Solo project

August 31, 2005

During the Q&A period after my talk on Monday, people were really interested in my take on intimate relationships in my own life. Some of the questions were asked kindly and with genuine interest, but some had the pall of judgment and misunderstanding over them. Any way you cut it, I do like answering questions, even if they are framed strangely.

One woman had a lot of questions, questions that I probably should�ve taken apart at the roots instead of just trying to answer in a way that she could relate to, but I chose not to go the heavy deconstruction route.

�What would you do if you met the man of your dreams right now who was going to take care of you, who would let you be yourself but didn�t want you to have sex with other men?�

I stammered a bit and ended up starting my answer off with, �I don�t think that will happen.� It won�t happen because I don�t want to be taken care of, and because I wouldn�t want to be with someone who required me to alter a significant part of myself � that person described in the question is not the man of my dreams (and anyway, the person of my dreams might not even be a man). If I�m going to embark on a serious relationship, I want to be in one that sets me free, not one where I need to realign my behavior to fit within the bounds of what someone else deems acceptable. Well, alright, that sounds a little too self-righteous, but the point is that I want to learn how to make compromises with someone without feeling compromised. I don�t know how to do that yet. I�m still sorting out my shit and occupying a space that is perhaps self-centered to an extreme, but I think its all part of the building blocks to where I want to go.

Another woman asked: �Do you think that choosing the path you�re taking has limited your options for a romantic relationship? Would you tell a potential partner about your past?�

The short answer to that is � yes, I am limiting my options. And yes, I will tell any potential partner anything they want to know � it�s not like I can really keep secrets anyway, with this here blog, pieces written elsewhere, and a growing body of photographic evidence of my tartiness. But in a more expansive way, who I am isn�t limiting my options � only refining them. It�s all a matter of the linguistic wiggle you give to that thought, I suppose. The thing is, even if I stop doing what I do (what with the casual sex and the sex work and the modeling and writing), I still am who I am; anyone I would involve myself with needs to be not just comfortable with that, but genuinely supportive and enthused about it. I�m trying really hard not to see myself as a liability � I don�t want to make excuses for myself or act like I have insurmountable baggage. The stuff I come with is complicated, true, but I�m also proud of it and of myself.

Later, while discussing the relationship questions in a conversation with my upstairs neighbor, she said �The thing is, you�re not so much single, as solo.� I quite like that distinction. I�m not sure what my intimate relationships will look like going forward, or even what I want them to look like, but fielding these questions, along with the thinking I�ve been doing lately makes me realize that I�m in a good place with all this. Going solo is a useful and potentially powerful thing for me right now.

Posted by Dacia at 12:44 PM | Comments (6) | TrackBack

Your stage fright advice sucks

August 29, 2005

Earlier today as I chatted with an old friend, I told him about my talk tonight and he asked if I was nervous. �Well, a little,� I admitted. �It�s been a few months since I�ve done any public speaking � and I�ve been very hermity recently so I haven�t really been doing all that much talking.�

�Well, just picture the audience naked! That works like a charm.�

�I don�t think that�s the advice for me, since I�ve actually seen some of the audience members naked, and most of them have probably seen me naked.�

�Oh, right. Um. Break a leg?�

�Thanks for the shitty pep talk.�

�Hey, what are friends for?�

When I hung up the phone, I thought about the implications of the first suggestion (ah, overthinking everything�). I guess that in order for the advice to work, I would have to impose an imagined sense of shame and ridiculousness on the idea of my audience being naked. A naked audience � what a crazy idea! But in the scheme of my life, maybe not so unlikely an occurrence.

Anyway, thanks muchly to my friends and supporters who came to my talk (and weren�t naked in either reality or my imagination), listened to me babble, and asked interesting questions. Hopefully there will be more talks, workshops, readings and the like to come. I’ve got me some plans!

