Notes on Survival
12/04/26
How does it feel to earn income from selling my art?
How does it feel to earn income from selling my body?
How does it feel to earn income from selling an image of my body?
I remember dragging the leaky rubbish bags full of coffee grounds to the big bin I couldn’t reach the top of. Losing weight, aching arms, nails always dirty from scrubbing the roaster.
A shiny round tray of mojitos appeared on the table while my boss told us about his one night stand with a woman he had found attractive until he saw her nylon underwear.
How do I recognise a unique vision?
Cleaning the bathrooms of that one very large house early in the morning, the sun would hit me so hard through the upstairs windows. The heat and the smell of the cleaning products made me sick and dizzy. I’d eat carrot sticks while going from house to house. I watched my colleague eat an apple from a client’s fruitbowl.
Is an image of my body an intimate thing?
I was handed the dress they wanted me to wear while I’d be hosting the children’s birthday parties. It was blue, sparkly and skin tight with a thigh-high split in the sheer material. The hourly rate was good.
What is a career and why do you want one of those?
A client called me “good girl” over the phone after I confirmed I had transferred the requested funds to his son.
On a sweaty afternoon I had drinks with a man in a bar near Liverpool Street Station. In response to something I said that I can’t remember now, he called me “good girl”, eyes dark and sparkly across the table. I could see bits of white cloud floating by through the open doors behind him.
My body is the only thing that’s mine. It’s always with me. I don’t need to get the train somewhere or submit an online application or wait for someone’s permissive phone call in order to make use of it.
Photographing myself endlessly.
My priority is to observe and unravel the things that confuse and unsettle me.
Gifting me to yourself for your birthday.
I want to encourage you to be more turned on by mystery than you currently are.
No, it’s not easy.
“It’s good to have passion,” remarked my manager.
The gaze is the gaze is the gaze.
There are differences between the performance of nudity and the performance of arousal.
I agreed to see him again because I had admired his work for years and felt moved and intrigued by his contribution to art.
If [redacted] hadn’t sent me seven hundred pounds with no questions asked I wouldn’t have been able to reschedule my flight. But this was not a gift.
Discounted nudes for the man living in a warzone.
I am like a small product wrapped in plastic in the homewares aisle of the supermarket. An unscented pillar candle, a miscellaneous decorative object, a vase.
How does it feel to reject the option of predictability?
How does it feel to earn praise?
How does it feel to keep a secret?