Photos: Maarten Zeehandelaar
A naked Mike Tyson posing as Rodin's Thinker, photographed under extremely dark circumstances and then photo-shopped beyond recognition – she thought. Next she wondered why she always felt the need to treat pieces of art, especially modern art, as puzzles. Why do I need to know what it is that I see here? And, why does it even have to be something that I am able to recognize?
Meanwhile her blood rushed through her body, to all the wrong places.
It took her a few seconds before she realized that another thought, lingering in the back of her mind, was committing a coup, was throwing over her reign over her mind and body, rapidly killing her best-museum-behaviour defense and rolling in wave after wave of harsh reality tanks: a naked Mike Tyson – a naked Mike Tyson – a naked Mike Tyson, towering before her, taking her into his arms, embracing her until she was completely engulfed by his enormous body – turning her into the invisible center of this image before her.
Rather shocked she looked about if anybody noticed what was going on inside her. It felt like her whole body was blinking horny art lover here in a thousand different colors. Never before in her life had she experienced such a complete takeover. She could not muster any other thoughts about art, or anything else for that matter. In a flash she realized she felt like a man, but that didn't snap her out of it either.
All she could think of was Mike, and how the muscles in his neck – those shipyard cables – pulsated under the touch of her playful fingernails, as he lifted her up like a feather, buried his beaten face between her breasts and opened her thighs with his arms of steel.
Text by: Peter-Jan Vermeij
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