One Weekend of Exhibition

shamestreetart

Artwork: Athens, Greece street art by Borondo. Titled “Shame”.

I want you to take a camera. I want you to take a camera with video and find yourself in the middle of the plaza on a Friday evening. I want you to give that camera to a stranger and tell them to press record. I want you to scream for as long as you can, as loud as you can, guttural, blood-curdling. I want you to scream until strangers stare. I want you to scream until strangers recoil. I want you to scream until the cops show up. I want you to curl up on the ground and scream until your esophagus is bleeding. I want you to scream until you can’t make sound anymore.  Then I want you to take your camera back.

I want you to take a camera. I want you to take a camera with video and find yourself in a mall, in the center of the food court around noon on a Saturday. I want you to give that camera to a stranger and tell them to press record. I want you to climb on top of a table. I want you to get on that table and strip down to your underwear. I want you to stand in your underwear and I want you to cry. I want you to sob. I want your face red and wet, eyes swollen, breath heaving, shoulders tense and wracked. I want you to fall to your knees on that table and cry until your rib cage aches. Until a stranger wraps their arms around you and assures you that everything is okay. Then I want you to take your camera back.

I want you to take a camera. I want  you to take a camera with video and find yourself at a dingy bar with pool tables on a Saturday night. I want you to give your camera to a stranger and tell them to press record. I want you to buy ten shots of whiskey. I want you to line those shots up on the rail of the pool table. Take three of the shots in a row. I want you to climb on top of the pool table. Take three more of the shots.  Now offer one shot to a stranger. I want you to throw the remaining shot glasses at the wall and watch them explode. Watch the glass rebound from the wall in shards and fall. Watch the sick liquid drip its way down the wooden paneling. I want you to lay down on the pool table. I want  you to piss yourself, release it onto the table, into it. Lay there for a moment in your own urine. Then I want you to get up and take your camera back.

I want you to take a camera. I want you to take a camera with video and take your lover, a lover, by the hand. I want you to find yourself in a park on a Sunday morning, where people walk their dogs and swing their children and tie slacklines between trees. I want you to give your camera to your lover and tell them to press record. I want you to take your lover by the lips. I want you to strip your lover naked and strip yourself naked and I want you to treat your lover like the most holy item on the planet, the most revered god or goddess. Ignore the strangers that gather. Touch them in all of the ways you know they like to be touched. Make eye contact with them. I want you to bring your lover to the brink and lead them over. Hold that eye contact. I want you to forget that the rest of the world exists. I want you to sweat on the sharp grass with them until you’re both covered in the bodily juices that yield from delectable satisfaction. Until you’re both too exhausted to touch anymore. Then I want you to dress yourselves and take your camera home.

I want you to take a camera and a permanent marker. I want you to take a camera with video, a permanent marker, and find yourself in a nice restaurant on a Sunday evening, a nice restaurant with dim lighting and quiet couples whispering to each other.  I want you to give your camera to the waiter and tell them to record. I want you to strip yourself naked and stand on the table. I want you to take your marker and circle all of the parts of your body that you hate, one by one. I want you to grab those parts of your body as you circle them and grip them tightly until they turn red. Grip them and scream loudly why you hate them. Tell the restaurant where your fat is, where your cellulite is, why your shapes are incorrect, where your birthmarks lie, where your scars show. Tell them everything that is wrong with you and grip those places violently. After you have pointed out every flaw, after you have shed light on every imperfection, , after your body is covered in bruises, climb down from the table. Put your clothes back on. Take your camera back and exit the restaurant.

I want you to lay in bed on Sunday night. I want you to lay in bed alone and hold yourself softly. Let your hands drift down to touch yourself in nice places and let your body warm to the movement of your hands and fingertips. I want you to bite your bottom lip and moan for yourself. I want you to treat yourself as the most cherished lover in your life. I want you to pass the precipice and shake and flush. Then stop and wrap your arms around yourself. Know that you are a true and authentic human being. Know that there is absolutely no shame in being alive. Shame is a construct created to keep you from being truly human, to keep you from genuine connection, to distract you from true feelings. Know that as long as you are honest, you are the inspiration of expression that the world needs. Tell yourself you love yourself and drift quietly to sleep.

– Jaime Dyna La Mondain

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