She left her panties and other underwear on the floor without thinking much who would see them as she does with all her clothes, dropping them off liking to watch them herself as constellations of random and a day; cotton, lace and strings, used, changed, private creatures which a minute ago were pressed against her body and let loose. Memory of a cloth has parts of her form. What is so disgusting about it she does not understand, but tries, maybe that is what she likes, because she has to be pure and clean to be liked. She does not leave her clothes on the floor to stay there for weeks, but just for a moment, she is not that disturbed.. It is a moment of absent-mindedness, carelessness and something of herself she likes to examine, her relationship to all. It is that she does not behave like she should behave well-mannered especially when she is alone. There are windows, anybody can see in. She malfunctions and is dislocated in places like armchairs, in places that are sterile, quiet and in perfect order and under control that nothing breathes there, like finding perfection in death, which demonstrates a moment by oneself thinking.

Demand for sterile body is against life’s natural flow, decay and against nature in her, her dirtiness, her will and her femininity that smells. Why are you so horrified but you still want to barge in, invade her and her privacy to watch her wrongness to blame her and accuse her for her being wrong not being like a norm of the civilised. Do you lack something when you do that or is it just power you like over her? Do you notice what you lack? Act of curious and wish to speak about what an abomination she is. What did she do? Fears of men have become fears of women fulfilling stripped and solid perfection to be admired. We are raised to think superiority is sterile environment just as a superior race would be.

It is the shame of it. Shame of what did she do. Shame that is experienced because of her, for her and what she is. 

acrylic on canvas, 2019