“The enactment of a modern Hypnerotomachia. Notes on Sarah Lucas, Innamemorabiliamumbum” by Angelica Moschin
(Walking through an underground realm of true horrors and delights)
The air is charged with subtle tension and a sense of impending pleasure hovers, accumulates, thickens above my head. I can’t say wether it’s pain or pleasure. Maybe both. I feel it’s going to burst and drown everything. All is perturbing, so deceptively enchanting, yet intrinsically dangerous. I can’t help but standing still, paralysed and intimately possessed by a sudden sacred sense of reverence. This state fills me, endows me with great and fortuitous happiness. The happiness of the believer – doesn’t last, won’t last.
Soon comes the wrinkled reality of a childhood distant guilt I was sure of having erased.
Maybe I’m a witness to someone else’s striking and solitary pleasure. Maybe these measured rituals – in which sublime is accurately concealed – await me, repulse me, or simply lure me into a spiralling abyss as I decide to come closer. Still, I refuse to touch anything. That’s what it is.
Sarah Lucas’ naughty objects are untouchable, unpredictable, unaware. But unaware of what, precisely? Unaware of my guilty, content eye that is eagerly glued to the keyhole. In their desperate search for the ultimate acme as they are, they don’t even notice, don’t even struggle. Eventually scornful of the pressure of the eye, they no longer breath this world’s air. They are not here. And so are we – estranged, drawn into the depths of a scabrous surface perpetually exposed, yet elevated towards a nearly unbearable height. With their many lymphatic and liquefied limbs, with their egoistic and glazed frissons, they harbour and stir unnameable desires.
Shaped desires without form. They start clawing too soon, too soon the bed of Want.
The enactment of a modern Hypnerotomachia.
Powdered force, gesture without motion
But all these bodies – caught in their ultimate spasms – when every ounce of pleasure has been extracted and their full flavour has been brought out and no air is left to grasp – what are they for? Can’t they just utter a word of defence, a word of justification and free themselves from the slavery? Do they dare ignore the redeeming power of word?
Cadaverous yet extremely soft doll-like legs at absurd angles, hanging breasts full of forced foamy saps, a pair of sensuous fried eggs hooked onto a slim hanger.
These individuals are not lovers, surely, they are the beloved ones of nobody, truly. They don’t assist, flatter and feed each other. They become repetitively bare and naked in front of us, without any tender trepidation, without any sweet expectation.
Their loneliness is an erotic mechanism, their fatigue is the dynamics of lust.
Sarah Lucas | Innamemorabiliamumbum by Fondazione Nicola Trussardi and Miart was on view at Albergo Diurno Venezia, Milan, Italy