Raw, beautiful, and honest

The first blog post feels important, emblematic, as though it foreshadows everything to come. I thought maybe I could begin with a thesis statement of sorts, but unlike my other blog, Eidetic Traces, which is rigid and structured–a kind of home for my academic writings, I envision this blog to be much more personal and sporadic. Which really means messier and bulimic.

I want to write the corporeal experience of reading. I want to dwell. I want to archive. Through literature, through art, I want to experience the unpleasantness and the jouissance of living, of writing. I want to insert my body into the text and fuck it till dawn.


At the moment, nothing moves me more than this painting by Meghan Nafziger.

Here I see a woman planted in nature–not one with it, in that exhausted female naturalness woman-as-nature trope. Head resting on a bed of flowers, she lies naked in the grass, covering her feet with a blanket she, or maybe her grandmother, knitted. (Covered because she’s slightly chilled, not because of immodesty.) Majestic mountains behind her, lush fertile ground beneath her, she masturbates, tries to clear that chaotic head of hers. The flowers are a popping contrast to consciousness, which isn’t beautiful. It’s amorphous, busy, and heavy. It’s not easily calmed. At least mine isn’t. I’ve always had trouble masturbating. Mostly because as a teenager, I equated desire with wanting to be desired. I struggled pleasuring myself without performance. Here, this woman performs for no one, yet performs for us. Or simply is for us. For our consumption. And yet, I know she’s oblivious to that. Or doesn’t fucking care.

I admire this woman. I want to be her.

Meghan’s work can be grotesque but is always still sexy and enticing. Though the body is central, her world is deeply cerebral. I love what she does with patterns, textures, and repetitions. How the domestic and feminine doesn’t at all seem like a mere addition to the supposedly ordered, external world of men. Instead of cleanliness, we get carnality: steaks sizzling, organs exposed and distended. Each piece is teeming with life. Some of them are so deliciously detailed, spiraling out of themselves, enshrining the absurd, frenetic acts of lust. I just love it.



Her work is raw, beautiful, and honest. Exactly how I want this blog to read.

About Cathy Borders

Writer. Book Midwife. The Republic of Letters. Waterline Writers. Omnia Vanitas Review.
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