaltation with death? Perhaps, but at the same time they are comparing and commenting on the respective vaginas in mortal seriousness, without ever smiling or breaking out in laughter, and without ever trying to touch—except when playing by the rules. No lewdness, but an extremely serious, infantile act borne of an undivided fascination with the mirror of the female organ, like Narcissus' fascination with his own image. Beyond the conventional idealism of the strip-tease (perhaps there might even be some seduction here), pornography at its most sublime reverses itself into a purified obscenity, an obscenity that is purer, deeper, more visceral. But why stop with nudity, or the genitalia? If the obscene is a matter of representation and not of sex, it must explore the very interior of the body and the viscera. Who knows what profound pleasure is to be found in the visual dismemberment of mucous membranes and smooth muscles? Our pornography still retains a restricted definition. Obscenity has an unlimited future.

But take heed, it is not a matter of the deepening of a drive; what is involved is an orgy of realism, an orgy of production. A rage (perhaps also a drive, but one that substitutes itself for all the others) to summon everything before the jurisdiction of signs. Let everything be rendered in the light of the sign, in the light of a visible energy. Let all speech be liberated and proclaim desire. We are reveling in this liberalization, which, in fact, simply marks the growing; progress of obscenity. All that is hidden and still enjoys a forbidden status, will be unearthed, rendered to speech and made to bow before the facts. The real is growing ever larger, some day the entire universe will be real, and when the real is universal, there will be death.