When we finally touched upon conceptual art during a contemporary art history lecture, it turned out that for every woman in the group, the subject was completely foreign. Remote. Not in terms of lacking knowledge—simply, no woman would ever have invented this form of absurdism. I watched it all with a slightly passive detachment, having moved past my own culture shock long ago. I liked their conclusions: conceptual art embodies the union of the male need to create structures and laziness tempered by cunning.
I sip my tea in silence and check in with my friend, the Tarot.
I think about the male need to experience simultaneous extremes. About how the male hand insists on presenting its own sensitivity, only to liberally sprinkle it with salt. About the canon of beauty pushed for years, which in turn became perfect fodder for many deviations. I eat popcorn while looking at inflated lips and fat sucked from cheeks. I think about how delicacy is expected, while being doused in bleach. Recently, looking at a photo of my son, someone remarked that he has my gaze, but “from my youth.” My gaze might still be that way, if not for that person’s behavior.
At this moment, fortunately, it no longer matters.
Untitled, 20×30 cm, charcoal sketch