Posted by Dacia at 11:07 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack

Warts and all

August 28, 2005

This morning I battled the goddamned weekend subway service armed with five pairs of shoes (the kind with perfectly clean soles that have never ventured into the out-of-doors) and a bunch of outfits to a group shoot in Manhattan. Although there was a little bit of bondage happening at the shoot, it was otherwise devoid of, ahem, the pornographic element. The theme of the shoot was sexy and fetishy photography; the models mostly had a lot more limits than I do (also known as the common decency not to stand absent-mindly naked in front of an open window on the second floor of a building in Manhattan). It was really interesting to be in the midst of a group of models and photographers, the swirl, the hype, the putting-on of airs.

Being in the dressing room really made me pause to think and remember that unless you�re talking about runway and high fashion modeling, for which models have to be lanky genetic freaks to do well, pretty much anyone can be a model. Especially if you carve out a bit of a niche for yourself and capitalize on what makes you unique, you can do pretty nicely. Seeing models in the flesh also made me remember that there are a lot of leaps made between the as-is girl and the finished product: makeup, lighting and photoshop � a magical threesome if there ever was one. Certainly I�m transformed a bit from my as-is self to the finished photographic product, though I do try to resist this as much as is reasonable (an overwhelming majority of images in my portfolio remain untouched by photoshop). I was surprised that I really didn�t recognize a lot of the models from their online portfolios, which are often pretty glammed up. Though that might be the fault of the gap between image and reality, it might also have been in my own head, my own assumption that �model� means �hotter than me.� It�s moments like these that make me realize that I still haven�t fucking shaken dumb and wrong-headed perceptions of myself as not awesome.

Anyway, though the aforementioned triple threat can help make pretty pictures, there are things that makeup, lighting and post-production just cannot do. They cannot produce an expression or a pose or a feeling in the picture. While there are times when I can nail that, there are lots of times when I�m just missing it. A big part of the reason for this is because despite my outlandish lifestyle, I live very much in my own head and within my own body. Though I�m an exhibitionist, I don�t act upon my sexuality solely for the benefit of others. The sexuality I experience in my mind (and in my cunt) is difficult to put into a facial expression in a non-sexual situation. It feels � and is � artificial. I haven�t yet figured out a way to perfectly channel my sexuality into images of me. Beyond that, creating unity between body and brain is a real humdinger of a problem. Hopefully when I figure that one out I�ll be able to bottle it and get crazy rich.

Posted by Dacia at 11:23 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack

...but I play one on TV

August 27, 2005

Yesterday on a train into the city, I ran into an ex-boyfriend’s uncle’s ex-wife and did some quality catching up. I used to see her at Christmases and whatnot, but it’s been at least three years since our paths have crossed. It was good to see her and hear all about what has happened in her life since we last saw each other. She’s been in a horrific car accident that has ended her previous career, so now she’s working as a receptionist at an actor’s rep agency here in NYC, which has led to her doing some bit parts in a variety of TV shows. She marveled about the fact that she - being mid-thirties and frumpy to average looking at best - could make money in the entertainment business. Truly, there is room for everyone if you find your niche.

Although at first she was reticent about describing exactly what kind of roles she’s been taking, when she let me have a look at her resume, I discovered that she seems to have been type cast across the board as either a dead hooker or an arrested hooker. Nice. After I looked at her resume, she got a great idea: “You should go to auditions! You’d be great!”

“Uh, well, I do already do some… modeling.”

I sort of vaguely described the modeling work I do, but then all of a sudden she was crestfallen: “You don’t really look like a prostitute.”

“What?” I asked, not really sure what the hell she was talking about or how that thought was relevant to my modeling career.

“I mean, I play prostitutes, but you couldn’t, because you don’t look like one.”

Ah, the ironies of life - here is this woman who would never consider sex work as a line of work, but plays a hooker on TV, telling me, who has been a sex worker in real life, what a real prostitute looks like.

“Well,” I said, smiling slowly, “You shouldn’t believe everything you see on TV.”

