the guardian | Eimear McBride:
I’m generally left a bit cold by art with no sex in it. Not that every work of art need preoccupy itself with meditations on the subject or be confined to representations of the various physical acts. Quite the contrary; the world is already overstuffed with cliched recreations of the blunt and bland doings of the flesh. What I mean is that I find it hard to rouse any interest in art or literature that relegates the life of the body to some lesser status than the goings-on of the mind or emotions.
Sex isn’t everything, of course, but it’s certainly something. The impulse towards and away from it sits at the root of enough of the cataclysms that shake and shape our lives as to warrant a far deeper degree of attention than the titillating/slightly embarrassed/deeply embarrassed/hygienically challenged digression from the main event that it’s frequently consigned to…read more
Image | Duke’s Fine Art Saleroom | Pablo Picasso’s Etreinte (1901).