MATH#10
Letter from the Editor
Women making art about sex has been controversial for a while now. Lynda Benglis’ infamous art ad led to the resignation of two Artforum editors. Renee Cox’s "Yo Mama's Last Supper," inspired Rudolph Giuliani’s "decency task force."
In the ’80s and ’90s, Marilyn Minter’s paintings were rejected by feminists and art critics alike. The MoMA censored a portrait of Louise Bourgeois by Robert Mapplethorpe.
All of these artists are now comfortably seated in the art historical canon. Accolades for pushing the boundaries of art with sex is the exception to the rule. Countless artists have gone unrecognized for their talent and influence, for their years of hard work in the face of systems that openly hate what they represent and the ideas that they share.
In September 2019, Pornhub, one of the most popular websites in the world, sponsored an exhibition at Maccarone Gallery in L.A. called “Pleasure Principle.” The show featured an impressive collection of sexual artwork by these and other artists. In the show description, Maccarone Gallery lauded the artists for asserting their underrepresented and nuanced expressions of sexuality and sexiness. It was a collection of powerful artwork in direct defiance of the status quo. That status quo being the exhibition patron, Pornhub. The show quietly came and went as a small gesture of cultural penance, a signature move for the MindGeek media monopoly responsible for narrowing the sexual imagination of a couple of generations, and so much more. Nevertheless, this is one of the best exhibitions I’ve seen in a while.
When “Pleasure Principle” opened there wasn’t a crisis of conscience, no media outrage or picketing. Yet far from a triumph, it was a chirp in an indifferent world saturated in free sexually explicit content. At the time of publishing, 170 million people visit MindGeek websites daily, and still porn goes quietly unaddressed as a major influence on contemporary life. In a Wall Street Journal article “Social Distancing Was a Problem Before Covid,” Peggy Noonan provides a graphic description of the situation, quoting Yuval Levin, Director of Social, Cultural, and Constitutional Studies at American Enterprise Institute for Public Policy Research. She wrote, “Erotic energies are dissipated into substitutes, such as pornography, which has grown into ‘a hideous, colossal scourge that our society has inexplicably decided to pretend it can do nothing about.’”
If there is a culture war to be fought it is not one of “porn” vs. “anti-porn” or even oppressive homogeneity vs. liberating diversity. It’s a battle for intimacy. It’s a fight for the opportunity to connect intimately and authentically. More and more of us are “functional loners” and skin hunger continues to be a problem. As the dystopian vision becomes more real and present, the following statement becomes more banal: as technology continues to foster living with less and less personal interaction we are losing touch with our essential need for emotionally and physically intimate relationships.
Social media and mainstream pornography are the dominant templates for connection. A hall of mirrors, copies of copies ever more distorted and lacking in the original spark of connection or authenticity that in turn distort our reality. Porn and social media are performances for consumption, not the opportunities for connection we all need. This problem is compounded by the consolidation of power into porn and social media monopolies, an inevitability that was expedited by the pandemic. So the questions, for me at least, become, “What can we do? What are our options?”
Art has the power to elevate and validate, operating in gorgeous defiance. The artwork and writing featured in this book can offer an alternative set of guidelines. Although few contributors will break into the ranks of Bourgeois, Minter, Cox, and Benglis, my hope is they will carry on anyway. To quote Louise Bourgeois, “It is not so much where my motivation comes from but whether it manages to survive.” To create art is to participate in a long history of expression, often swimming against the strong currents of trends and popularity in pursuit of something profound. Art is an artifact of the self longing to be seen. The human experience is so mysterious yet banal, and the artistic impulse is born from a desire to share in that, to take it out and look at it together. This includes sex. It’s pornography, it’s erotica, it’s sexually explicit media; call it horny, call it prurient, or call it lewd. Representations of sexuality exist within 300,000 years of creative expression.
In the words of Marilyn Minter, “‘I’m always thinking in terms of: What do we know exists, but you’ve never seen an image of it?’, referring to her depictions of sweat, freckles, and body hair, which are often removed from images that circulate in the media.” Now that we have access to images of everything and anything, the challenge is to understand it in relation to ourselves and our relationships. When created and shared thoughtfully, representations of sex can be opportunities for authentic connection and from there we have a path to intimacy.
As technology continues to make it easier for us to live with less and less in-person interaction, it’s important to invest in time together IRL, “in real life.” The pandemic has increased awareness of the importance of in-person connections yet trends are pulling us apart. Virtual reality, the metaverse, acceptance of social media as toxic yet pervasive, access to high-speed internet, the ease of online ordering, and the normalization of work-from-home; all contribute to the problem.
Isolation and passivity is on the rise and through representation, vulnerability, authentic connection and fearlessness, you are the antidote. How will you create more opportunities to connect with others intimately and authentically? How can you help others feel safe to be themselves? How can we become fountains of opportunity for pleasure and togetherness, in the flesh? –MacKenzie Peck (NY, 2022)