still watering black iris

by Sia Lune & Michael Muchnij

“Nobody sees a flower - really - it is so small it takes time - we haven't time - and to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.” ― Georgia O'Keeffe

This is a call to see the female body otherwise. This exhibit exposes the ways in which the female form has been photographically modified to employ delicacy and perfection with intentions for capital gain. The words and photos in this collection confront the question concerning the position of women in society, and display the relationship of feminist art in a system of commercial art production. As a contribution to a history of feminist works that resist body-objectification, these photos and words ask the question of where feminism stands in our current times. We are living in the sedimentary layers of our history, that is all too certain. We are tightly bound by the shape given to our lives by consumerism. Our impressions of form are never outside a history pollinated by cultural traditions that engender our perceptions of what is “beautiful,” and worth representation. This exhibit questions whether feminism is still alive enough to exist as a space for momentary conjunctions and creative conflict. The artists question if feminism has flattened out its historical process, and now lies obscured or obscuring, slowly disappearing before generations to come. With no clear vision, we still remain (hopeful)—we still water black iris.

For inquiries about prints please contact ChoreographingHealing@gmail.com

                                    still watering black iris
                                            by: Sia

this armor    your shield    cuts sharper thorn fields
bushes of black iris     my pulmonary flower
pumps smells        like sounds, crawling    but harder

this armor        not body       breasts pushing
into and up the wall    feels     & desires
shriek    the sound of a train comes    to a halt

(makes me want to pour a little liquor on the wound    
with a dash of vulva salt)

earth shattered    your glass    became your heart
out of the kiln  fired:         a mediocre start. 
 there standing,      waiting, drooping
at  the finish line     before time told us,     
"Little flowers,
it was too large to embark."   

too large to embark…    

& I’m still squeezing
coming to grips with a sky gaping
in your name     it becomes

goose bumps    talks     body battens on my
concave tidal wave     outpours
from the girl’s uvula     over there shouting
"pain!!!!!!!!!!!"    
or was it ‘slave?’    or ‘rain?’

I play her scream over     again     and again and again and again
and again                          again     and again        again         again
it’s never once the same     Until I cleanse my fixations
Freud,     burn my clit with     cigar         
tobacco of blood                 on my hips tremble

sitar hips        body             trembles & now
here we are.    talks    the body talks
not flowery body     shuffles the weight of engines
fluids in not out    & our fingers pulse

fingers pulsing    and running    and running    and running
across the world     across     every
ragged edge

red canna      honey carved henna      body
not flowery body     shuffles the weight of armor
pulsing not beating   not flowery body

cuts her throat & the body talks
until she bled     and bled

and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled
and bled