Revisited: OF SPIRIT AND FLESH

FEBRUARY 2010

I will not wait for Love, I shall create my own dreams, and I shall draw them together from spirit and flesh.

I draw from the Cauldron of Life and Death, of normality and difference, and make these interchangeable, subjecting the human body to a kind of diabolical surgery where sacred and profance, pain and pleasure, masculine and feminine are dissolved and transformed, intertwining with one another and creating a forbidden hybrid. In this process, I as the artist take my role as creator to the extreme, puttinf myself in the place of deity, to give life to a new reality grounded in the suppression of any notion of order of seperation. I abolish differences in order to subvert reality and blind it into the pleasure of transgression. I attack prohibitions that are based on difference of sex and belief, in order to produce photographic tableaux that bring together the masculine rugby players of my fantasies and the feminine child-like dreamer from my heart.

Somewhere between Spirit and Flesh lies necromacy, which combined with love creates necrophillia. But is it necrophillia to make love to someone living, breathing and feeling, despite the fact that they are constructed of the muscular corpses of male pin-ups, hideously stitched together and reannimated?

What if Frankenstein had fallen in love with his creation?

If I cannot possess such divine and appealing masculinity, then I can try to manufacture it.

However, just because I have created you, a perfect specimen of creation, manhood and musculature, and I love you with all my soul, it does not mean that you will love me back.

We will merely co-exist, creator and creation, each hopelessly isolated and yearning for affection.

Women cannot understand this deep relationship between men, this love, this loyalty, this destiny intwined. Women do not have feelings, they have affectations.

I wish that you would fight for me. I wish that you were strong. There are no heroes anymore, we just sing their songs. Hold me, press me to your breast, hard enough for me to leave an imprint on your bones, I want to be part of you forever. I dream about you grinding me into the ground like a cigarette, forcing yourself so far inside of me that I rip. When you see those rivulets of precious blood coursing down my thighs, know that my body weeps for you. I don’t know how to tell you that I love you without using my blood, my saliva, my orgasms, my semen, my excrement. I would write your name in my shit across the town for all to see if only you would be mine. If only you would love me.

Charlie Dagwell, the poor boy, I don't think he quite knew what he was getting himself into.