[“This isn’t how we planned it. We didn’t plan it. It just happened. It’s ugly, messy, and not what I asked for. Lumps, bumps, spurting, spots, and growth spurts, new places for new hair, mood swings, self-conscious, self-loathing, no one understands, the blood, so much blood. Spilling and oozing and the clots. God! F**k the clots that come out and you have to act like nothing is happening and that everything is fine and that it’s totally ok, but you’re just there bleeding and bleeding and bleeding. The pain, the cramps. And which tribe am I?”]
'Irreverse' describes the inevitable process of being taken away from our cotton-wool cradled childhood. A defining moment of becoming that feels eternal and gruelling. Body out of control, spilling us into a liminal no-man's land of 'who the f**k am I'?
Irreverse cannot be stopped. [Or can it?] The hormonal take over. Irreverse can’t stop touching itself. [Or thinking about all those other sexy sexy bodies.] With their upstanding, square technical rigs [their flowing curves of gesture and light].
“Shame on you for looking, touching, being. And not living up to an ideal.”
This process looks to capture the ick, the sick, and the downright messy. It’s never-ending.