Posted by Dacia at 05:35 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack

Bloody cunt, bad aura

August 26, 2005

I�ve been scheduling a bunch of photo shoots for the coming weeks (yes, this means that I�ll get around to updating my portfolio � actually I have enough material to do that now, but wait til next week when I have a little bit more). I�m starting to veer more towards doing erotic nudes and fine art stuff. This is not because I have any problem with showing the pussy, but because a lot of pornographers don�t take porn very seriously and don�t spend time making good-looking images, they just rely on the good looking girls to make the images. Now, I�m not na�ve � I know that bad porn sells at a pretty brisk rate, which doesn�t motivate most pornographers to hone their craft, but I take pride in my porn (and my pussy), so I like to participate in images that are well done, but also inspirational. And by inspirational, I promise that I don�t mean that I want my images to inspire people towards greater depths of being human or whatever crap � I mean I want to inspire hard-ons, erect nipples, tingly skin, and wet pussies.

It�s interesting to mix it up with people who make erotic images, but shy away from certain things � showing pussy, for example, or claiming it as smut, for another. Although sometimes the images end up looking very much like other intentionally smutty images I�ve seen, there is a whole other language attached to erotica and fine art nudes. Some of the distinctions are linguistically interesting and some art just plain bullshit.

Well, I got a little sidetracked there, but originally I was planning to tell the story of a photo shoot negotiation gone bad. And here we go� so I was talking to this photographer, who is working on a series in which he wanted to show his subject as a goddess and let her natural aura shine through in the photograph. So far so good; we progressed to the discussion of schedules, when he made an off-hand comment that got my goat: he wanted to shoot next week, as long as I wasn�t going to be having my period. I thought for a minute I misunderstood the nature of the shoot, and that maybe this was a showing-of-the-pussy after all, so I wrote back and asked him why it mattered that I was having my period if it was a simple nude shoot. He explained that he was looking for a sexy aura from a relaxed and naturally posed model; though he didn�t answer my question directly, he definitely made it clear that �sexy aura� and menstruation can�t cohabitate in the same body at the same time. Interesting that a project that seemed focused on a positive representation of the female body will edit out the period, because it damages the aura or something. In my view, there�s nothing that could possibly be more feminine than menstruation � but I guess its menstruation that is at the crux of what makes women different from men in the reproductive sense. I suppose it�s easy enough to imagine a woman as a sexual goddess, but sexuality wrapped up with reproduction is too messy.

I am no goddess.

Posted by Dacia at 06:36 PM | Comments (8) | TrackBack

Hands-on training

August 24, 2005

I�m a demanding sexual partner on a number of levels. Basically, I�m a bit of a sex snob. Although of course I accept and respect the fact that most people don�t spend as much time thinking about sex (at least, not in a professional capacity) or talking to other people about sex lives as I do, there�s a basic level of competence I expect from my partners that includes knowledge of anatomy, safer sex practices and materials, well-directed enthusiasm and skill, and communication skills (including the ability to tactfully give or receive criticism). I�m the kind of snob who doesn�t understand why people accept less (annoying, right?).

It�s been suggested to me on a number of occasions that if I am so particular about the skills of my partners, I should be more than willing to teach them my evil ways. Well, I�m not. I know, this needs some elaboration. While I�m happy to give directions as to the keys to my particular predilections and buttons and all, I don�t really have a desire to give a partner a thorough education in fuckery. It�s just too much responsibility, and it creates a peculiar imbalance in power within the sexual relationship. Teaching specific skills (like fisting) can be totally hot, but turning the whole arena of sex into a classroom just sucks. Looking back at that sentence, I chuckled to myself a bit and thought, shit, turning the arena of sex into a classroom is what I strive to do professionally in many ways, so what�s the big deal.

The big deal is this � I used to compulsively put my own needs and desires on the back burner and take care of other people all the time, often at great cost of sanity for me. In the past few years, I�ve done some shuffling of things so that much of my urge to help and support people is expressed professionally and doesn�t eke its way into my personal relationships. Of course there remains the risk of becoming too guarded, something I�m very much on the alert for. It�s interesting (and I think commendable) that I�ve gotten to this place where I can �just say no� to giving too much of myself and putting myself in situations where the energy flows in one direction � out of me. It�s tough to create boundaries when you�re trying to break down cultural boundaries � and I know some of the boundaries I have may not make perfect sense to other people, but I need them to make sense of my world (and stay sane).

