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Showing posts with label installation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label installation. Show all posts
Thursday, October 8, 2015
Thursday, October 8, 2015
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Whether you're after hetero-vanilla glossy L.A. action or furtive brown-bag fetish ultraporn Madame Roxy's Erotic Emporium has you covered. Snugly nestled in a Soho back alley, the bulging shelves showcase a kaleidoscope of fetishes, from cheeky uniform kink to pregnancy porn to scat to snuff. If you're looking for toys, there's paddles, butt-plugs, vibrators - even an autodildonic motorised fuck-throne! There's even a peep show theatre in the basement, complete with the standard stained carpets and reams of tissue.
Truly Madame Roxy's is everything anyone could ever want in a sex shop.
A felt sex shop anyway.
Madame Roxy's is the latest project from one of my favourite artists, felt-wrangler extraordinaire Lucy Sparrow. I first saw her the 2013 Whitecross Street Festival, where her felt Rose West in the style Andy Warhol was drawing loud abuse from angry passers by. I figured any artist whose work inspires public threats to burn it is someone to pay attention to.
Sparrow really hit the big time with last year's Cornershop, recreating the contents of a local newsagent entirely from felt. All the big media cheeses weighed in, from The Daily Mail to Buzzfeed. Open for the summer, it was impressive in every regard, from the inspiration to the effort to the execution. At the time I wondered how Sparrow was going to top it - surely she's taken felt just about as far as it can go?
Not even close. Madame Roxy's is a quantum leap forward in felt - a punky, political, precision constructed art experience - something that makes the mind boggle the moment you step inside. Though made of felt, the shop has an instant verisimilitude - so much so that, on the first day of opening, an embarrassed businessman crept inside and tried to buy Viagra, the staff having to carefully explain that this is an art installation and not an actual sex shop.
First and most obviously, seeing graphic sexual acts rendered in fabric is funny. Felt is inherently unthreatening; recalling primary school arts and crafts or grandmotherly Christmas presents. A buttplug, normally plastic, shiny and rubbery, becomes huggable, the spanking paddles more likely to tickle a partner than sting them. Sparrow takes the invitingly tactile quality of felt as far towards perversion as it's possible to go; even felt watersports rendered in gold glitterpen and 'Vomit Vixens' ("The most revolting centrefold EVER!") land on just the right side of sweet.
It'd be easy to stop there, but scattered amongst the shelves are works that seriously prick an audience's liberal consciences. "Some like it Hot.. Some Like it Sweet.. Some like it VIOLENT" depicts a man strangling a naked woman, "Snuff films presents: DEATH BY BEHEADING" shows two men slitting a young girl's throat and, in the most disturbing one I spotted, "No Legs. No Arms. Amputee Porn." appears to show a limbless, decomposing corpse.
It's in these unnerving titles that Madame Roxy's marks itself as truly special. Without them it'd be easy to level criticism that Sparrow is merely making a cute n' cuddly sex shop experience. Nobody wants to go into some bubblewrapped, self-censored fantasy slum designed for well-to-do middle classers who wouldn't dream of treading the cum-stained corridors of a genuine Soho establishment.
That reticence, coupled with the dominance of internet porn, threatens the neighbouring (not felt) sex shops with extinction. After all, these days people prefer to pleasure themselves behind locked bedroom doors rather than popping into central London and furtively stuffing a brown paper bag under their coat. In the interests of research I popped over the road from Madame Roxy's and had a nice chat with the proprietor of Up West British Adult Shop. She was over the moon with the popularity of their new neighbour and called my attention to the fact that depicting many of the sex acts on Roxy's shelves are now illegal in this country (not, apparently, in felt form)
The two interiors make for a fascinating contrast, Sparrow's furry friendliness seems all the more amusing in comparison to the sea of glistening cellophane DVD wrappers and silicone rubber phalluses. Sadly these shops are probably going the way of the dodo, stamped out by a combination of online porn and skyrocketing rents. Soho, for decades an oasis of counterculture in the heart of London, is becoming gradually crushed under the weight of luxury flats and chintzy bespoke cakeries.
Madame Roxy's reminds us that these places are a crucial part of Soho's psychological fabric - the seasoning that gives the neighourhood its distinctive atmosphere. Free from prudery, moral judgment and entirely sex positive, Madame Roxy's might be the best site-specific installation I've ever seen, ultimately the value of these establishments. It's a good thing too there's precious few people who'll publically sing their praises.
