Possible Ravenous Mimicry
Text by Toni Cormier
Keep mother out of your mouth. Salvation oozed for witches does nothing but slick the room with fetid, stagnent lust. Salvation can be feigned to secure a spot at the dinner table; superficial awareness of the male gaze does not beget my cunt on a plate. Uii Savage’s they told me it was my choice pulls the seat from a phony visitor.
Hexen are the main course for Luca Guadagnino in his movie Suspiria (2018), with feminist performers served as aperitifs. There is a body embedded in the dance floor and in velvet. Body residue holds itself to the wall.
‘Probably, there is something lost between the fibers-or the fingers-
you can’t even vaccuum out,
or blur together like pixels.
Mimicry bears a hollow child,
But (fuck me) that buzz of electric hot knows how to move through a body’
Think about a hot drink, splashed on the lap during a slippage of concentration. Sweet acid creeps down stitch rows, stealing promised protection by the layer. Nerves have no choice but to bypass the brain and send the body into involuntary gyration. Similar to a shock from static build up, to quickly opening a theatre curtain.
There is no interest in contorted simulation,
This current was never consensual.
‘And don’t get lippy with me.
When your mouth curls make sure to watch me,
I’ll bend in ways you never thought. A spine could snap.’
What’s important is that the softness obscures and lulls into absence. A velveteen body warped into a scene for theatrics contains a surprising amount of residual warmth underneath the exterior. It seems tender to give a spectacle so dripping in vulnerability that it flits between defiant and mild. Seams tender enough to hush the buzz of choleric temper.
Oh. I’m ravenous. There isn’t the capacity for what we both want, I want it more. My exchange with steaming pain is not for stroking, and expulsion is just renunciation with a twist. Wringing out the moisture from velvet has always been labourious but it just looks nicer to masquerade force as pleasure. Bypass the niceties. This stage is not for the entertainment of others.’
What’s important is what’s hidden in the mass of possible flesh clinging to the wall. Thick streaks of ultra-false body declare that a real one was (or is) present. The implied precendent affairs leave us with a set of stage directions for an ultra-real body. If hands that scrape are a bodily protest, perhasp the muscles that pull down are a visceral reaction.
No cackile is offered as support;
Hysterics are a lusted sight. Instead there is a spectral and saturated silence that hangs around the post-disturbance zones. A dance stopped mid-movement and frantically trembling inside of a gesture is a false stillness. Where is Ana Medieta? This is not a mimicry - evocation is more than just a haunting.
Tightness between the fibers and the fingers - akin to chest skin pulled taut from the torc of the shoulders - connects distant bodies through the electrified sting. It’s though they can feel each other pulling. There is always room for the other.
With the mouth, gather metallic tastes that pool beneath the skin and spit.
A soothing hex between misplaced bodies.
‘Body Tracks’ hommage to Ana Mendieta, acrylic paint, photo by Uii Savage, 2018.
they told me it was my choice, digital inkjet print on velvet, photo by Uii Savage, 2018.
‘Body Tracks’ hommage to Ana Mendieta, detail, acrylic paint, photo by Uii Savage, 2018.