I entered the art studio where I had agreed to help set up for an event that was to take place there the following day, and I was quickly whisked away under the wing of the main organizer. She was a Chilean artist, probably in her mid to late 30s, who seemed to be one [...]
I entered the art studio where I had agreed to help set up for an event that was to take place there the following day, and I was quickly whisked away under the wing of the main organizer. She was a Chilean artist, probably in her mid to late 30s, who seemed to be one of those “incredibly serious about art and meaning” type of artists, who also appeared to be a touch stressed out about the festival she was putting together.
She gave me the order to hang a collection of photographs on the wall. Fair enough.
The photos were of a more or less completely nude woman doing various theatrical poses in popular tourist destinations all around the world. One photo had her crawling through the Sinai desert toward the great pyramid of Giza butt ass naked save for a turban on her head. Another photo had her splayed out without a stitch at the Teotihuacan archaeology site in Mexico. Another had her doing a nude ballet move before the Roman Acropolis. While in yet another she was laid out in a Venician gondola with breasts fully exposed and her hand positioned over her otherwise bare naughty bits. There were around a dozen such photos of this woman posing butt naked all over the planet. Fair enough.
I am the type of character who errs towards humor long before artistic relevance or meaning. I think the butt humping statuettes of the Moche are hilarious, I double over when looking at the Khajuraho sex carvings in India, and when I looked upon the nighttime photo that I just hung of that woman’s bare ass and thighs with a brightly lit city and a full moon positioned with artistic precision between her legs, I could not help but chuckle.
I held my initial reactions back though as the organizer flitted in and out of the workshop. With a touch of force, I put on a “it’s art” and I’m mature type of air — as I was suppose to do. At one point, the organizer stood next to me, looking over my work. I looked at her, I looked at the photos I had just hung, I quickly looked back at her again. She began speaking to me, then it clicked:
The women were one and the same.
So, you, uh, travel a lot?