@saoirse_killion_artist
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clitoris … I don’t know why that struck me as so vulgar considering all the
phallic imagery I’ve been prodded to recognize in men’s literature.
My paintings are extended ellipses, the moments and memories
in-between the margins of the printed page and the gauzy peripherals of
my vision. Caring hands with busted bones, soft fingers with oily black
nails, puffs of hair mistaken for smoke. The way I touch, touch off, or
touch hearts with my paintbrush pays homage to the invisible yet loud
murmur of Sapphic literature.
Falling into obscurity, buried deep under layers of greasy peat and
patriarchy, unearthed by curious hands … I wake like a vulture hungry with
the knowledge of breakfast, picking at memories whether rotten,
preserved, or fresh. My paintings are slowly waking up too. I don’t think
sleeping in my pink-laced and purple-painted childhood bedroom will
nurture my self-sufficiency. But maybe I’ve let myself be coddled, and it
doesn’t even really matter where I sleep …