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Contemporary Art is Dead LONDON, UK -- On October 11th, 2020, the world of Contemporary Art came to a complete and grinding halt. The tragic event took place in the town of London, England; where it is said that multiple works went unsold during a lackluster art fair. This insidious act shook the already weakened industry into sudden death. Onlookers grieved as several attempts to revive the ailing industry with pleasant, unoffensive advertising, were unsuccessful. It appears that Contemporary Art's tarnished past and previous brushes with death in prior decades had left it susceptible to just this type of demise. According to an industry analyst, "This should come as no surprise to anyone involved in this industry." To recap: Contemporary Art is dead, again. Long live Contemporary Art.
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PLEASE TAKE A SEAT Letter From The Editor 27
ROE ETHRIDGE & BRAD PHILLIPS Both Enjoy Photography 132—137
THE PHILOSOPHY OF SITTING According To Peter Opsvik 30—31
THE ARK Photographed By Till Janz 138—161
MENTAL FURNITURE Peter Shire Interviews Ryan Preciado 32—35 BLK ROLODEX A Seat At The Table 36—40 OTANI WORKSHOP A New Vanguard Of Japanese Pottery 42—45 JERMAINE FRANCIS & BEATRIZ MAUES Lost & Found 46—63 KEMBRA PFAHLER & HANS ULRICH OBRIST Photographed by David Brandon Geeting 64—77 MARIO AYALA A Ringside Seat At The Circus 78—81 GAJIN FUJITA & GABRIELLA SANCHEZ In Conversation 82—87 MARLEN KELLER Biophilia 88—103 XULY.BËT Photographed by Lucas Christiansen 104—112 DEREK FORDJOUR & TORKWASE DYSON Acrobatics Over Beats 114—119 SIT TIGHT Photographed by Vitali Gelwich 120—131
MIRANDA JULY Sitting With A Friend 162—169 EDGE OF YOUR SEAT Photographed by Vitali Gelwich 179—183 PLAYING WITH SHIRE Photographed by Eddie Chacon 184—189 NAMIO HARUKAWA Femdom As A Way Of Life 194—197 SITTING PRETTY Photographed by Marianna Sanvito 198—209 NAN GOLDIN The Ballad Of Nan Goldin 210—241 STERLING RUBY & LUCINDA DEVLIN Carceral Archipelago 242—249 JOSH HIGHT After The Flood 250—269 PAUL MCCARTHY A&E Drawing Session 23—25 ZOE CHAIT Rodeo 286—294 AUDRA WIST The Glorious Joy of Facesitting 295—300
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AUTRE MAGAZINE 11 Please Take A Seat
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THIS PAGE: vintage pink fishnet body Comme Des Garcons from Rellik London, pink vinyl skirt Rejina Pyo, bra H&M, fishnet tights Jonathan Aston. OPPOSITE PAGE: knit dress Paul Aaron, fishnet tights Jonathan Aston, mules Rejina Pyo
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RODEO Zoe Chait
I travel alone. Sirens in the distance. The canyon echoes hands cheer on pots for healthcare workers like a good old American football team. The roads are empty. Haunting stillness shapes an illusion, time suspended above the chaos unfolding on the streets below.
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The national guard parades through the city with tanks. Police fire rubber bullets at peaceful protesters. Thousands fortify their homes outside; in parks, on benches, in doorways, behind cardboard boxes. Is this the American dream?
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The final two hours A one lane road Pitch black Sparsely populated landscapes Travelling alone Not a bar of reception Old cold coffee Swallow my heightening panic Searching for somewhere to sleep.
On top of a hill overlooking plains and shallow valleys more hills in the distance A quiet reserved for the edge of the world accompanied only by wind rustling dry grass
A motel parking lot filled with trucks Men outside drinking beer unwinding today counting the days left on the road. Too many eyes in my direction Still no cell reception smelling my vulnerability.
A large room filled with stale air. A window unit AC buzzing relentlessly, circulating what I dread to be COVID flavoured artificial breeze. Nowhere to go and nothing to see Itching from fear and caffeine shutter release in hand documenting what I can.
A few drops of water on my neck he strokes my breast I look back as a drop stings my lip licking it I whisper something about the weather. A thrust and a moan The clouds open Rain pours relentlessly.
We have minimal protection here only that which he has built with his bare hands.
He jumps to his feet I’m on all fours frozen like a dog.
Staring in awe high off the clean air listening to the breeze.
Water sprinkling all around us under the unfinished roof. Bare bodies exposed fragile to the elements.
All things still but full of tension.
Another motel parking lot. A sweet looking man shuts down the lights sighing with relief.
Posters of high school girls plastered in store windows, makeup glossed hair blown out beneath cowboy hats. Advertising themselves to the public phone numbers and instagram handles selling tickets for the rodeo. The cowgirl who sells the most will be the next Rodeo Queen for which the prize is the title.
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Rodeo. Every. Night. Of. The. Week. June, July and August She Must be 19 or 20? Dreams of riding bulls Works at the Comfort Inn Won’t be able to ride until she gives birth. She’s due in February Married her husband in July. He’s riding a bull tonight. Already has a shoulder implant Pray he won’t need another 20k risk factor
“People around here will tell you, ‘Welcome to America.’”
We watch a young boy carted away in an ambulance as his rodeo brothers and sisters hold their hands to their hearts. An unplanned intermission, praying for his life before getting back on bucking bulls to continue the show.
She says wearing a mask at work gives her acne But she will be the only woman to ride a bull. Mark her words. She doesn’t care to live anywhere but here. “California?” She laughs.
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‘Sturgis bike rally is on, With health precautions.’’
