My Sex Art
Whether it is scenic, textual, sound, visual or graphic, my art is exclusively sexual. It is rooted in a fascination with our bodies.
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Whether it is scenic, textual, sound, visual or graphic, my art is exclusively sexual. It is rooted in a fascination with our bodies.
My pornography is the rejoicing space of my excitement and the voluptuous retreat of my tranquility. It is the sunny resort of my thoughts.
Opting for art is choosing to live under the totalitarian hold of a submissive god; one whose reign comes by absorption of whoever dominates him.
To decry sexual exhibition is to deny the reality of coitus, the most banal of our realities, in favour of an illusion of self, the mother of all violence.
Artists, the real ones who would have something to say, hate the world and won't say anything to it, right? And it's much better that way, isn't it?
When you're shocked by anything that exists, it's because you've made up your mind about the world but you don't know anything about it.
The true individual venturing out of his isolation room, faints on contact with the air. He refuses to be legibly embodied in his words and deeds...
My hatred, healthy and simple, pure and shining like a shard of glass in the sun, for the opponents and detractors of marriage for all.
It's about the masculine. The man's tenderness for his companion of always that is his penis is a fundamental data for his psychic construction.
"You understand, erotic nudity is so much stronger than pornographic brutality..." "Yes, yes... and my ass? " I would answer soberly.