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Dacia at Sexy Spirits

August 23, 2005

8.29.05
Dacia at Sexy Spirits

On Monday, August 29th at 7.15 pm I’ll be giving a talk entitled “Summer of Love” at Sexy Spirits, 301 W 55 st #4. Come meet me and get some insight into what it was like to straddle the lines of activism, academia, and personal sexual perspective at the Summer Institute in Amsterdam. Tickets are $10 and can be reserved here.

Posted by Dacia at 11:58 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Jealousy and secrets

August 22, 2005

This weekend I went upstate to visit the family � it�s been a while since all four of us were together at once. My brother and I showed photos of our respective trips to Europe, mom talked about finishing up the revisions on her dissertation, and dad tried to get us all to eat cantaloupe with fresh jalapeno peppers (�It�s good! Aaahh, what do you know?�). On Saturday, we went to see my brother play with one of his jazz projects at a local art gallery � and it made me both jealous and contemplative. This coming Monday night, I�m going to be giving a talk at Sexy Spirits (plug plug, you should come!) and on Tuesday, my brother is playing in Williamsburg. Guess who the family will be coming out to support?

Okay, I�m not being all that fair, because the family doesn�t know about the talk I�m doing, and they don�t know about the naked things I�m up to. But I can�t help but wonder: Will there ever come a day when my family comes out to support me at some reading/performance/talk/whatever I dream up? Will we all be more or less comfortable with it?

I know that what my brothers does (fun for the whole family!) is very different than what I do, so I don�t expect things to be exactly the same. I�m out to my parents to a point, but there is a definite line between the intellectual and the personal. We talk about the sex that other people have, the art and porn that other people make, skirt around personal experience (and the places where personal and professional experience interweave for me). Part of this is your basic deception (my parents think I still do PR for a porn company, they don�t know I left that job nine months ago), part of it is your basic awkwardness about sex between parent and child. I�m afraid to bust down that wall in some respects because I know I�ll go too far (because I�m just that kind of girl) � with sex, its hard not to. Is it fair to expect my parents to want to hear me blab about the texture of my pussy or read my writings about the experience of servicing three cocks at once? Probably not. But if I tell them that stuff exists, is it fair to ask them to respect my privacy and not seek out my work, while my work feeds off of fucking with the line between private and public?

Sure, these are philosophical questions to ponder, but there also comes a point when these questions have to be dealt with in a real way. Hopefully I can do it in a well-thought out and tactful way, and not just blurt out some self-incriminating obscenities. In the meantime, I�m living in this in-between state, making vague statements about my writing, my activism, my workshops. But I know that, just as when I was a teenager � even though we�re not under the same roof anymore � my parents know that there is something else happening in my life, something beyond the reaches of our conversations.

Posted by Dacia at 11:35 PM | Comments (8) | TrackBack

Strangely familiar

August 20, 2005

Yesterday evening I was in the midst of writing a post about my partnered sex dilemma (which is basically that I�m wary of dynamics and trust issues with very casual partners but I�m not holding my breath waiting to find a compatible person for a committed relationship, which is leaving me up shit creek as far as partnered sex goes), when my phone started to ring. Glancing over at the caller id, I smiled when I saw it was Seth.

�Hey there.�

�Hey � I had your return from Europe marked on my calendar. What�s your schedule like?� Seth is not one for telephone small talk; when he calls, it�s never just to say hello � well, it is, but he likes to say hello with his cock.

�I don�t really know. I haven�t gotten back into living my life.�

He laughed, �Well what are you doing right now?�

�Sitting in front of my computer with my hand down my pants.�

�Mmm, sounds good. Would you like some company?�

�Sure. I mean, I need to shower and stuff, but� yeah.� And just like that, a decision to end two months of celibacy. But more than that, an invitation extended for Seth to come to my house � in the two-plus years we�ve been fuck buddies, we�ve never seen each other�s apartments, we�ve only met in hotels.

