Interior Geometries

A purification ritual, salt and water.

Why do we like to be called Mommy? The archetype of mother looms over us across cultures, it’s powerful and ubiquitous so it’s unsurprising that it can show up in our sexual psyches.

Hazy, dreamy, breathlessness. Gasping, exhaling.

You're watching everything pass you by but you're separated, removed from the outside world by a pane of glass, sealed in your own private reality. Time moves differently inside. You're able to observe and be observed by other drivers that pass but you're each just watching from inside your own tiny parallel universes. Surrounded by these endlessly travelling lights and shadows, ghosts of the outside creeping in. Inside a moving prism of glass and mirrors reflecting cycling scattered images from another time and another place.

All that glitters is gold, images built in the pooling trails across skin.

A practice in self-worship through fervent sighs

The process of turning base material into gold, the philosophers stone. A metaphor for the way certain acts and bodily materials are treated as obscene and base and how powerfully transcendent they can be transforming them into elixir, into gold, something precious.

Treating bodies like botany, in intense, investigative close up, scientifically graphic, reveals them at their most intimate but also maybe their most anonymous and dissociated.

A meditation on obscenity, censorship, the body, excess and restriction, fakery and reality. The series is based loosely around the alchemical process of The Great Work/ Magnum Opus - the process of turning base material into gold, the philosophers stone.

The act of giving up control; devotion and subjugation. Dual states of purity and sin. The ritual of transcendence. The undertones of tension that are imbued in repression and reverence.

To get into the mess and fuck in the wreckage. To give over to pure physical sensation and stare into the void of atrocity, oblivion. The body as machine - like a crashed car - of both powerful possibility and freedom and impotent, crumpled failure. Pain and pleasure heightened by the tension pulling at our own survival instinct.

The pull of the black square, the luminous screen, both a window and a mirror has been ever more persistent in our consciousness. Increasingly our presence only felt when mediated through a lens or an app or an algorithm, an intermediary of our existence. Creeping derealisation.