In a moment of isolation and social distancing, sex, or rather the idea of sex, becomes a hallucination. It is a hyperbolized concoction of fantasy, memory and desire, often with no physical outlet for connection.   I created these paintings by channeling a self-inflicted experience of corporeal drama, specifically by delving into a disciplined erotic dance practice, as a quarantine activity and applied research.   The immediate conclusion is masturbation; considering the material itself ejaculation, or the solitary act of cumming onto canvas an achievement. Art history has been there and, well, no. The series emerges instead from another dimension that might be called sacral intelligence, an active intuition cleaving deeper and nastier than the gut. These are wildly gesturing movements channeled directly from the physical experience of sliding, flying, plummeting, as well as touching, feeling, grinding.

As paintings, still governed by physics, they are kinetically silent and static. Yet motion and emotion reverberate, and the decisiveness imprinted in them is akin to a death drop. They remind us that produced imagery –capture of the body, face and artifice in a synthetic moment of perfection– is called «sexy» but has nothing to do with sex itself. That near-death experience, rush, adrenaline, though, does indeed. The signifiers of so-called femininity, as we know it or don’t –nails, hair, heels, etc.– become needles reaching into twilight, shafts of hair fanning on skin, a swift clack or scrape on the floor. No matter, it could be instead hallmarks of masculinity, of androgyny, of outliers, of taboo. They all melt into mere catalysts in the act. Imagery of sex, if it is indeed imagery at all, is not still nor static perfection, but rather moments of anticipation crashing with open orifices, twisted faces, dripping fluids. As you fuck, it’s not your idealized lover or construction of self that matters… it’s the undoing of you both.