I left a message for Jane: �Ok, so Mr Seth is on his way to my house. Seriously insane, right? I thought you should be the first to know.� Later she told me that she stopped breathing for a few seconds when she heard that sentence.

I kissed Seth at the door, breathing him in, and was surprised to note that he wasn�t carrying a six-pack with him. Another kiss to ascertain the alcohol content of his breath, and then the startling conclusion that we were having another first � a date without drunkenness. I gave him the grand tour, poured us some grape juice and then sat and played catch up � as usual we agreed that it had been too long since we�d last gotten together (its probably been almost six months).

I couldn�t stop giggling � just the notion of Seth, sitting in my living room like a normal person, seemed so preposterous. He kept asking what was so funny, I kept saying �You are!� sort of triumphantly. He just shook his head, amused by my amusement. And then, a better idea popped into his head - �I�ll give you something to laugh about!�

�What?�

We looked at each other, suppressing laughter at his very dead joke.

�Uh, like this? Is this funny?� I asked coyly as I straddled his lap and pressed my boobs into his face.

�Ohhhh�� Seth�s eyes gleamed as he cupped my breasts and his thumbs searched for my nipples. �Very funny. Fucking hilarious.�

�Why don�t we take this comedy show to the bedroom?�

When we got into the bedroom, I pushed him onto the bed so he was sitting at its edge, and we began to undress each other. As I rubbed his cock through his pants and watched him squirm, I asked him if he�d like to see my tits, and he eagerly nodded yes. I peeled off my shirt and he admired my tits with his mouth. He squeezed my tits together so he could move back and forth between the nipples, and then sat back a bit to admire.

�Goddamn, looking at you turns me on so much,� he declared as he slapped my tits. This is one of Seth�s lovely talents � he has a great slap: kinda soft and without much of a sting, but each slap is nice and loud and creates a lot of jiggle. He slapped the sides of my tits until my nipples, already moist from his mouth, stood at attention. I undid his belt buckle and dropped to my knees in front of him.

My tongue stroked the insides of his thighs, and his cock jumped to attention as I took his balls into my mouth. I love looking at a man from this angle � cock and balls full on in my face, with his head seeming so far away. Seth threw his head back and let out a long guttural moan as drool began to run down my chin and drip all over his thighs. I ran my tongue slowly up the underside of his cock and then engulfed him with my mouth.

�Whoa, you are awesome,� he gasped. �I think I might be close to coming.�

I slowly pulled my mouth off of him to say, �Please come on my tits.� I reached for the lube, dripped some down on my tits and rubbed it into my cleavage slowly, while looking him in the eye. I wrapped my tits around his cock and began to rub him with them.

�Do you like seeing my cock between your tits?�

�Yeah, I do. This could only be hotter if you splattered my tits with come.�

�Here it comes�� he replied, as his body began to shake and his cock got impossibly hard and began to pulse. On an upthrust as his cock peeked out from between my tits, his come began to spurt, coating my tits and chin. As his breathing returned to normal, Seth bent down to kiss me and say, �You look totally hot with come on your chin.�

I wiped myself off and climbed up on the bed next to him. He rolled towards me and commented on my remaining article of clothing, �Those panties look great on you. I bet they�ll look even better on the floor.� We laughed at his simple but effective use of the sleazy line as I wiggled out of my underwear. He let his hands roam over my body, stopping to appreciate my tits, my belly, and then one resting on my ass while the other made its way between my legs. The castle ring that he is always wearing clinked against my hood piercing as his fingers traveled over my labia. He parted my lips slightly and dipped his finger in, dragging the wetness up over my clit. A moan softly escaped my lips as I relaxed into his touch. His hand cupped over my labia, I began to grind into him, feeling his wrist bones rub my clit started to push me over the edge, when he pulled his hand away. I looked up at him smirking at me, �I love to see you come, but I also love when I stop just before you come and you give me this scary look of confusion and hate that says �Stop again, motherfucker, and you�re gonna regret it.��

I reached for the condoms and glowered at him, �Fuck me hard. Now. Or there�s going to be big trouble in this apartment.� I rolled onto my stomach and presented my ass to Seth. He rolled on a condom and penetrated me to the hilt in one swift thrust.

