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?