Q'20, 2020-2021, digital print, binding V2, paper back, 64 p., 27 x 24 cm, edition of 30.
The photographic statement captures sexuality that is limited and affected by social isolation. We watch more porn, and single people become more desperate and frustrated. We are all just horny and seeking imitation. I wish I could take shots with real people made of flesh, skin, and sperm. Instead, I imitate their presence in my bedroom, with one behind the camera and another next to me on my bed. Tinder dates are pointless but vital; we act like porn actors, fucking for hours until it hurts, moaning, breathing heavily, and pretending to be the last lovers on earth. Who knows when the next date will happen? We do our best.
In my imitation, I imagine his body roughly pressing mine against the bed, with his fingers in my mouth and his mouth swallowing my moans, my hips burning. I put my fingers into my mouth and take a shot. They keep asking me about my new lover, not realizing that it's just me, a tripod, and my camera. It's nothing more than an intense gaze into the void, at the ceiling or my neighbor's window. Desperately, I want to be watched, to be possessed, even objectified. I sublimate my desire to be watched by taking self-portraits, imitating their presence in my room, on my skin, and inside my mouth. I fulfil my bed with my own body, and the sheets remain perfectly still, not crumpled by someone else's body.
I long for an intimate connection simply expressed in the shot of him spitting on my face. I watch them having sex in front of me, which is nothing like casual dates before this shit happened. No more long, disarticulated, but still charming conversations in crowded bars; just meaningless hook-ups in someone's place. Every touch gets a new meaning, and every touch is just enough.