�Ohhh, fuck,� I moaned into the pillow as I flatted my face against it and arched my back to point my ass up at him.

A few thrusts in, I was thinking � �Wow, I�m having sex. Weird but awesome.� I kept losing myself in the carnal moments, but coming back to that uncanny feeling of visiting a place that once felt like my home though over the past two months has felt like a place with changed locks. Maybe I�ve got the key again, but the furniture is all dusty, for sure.

Seth grabbed my hips and encouraged me to fuck back at him, something I love doing from the face-down-ass-up position. He sat back against his heels and let me slam my ass into him, bracing himself against me so we could get full penetration. I reached one hand between my legs and began to play with my throbbing clit, almost immediately sending myself into a quaking orgasm. Seth masterfully held his own and managed to keep his cock buried deep in me despite the tidal waves of the orgasm rippling through my pussy. He laughed and said, �Shit, I almost want to applaud. Would you like to move into a different position?�

�Uhhh� yes. But. I can�t move. You�ll have to do it.� A little post-orgasm paralysis.

He flipped me onto my back and tilted my hips up to him. I put my feet up on his chest and he slipped his cock into me, hitting my g-spot as he did so. I thrashed a bit, squirming away from and into the intensity of the g-spot stimulation. He began to pump me with precision, and my eyes rolled back into my head as I shot into another orgasm. He didn�t let me pause for a breath this time, and just kept fucking me through another hard orgasm. I dropped back onto the bed, no longer able to hold my hips up at that angle. �Fff�uuuck,� I managed to utter.

�Would you like some more?�

Looking up at him, half-bewildered and wide-eyed, I nodded. I rolled back over onto my stomach, and he started to fuck me while I lay flat on my belly. As the sensation got more intense, I lifted my hips up into face-down-ass-up and reached between my legs, this time to cup his balls and give them a nice steady tug. He spread my ass checks apart, pulling my labia taught and leaving me feeling exposed. I felt a perfectly aimed wad of spit drop onto my asshole and his thumb slipped gingerly inside. This was enough to send me over the edge again, and as I came down from the high of the orgasm, he said, �Fuck, I think you�ve got me ready to come again.�

I screwed my head around to look at him � �Come on my ass.�

A few more thrusts and he began to shudder like a car pushed to go too fast. He pulled out, shed the condom, and splashed hot come all over my ass, accompanied by a few drops of sweat from his brow. We flopped down, covered in come, sweat and awesomeness.

My sheets smell like fucking. Awww, yeah.

Posted by Dacia at 11:00 AM | Comments (9) | TrackBack

Adjusting

August 18, 2005

Yesterday, between flights (an early morning one from Prague to Amsterdam and an evening one from Amsterdam to NYC), I wandered the streets of Amsterdam, snacking on glorious pommes frites and harsh Dutch licorice, fantasizing about prolonging my stay in Europe. Although I was definitely ready to quit with the sleeping on foam mattresses in hostels and showering in narrow spaces with weird hose contraptions, I wasn�t hungry for New York. I�ve never been away from New York for this long; I�ve never loathed returning like this. Though it�s a big hypothetical, I think that if I didn�t have my master�s degree to complete, I might not return. I�ve always though of New York as home � inextricably a part of me and my sense of belonging. As much of a New York snob as I am (I live in the greatest city in the world, in case you didn�t know), I ponder the different ways I could shape my life, the places I could shape it in.

If last year�s trip to Europe didn�t do it, this year sealed the deal � I feel the wanderlust awakened in me, and I dream of fellowships and projects around the world. Mostly I dream of ways to challenge myself and stretch the limits of possibility; I don�t want to be complacent, I don�t want to make assumptions about the path of my future, I want to shake it up, constantly reassess what the fuck is going on. Since I�m lousy at living an unexamined life, this shouldn�t be a problem, but it�s good to stay on my toes.

