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A friend claims that the worst line in any recent film is the line in Damage when Jeremy Irons, in the heat of passion , stares at Juliette Binoche and demands: "Who are You? Who are You? " "Stupid man ", said my friend, "doesn't he realise she is anything he desires?"
Beyond the dream of the unattainable Other, beyond the play of the mask and the veil are the empty spaces of desire and its transactions. Desire takes place in the gaps, at the rims, not only of the body's orifices but also in the interstices of familial relations, in the transactions of violence and love, in the negotiations of looking and hearing, in the unspoken covenant of the phrases that trace out this space of desire: fuck me, eat me, give, it to me babe.
These are all lines from Deej Fabyc's exhibition This Rose Is For Sale. Whilst Fabyc's multi-media works refer to the collusions of desire and its infinite transactions, this is not a feel-good 1990's version of 'sacred' sex as opposed to a 1980's power play of sexual identity. There is nothing innocent or therapeutic about the confession/collusion of Fabyc's Admission of Patricality/lf I Listen to Bach my Father Lives. On a balcony we find the shape of a flattened body covered in filthy fake black fur, leather boots protruding from its end . Swathes of glad wrap nearby, a rubber hose, underfelt, masking tape-fetishistic furnishing of an exhausted centre, of a death which might not have taken place. What is this word, patricality, beyond the death of the Father and by what profanity have we daughters exhausted ourselves in bringing