Naomi creates an art piece called get laid

Result #1

Naomi creates an art piece called get laid, and shes left behind in the hope that she will be re-creating that female post-punk experience, with the joys and traumas of playing the (temporary) foil for the male artist. But she doesnt show up to the expectations of her audience. She dons the same lacy black dress she always does, only now shes both wet and hairy. The sinewy bundle of flesh stands for the positive refusal to conform to the male expectations of the feminine, yet her anatomy is all but sealed off by a shapeless, glossy leather jacket and a girtelike bra. The contrast is striking: the orgasmic sexuality of the lily and the condom—or, of course, the penis—of the bottle of whiskey. Theyre inseparable, but the sexual pleasure is nonexistent. The surreal folds of fabric are weirdly unsettling, like disembodied limbs with the liquefied spines. And as this erotic mask fades into the uncanny valley, the landscape of the campy dance becomes an inhospitable sanctuary. That the title, Get Laid, suggests the desire for intimacy is a seductive strategy. Meanwhile, the drunken wakeups play for the viewer, providing a visual echo for the impossible dream of intimacy.And, in some cases, the visuals merely make the dreams hyperreal, at times too obvious. In the most intense scenes, the whole performance becomes a kind of surreal dream; the dancer is played by the artist, who appears as a ghostly version of herself. The piece has a creepy, demonic quality, and yet, as in the previous, the chicks in the dress are willing and able to take the challenge, showing off their sensational bellies and posing, showing off their meatless bodies.

Result #2

Naomi creates an art piece called get laid, but not entirely naked, so that the pieces include a hidden, undramatic, tacked-on layer of dressing. Most of the pieces share the general volume of space and the prominence of the positions of the two-to-four members (thereby deriving the shows name) and to a lesser degree, of the public in the gallery, though several have an excess of massing up against the walls that add to the effect of public versus private. But many are stuffed up anyway with accessories (plastic pots, glass beads, old blinds, etc.), and some are hung off the ground with ties and cording that protrude out. The texture of fabric is impeccable, and it looks as if it were velvety in the hand, and it certainly seems as if it had been laboriously laundered, but the silk silkiness of the fabric seems to suggest a pomposity or another variety of sexuality. It is as if the ideas of modesty and chastity embodied by the body have been put to the ultimate test and not quite succeeded, and the eroticism of the clothes has grown thick and puffy and all over. Mori was told that she could simply have stuff in her pockets, so she has gotten rid of all the metal from her baggies. With this process she has transformed the whole figure into a kind of deadpan, sheer, René Magoo–like beige or gray. Her kimonos, which once had the eerieness of scanty chain-mail, have become taut as silkworm skin, and most of them are divided into sections. The result is somehow more challenging than it should have been, with a chaste but lascivious trudging of this kind of dress in soft white fabric and silk. One wonders how they do it and how much the high-tech finish on the metal and silk renders.

Result #3

down. It consists of two pieces of paper and a small newspaper ad, and of course the ads—one of their words is, COME ON! This piece shows off her talents as a draftsman. Another work, Purple Paper, is less successful. Its, in fact, the hardest work—paintings with wood grain adorning the paper. That her work should be so weakly judged, after all, by such a highly regarded artist as Lady Wood is a travesty. The fact that the work is the artist finding a better way of doing it shows just how little her dreams truly are.

Result #4

Naomi creates an art piece called get laid on the floor. The piece was initially performed by a group of women dressed in fashions and patterns of dress. A table and chair were placed in front of the stage. They gradually, in different ways, moved toward and away from one another. Throughout the performance, they spoke their lines to one another, to the audience, and to each other. A soprano, a gardener, a bartender, a nurse, and a construction worker, among other characters, briefly co-operated with these conversations. When the action ended, the actors changed roles in a manner reminiscent of a hookup, and the audience cast off the object of desire into an empty space. We watched them respond to our presence, to the act of unseen speech—something else.Doors to the box (not to say the thing itself) opened on two sides and could be seen from outside. Inside, visitors found themselves in front of a film-collage. A photograph of a small image of a rough street would have looked nice on a wallpaper wallpaper in a spare-style apartment, a kind of deconstructed Rorschach-like painting. The light was filtered through a series of holes in the darkened interior. This scene was made the last of many: People became addicts, while more and more streets were closed down. There were noises of gunshots and bombs and noises of plastic sirens. Finally, there was a breakdown of security, and the sound of banging doors made me feel like I was outside the door. The scene ended with a bang and a thud. The image, still to the right, doubled back on itself. This sound track was followed by one of the flashlights, and then there was a knock on the door. I stepped out to see what was happening. Someone, probably a gardener, was banging on the door. Someone had broken in.Im sorry, but this is the last time I will ever do a gallery show.

Result #5

up in her studio. She takes no pleasure in this but rather finds a situation to incorporate into her work. In this piece she shows the studio with her words, What about me? No fuck you, its just that you cant control what happens. The words come from the artist, of course, who says, Fuck you, thats enough.