I ask why she isn’t doing it this year she says:
Lots of Bud Light, NO PANTY WEDNESDAY Rows of chrome bike handlebars reflect the sun forming the horizon.
“I’m 35 now, I’m too old to be objectified.
After living in bigger cities all she wanted was to have her own land her own horses. She prefers animals to people.
My first husband was a biker, so he was into me looking a little slutty, you know?”
In her younger years, as bikers looped around Devil’s Tower, she was stationed all morning in Hulett handing out free beer like a volunteer at a marathon. Then she’d work through the evening at the ‘Dime Horseshoe Bar’ for ‘Burnout Wednesday’
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No way my husband now would go for it.
I smile and nod. “I just don’t have the patience to pretend I like having my ass grabbed by horny drunk dudes anymore.” Her 11 year old daughter-in-law lives on Pine Ridge Indian Reservation with her mother. Worried for her safety, they want to win custody, get her off the reservation.
“She just started bleeding. I mean 11 is young for that. Shit. And she’s real pretty. Know what I mean?’’
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THE GLORIOUS JOY OF FACESITTING by AUDRA WIST
I just masturbated to the thought of sitting on someone’s face. What is it about the act? Coming down gently triumphantly from above. The pressure and weight resting on the face, temporarily suffocating by squeezing my thighs against the neck and head. Gasping for air, I release the face.The image alone is a fantastic and erotic tableau — a softness looming, large and overwhelming, soon to be smothered by. Thankfully, I was blessed with a full-rounded backside perfect to be underneath. In a previous life, I was a professional dominatrix and my ass was that of godliness for some. Men delightfully suffered under the weight of me, and I also revelled in their incapacitation. The joy of facesitting. I’m trying to remember my first facesitting fantasy or my first facesitting experience. I’ve rode faces of lovers, but facesitting is especially different. The end goal is not focused on orgasm but is more so a way to exercise control over another’s breathing: letting them inhale your wonderful scent in a most intimate way using the brute force of the sit. It is about the image, a symbolic act of prowess. I think I inadvertently sat on a face my first time. These things happen - brief and naive accidents occasionally arouse lifelong interest in power exchange. We spent most of the time mopping our bodies around my faux-hardwood floors at 3 a.m. in some studio apartment in Pittsburgh and suddenly, I ended up hovering over his face and felt him breathing me in deeply. And so, I stayed and I sat. Facesitting is considered a “fetish” (what isn’t these days) and can provide a different type of intimacy for those seeking exchanges outside of the standard issue. I suppose I like it because it can depersonalize my partner which in turn makes me feel alone and together simultaneously; it is an exploration of myself with another — now you see me, now you don’t. My seat is a seat and nothing more. Facesitting isn’t conceptually profound, but it makes for directness in the bedroom or dungeon or wherever you decide to fuck du jour. The psychological implications can certainly be profound, but facesitting itself is not complicated, nor does it require equipment. Just find an eager consenting little face and sit. I’ve seen whole contraptions for such - smotherboxes, queening chairs - but one of the reasons I like facesitting is that it doesn’t require either or.
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Just as many longstanding lascivious acts are crucified as being despicable teen sex trends by OneMillionMoms, facesitting has had a long history. In 2015, UK law banned facesitting in porn alongside other popular fetishes, including female ejaculation. Mistress Absolute, a beloved BDSM practitioner based in London, was among the crowd protesting the outdated law in front of parliament. She facesat in solidarity and drank her morning coffee while doing so. Notably beside her there was a man wearing a snorkel rolling out a yoga mat preparing for his day of activism. The protest came off the heels of numerous nods to facesitting, including Nicki Minaj and The Weeknd, all of whom have expressed their penchant for the act. Lest we forget the pre-Minaj facesitting enthusiasts: Namio Harukawa, working between the late 1960s and 80s, depicted thick R. Crumbian women, meticulously rendered and askew, practically taking up the fullframe, sitting cruelly and confidently on small men. The tiny beta-men tend to the women’s feet or act as a much needed bar stool, among other utilitarian purposes. Much of Harukawa’s work is centered on facesitting, but also includes bondage and human furniture. John Stagliano’s infamous Buttman magazine of the early 2000s also brought facesitting into the mainstream. Buttman operated more or less as a catalog of buttstuff featuring Belladonna, Asa Akira, Alexis Texas, among other anal porn superstars who appeared in its glossy pages Stagliano himself is a classically trained dancer and many of the shoots take place in his personal mirror-lined dance studio complete with barre. Self-proclaimed buttman Glenn King (once loosely related to Stagliano’s Buttman) is frequently seen with his face firmly planted between the cheeks of big name porn stars such as Aiden Starr and Daisy Ducati on MeanBitches.com and TheKingNetwork.com. Though, I’m not fully convinced that porn can plant the seed for whatever we find sexually appealing. Circling even further back into my sordid history, I think of Joseph McGinty Nichol’s (aka “McG”) 2000 film reboot of Charlie’s Angels. The movie rolled together the sweet and sour “girl power” movement of the Millenium; it was chintzy high-saturation and deeply unforgettable. There was a scene I loved where the girls are attempting a heist in a large corporate tech headquarters and Lucy Liu’s character is sent to distract the masses while Diaz and Barrymore execute the mission. In a full leather skirt suit, Liu embodies a mix of dominatrix and union leader, forcefully and seductively suggesting the employees “show her” the problems of the company. It cuts to a shot of Liu’s ass in said outfit, strutting down the hallway, Heart’s Barracuda and an alltoo-loud dubbing of leather “creaking” with every step (trail of men to follow.) The picture, the sound, the ass… I was forever changed. Viva la arse! Kiss it, follow it, and for god’s sake get underneath it.
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