But primarily, Madame Roxy's is entertaining, hilarious and, surprisingly, often kinda arousing. There's something for every persuasion on these carefully crafted and curated shelves. It's only open for a week, so I urge you to check it out as soon as possible. There's nothing else like it in London.
Monday, August 4, 2014
Monday, August 4, 2014
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I bet your eyes just glazed over. Mine certainly did. How much of this deathly dull legalese do we skip through over the course of a week? Nobody reads them, nobody cares and I'm not even sure they're legally enforceable. But as we sign over our rights with a disinterested click of a mouse what are we agreeing to and what might the possible consequences be? Profile Picture by Mark Farid explores this hazy world of digital consent, showing us the consequences of signing over our personal information.
As you enter the gallery you come face to face with the Facebook login screen. A sign next to it commands: "Login to Facebook. Click Allow. Wait for the camera to take your picture automatically. Click confirm once you like the photograph and the image is uploaded to your Facebook. Continue to the exhibition upstairs." With twin lights illuminating your face it looks vaguely shrinelike and so, wanting to get the full experience for this article, I dutifully entered my login details.
There was a sensible part of me that was murmuring "what are you doing you idiot this computer could be virused up to the nines" but I've been to Arebyte loads of times and I suppose I trust them this much. Anyway, I very definitely made sure I was logged out before I left. No harm done, right?
On heading upstairs you're first confronted by your face projected onto the gallery stairs, then by a quick summary of your personal information, together with the last photo you'd uploaded. Listed is your name, age and other assorted personal information - your likes, dislikes and the last three links you've posted. It's slightly disconcerting, but hey, if people know I like watching movies and listening to bands who cares?
Then you turn the corner. Suspended from the ceiling of the gallery are three printers, spooling out long tangled snakes of paper. Glancing at them in curiosity I wondered what they were printing out. Then I spotted my name and some rather familiar text... My private messages! A nervous grin plastered itself across my face as I desperately tried to remember if I'd said anything incriminating or insulting in the last few weeks. I felt a combination of embarrassment, annoyance and fear as I saw every bit of rubbish I'd nattered on about recently spill through the public's grubby hands.
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| Someone else's profile information (anonymised) |
I was slightly annoyed about this, but then I suppose I brought it upon myself. Apparently other people were less sanguine - one couple getting into a fierce argument as it was discovered one of them was chatting with a strange man and further more complaining of invasions of privacy. Farid is right on the edge of an ethical line here, revealing the kinds of information that could conceivably wreck friendships and destroy relationships is dangerous territory.
This danger is precisely why this is so good. It takes guts to piss people off like this in service of your argument. I love art that explains itself forcefully, straightforwardly and immediately, an installation with something to say and a punkish playful attitude in saying it. Anyway, the perfect counter-argument to anyone that's really got a bee in their bonnet about this is that they agreed that this would happen.
Also helping is the simple fact that Farid's point about how frivolously we scatter our personal data is a good one. The obscene wealth of Facebook and Google (to name the two most prominent companies) proves that one of the most sought after commodities in the 21st century aren't minerals or food - it's information. Like gardeners putting up fly paper in a greenhouse they create a compelling, enjoyable network to inhabit, which we then become mired in -unable to escape.
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| My secret chat info. Thrilling I know. |
In a cruel twist, the more we put into these systems the more we get back from them, and the more the companies learn about us. There's a good argument that the being that knows you best in the world isn't your wife, husband, mother, father or friends - it's Google. Their algorithms hoover up the secrets you'd rather stay secret - embarrassing problems, fears and phobias and your most perverse sexual kicks.
As this data grows a profile on a distant server farm gather more and more information, bulging at the seams with everything it can find out about you - the aim to decide how best to sell you stuff you don't need. So what are prostituting our minds for? Free social networking? Free email? Free maps? And you know what? I'm actually relatively okay with this.
I like using Facebook and I like using Google. Each company has its fair share of ethical black holes, but if they want to mine my brain to try and sell me shit (which is probably blocked by AdBlock anyway) then I'm largely fine with it. What's important is that we recognise what's going on, and Farid's Profile Picture spells out how much we data we put out without the slightest consideration.
It's a smartly tech-adept, brave installation. The visual of the paper spilling from above like manna from heaven, tangling into chromasomal knots on the floor is both striking and aesthetically pleasing, and the enjoyment of sifting through the text gives you voyeuristic tingle. Most importantly it's art that makes you feel something - a sensation that's often lacking in this coolly conceptual climate.
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