Slippery Bits

Slime’s been on my mind. My niece and my son have both been obsessed with those strange, brightly coloured globs. Cold and wet. I press it through my fingers. It oozes. It resists. There’s something primal about it—how it slips away, how it sticks, how it refuses to stay in one form, refuses to stay still. It behaves like something bodily—something intimate, unruly.

Slime is sex. Both pleasure and disgust. A wet cunt. A shot of cum. It’s what’s inside, leaking out. Not polite, not contained. Something about the way it clings, the way it slips through your grip—it feels familiar.

Slime is horror, too. I’ve been watching Severance this week—black ooze dripping into cubicles. We flinch because we know it’s inside all of us. Because it reminds us we can’t hold everything in.

I'm working on a sculpture that's big and cock-like, but droopy. Sad. Its head bowed like it knows it’s a disappointment. It’s girthy but short—more boy than man. Its wax exterior makes it look wet. Slick, like it’s either just been born or just been used.

And then there’s the smaller sculpture—round, feminine. Breasts, buttocks, maybe. Twisted into a soft spiral. The way I have painted it’s skin with beewax makes it look slippery, veined and organ-like. It looks like it used to be part of something. A body. Now it’s not. Now it’s alone. Cast off. It’s a remnant. A relic. A wound.