But as the unmarked cab I hailed wove expertly through Brooklyn, and the driver and I discussed routes like philosophy of being, I smiled at the pulses of this city. There are quiet little changes: the new street light in my neighborhood, and static things remembered: the special way to bump the front door to my building shut. The next year should be interesting, as I deal with the familiar and the unknown, move through the rest of my master�s program, and sort some shit out.

Despite my mixed feelings, I am relieved to be home. Last night it felt really great to shed my clothes and leave them shed, to lounge naked in my very own bed, in the quiet of my apartment. I�m not entirely ready to face the social worlds of New York yet, so I�m attacking the clutter of my apartment, eliminating lingering wardrobe items and adjusting my brain, returning emails and scheduling my weeks before school starts again, eating my favorite New York foods, lounging in my underwear.

Posted by Dacia at 11:40 AM | Comments (8) | TrackBack

The stories that bodies tell

August 12, 2005

Since I wrote last, I’ve spent time in three different countries (France, Germany, Austria) and learned to saw “ham and cheese” in three different languages (Dutch, French, German). I’m damn exhausted, and this evening James and I are continuing on to one last city - Prague. As per usual I’ve acquired more books as I’ve moved along, including a museum catalog, which though heavy is totally worth it.

The way I travel is this: I wander through a city, sometimes without the aid of a map, I stop when things look interesting. I eat food from markets, food that I can point at without having to know the words to call it by. I make a list of things to see - heavy with museums, ranging from the Louvre and to nearly hidden Medical Museums tucked into sprawling universities. I observe and I write, journaling obsessively (though I did a better job of that last year when I traveled solo). I sit on lawns, I watch people.

Everywhere I go, and not just because I’m a perv (though my traveling partner would say otherwise), I look at bodies - the living ones walking around the cities, the sculptured and allegorical ones capping off palaces, the twisted painterly renderings in the museums. Possibly because of my completely inadequate foreign-language skills or possibly because of this inadequacy I’m opened up to other ways stories are told, I read bodies and the stories they tell.

In the major museums of art, bodies are conduits for stories, allegorical figures stretch high and the gods and goddesses posture, frozen in moments of the oft-told tales; Jesus weeps everywhere. Bodies in these marble sculptures are solid and present in their impossible poses, but tell other stories, not the stories of bodies and bodily experiences.

In the medical museums and in the catacombs I’ve seen on this trip (I’m always on the lookout for babies in jars or underground places decorated with bones, I can’t help myself), bodies and their fragments as well as abnormal specimens tell the story of the physical inevitabilities of death and disease. They aren’t specific to the people the parts once belonged to - but at the same time nothing could be more specific. These pieces tell the story of experience - but they are merely traces, bodies and lives shored up to be one thing, one experience, one ailment, reduced to dust, bones or gray parts in a jar.

In Vienna, I went to see a show at the Leopold Museum called “The Naked Truth” (“Die Nackte Wahrheit” in German), and I can’t remember the last time I was so utterly taken in by an exhibition. I was most obsessed by the paintings of Gustav Klimt and Egon Schiele - their nudes, Schiele’s self portraits, and both of their erotic sketches, many never intended to be seen by the public. This stuff - just wow. In the show, there’s a movement from the allegory - Klimt’s posters for an art show featuring Theseus and the Minotaur - and then a sharp turn towards personal erotic explorations. Visceral images, pelvises in the foreground, making the contention of art vs porn so clear, yet so not. Bodies haunt the paper, the canvas, the artists tell their stories and the stories of their subjects.

It’s not a matter of historical progress, though I’ve laid these all out on a bit of a time line; these stories all swirl together, though ostensbily they occupy separate spaces. And, of course, its impossible to ignore the great body-story of the last hundred years, the Holocaust, which underscores it all, peeks in from the edges everywhere, taints present day conceptions of art histories. The sotires bodies tell or can be used to tell, the theories they can be manipulated to support or deny, the politics imbued in their representations - I can’t get enough of it.

Posted by Dacia at 05:49 AM | Comments (7) | TrackBack