Fleur Ubu, da-da-daughter, flays a dream, a winter dream, wild, proud and proper, such slurry notions, the heat of carpet burns and dizzy turns, she sways, she sways, pray no-one sees the skins she sheds, the hair that curls and coils and catches fire; bones crack like match-sticks, her hungry fingers tear the flesh away – naked, naked she dreams her core
Thick, heavy-textured wool for a bit of fun (polemic überpants?), begun last year, found in a bundle of throw-away pieces and taken up again as the season turned, when I, forgoing subtlety, crocheted a trim, singeing little tale – how far we have not come. Yes, our bodies fail the magic mirror on the wall and in our heads: they sag, slump, assemble bumps and folds and creases. And, but, though, whereas the hair, the hair, our body hair, pinpoint of crisis, crudely charged gender zone, grows rampant: go pluck, shave, shear, razor, laser, erase! Let the ideal ageless maiden make the creep-free grade while the bristly willful one prances in the attic, gathers her years about her, lets it all hang out
Fleur Ubu (2011/12)
Materials: crocheted from wool/mohair/wool mixture
Dimensions: 63 cm x 34 cm
