She Masticated Nothing (2019) Red Watered Silk, Cotton Calico, Applique Photocopied Paper, Glass Beads, Gold Thread, Mild Steel Stand, Galvanised Steel Chains, Bramley Apples. Photos courtesy Paul Chapellier.

This coat began at a time when I needed to pull myself out of some very unpleasant thoughts and behaviours around food. It began with me cutting up magazines, cutting out all of the sequinned        and metallic clothing. I had no idea why, or what I would do with them. I photocopied them, I        started embroidering them onto panels, loosely with the idea of making a large worm-tube by     attaching them together. It turned into intestines, then it turned into an intestine-snake,      then I wanted to put it on a panel of fabric (you can see my original drawing on this page),    then I decided to put it on a coat (you can also see this drawing, above). Nothing I do starts            from a design which I execute to the letter: it is always an evolution, a process, that is constantly changing and responding. I don't think I could plan in that way, and I also probably     don't want to. The text on the coat is a quote from Gargantua and Pantagreul (Rabelais), which   I happened to be reading at the time. It reads: 

She masticated nothing: not that she did not have good strong teeth nor that the foods did not require mastication, but such was her manner and custom. Her foods, after the Tasters had assayed them, were taken over by her Chewers and nobly masticated for her, their throats being lined with crimson satin containing streaks of gold and gold-braid, whilst their teeth were of beautiful white ivory: with such help, once they had masticated her food to a turn, they poured it directly into her stomach through a funnel of fine gold. 

For the same reason, she never had a stool except by procuration. 

    At the time that I read this, with so much horror and ambivalence surrounding food and eating,     the idea of a disembodied system of digestion sounded like the ultimate fantasy. At the same time, holding onto this reproduces violent ideas of sovereignty, dignity and bodily functions.           Sure it would be great if my digestion happened somewhere else, over there, but overwhelmingly the class-based privilege of outsourcing unpleasant tasks doesn't make the task           disappear, it just means a lot of other people have to carry out the task. The person that Rabelais is describing, not incidentally, is a queen. And also, what's so wrong with digestion?                Why so much horror that it should need to be outsourced? There are a lot of things                 this intersects with in terms of the privileging of brain over body (as though the                  two are separate) and the gendering of these arbitrary distinctions, but I talk             about this a lot in other projects, and also, I don't want to draw any foregone conclusions, all I keep thinking is how in many ways my dream is to live in a world where we could      be brains in jars and at the same time I am ashamed at this, and I don't know where that  leaves me. 

CV 

Florilege 

    Exhibition Images

    Performance: You are what you eat 

    She masticated nothing 

    Manuscript

    Workshop 1: Sewing, Eating, and Knowledge 

    Workshop 2: Lorina Bulwer archive visit 

ENDLESS CONSUMPTION

    What is consuming you 

    Scrofula I 

    Scrofula II 

The silence of the organs 

    Overnight relief 

    Pseudomelanosis Coli

    Nerve Storms

Oceanic Feeling

    The way I feel it slipping all over me 

    How deep is your love 

    Shell toes 

Significant Others

    Letters to Arm 

    Mirror Mirror 

    Philadelphia 

    It has to be baby plum 

    Trying Hard to Think Pure 

    Grass

Food is a convenient metaphor for existence 

    Ribolitta I 

    Ribolitta II 

    Cheese of the soul 

    Death becomes her 

Hands and desire 

    Pearly queen 

    Hands 

    Archive visit to Bath Fashion Museum 

Salvage Accumulation 

    Balmainimal

    Lick My legs: The Talking Cure 

    Teratoma: mesoderm

    Prolapse 

Bitter Tears 

    Lounge Lizard

    I Scream for Ice Cream 

    Every time you vent your spleen 

Editing 

    ON VIOLENCE 

Drawings