I had never thought of Detroit as a hotbed of eroticism, probably because it's linked in my mind with soulful, courageous people fighting for survival in a dirty, abandoned place. Not much time for sexual dilettantism. But I was proven wrong when I attended Dirty Show 6 (www.dirtydetroit.com), an annual party of erotic art that has grown into an enormous big deal. Several rooms full of paintings, photos, sculptures, and stuff--and a packed house of the curious.
The art itself ranged from creative to absolutely putrid, but that's what happens when your only standard for an exhibit is that it's "dirty." So artistic crap that had sexual overtones saw its day. There were some clever things and some nice photos, but they were few and far between. This wasn't really an "art exhibit"-- the art seemed like basically an excuse for people to flaunt their erotic costume possibilities.
And there was a surprising amount of that. The show's sponsors set the tone, using nearly naked women to serve at the bar, stroll as candy/cigarette girls, and even (in the case of one large-breasted woman wearing only pasties and panties) squeeze fresh lemonade, leaving the mind rather boggled. Naked women painted like tigers in body paint, female impersonators in outrageous drag, and a half-naked cheerleading squad also helped create a certain decadent mood. Even the free food was erotic-- milk-free sugar-free sweet treats in the shape of penises and testicles. And there was a photo booth where you could snap your own shot and get the print, no questions asked.
The stage show alternated between really bad poetry readings and not-so-great "burlesque" which wasn't really stripping but just a bunch of half-naked women mildly simulating lap-dancing and doing some glumsy steps. A woman I talked to while we watched the show said she wasn't impressed, saying the Suicide Girls, who'd she seen perform in Indianapolis, were much better. No doubt. Though she was stunningly erotic herself (dressed in a tight sweater, miniskirt, and patterned fishnets), she professed that she was too old to be a Suicide Girl herself, having had two kids. She must have been all of 26 or 27.
There were more fishnets among the customers than you'd see on a Newfoundland village at dawn. Outfits ranged from fashionable club gear to dangerously exhibitionistic costumes, to dress-up, role-playing, and fetish wear. Why isn't the Detroit area more represented on sg? It makes me wonder. there were plenty of incredibly sexy women in attendance with fantastic outfits. One woman was a half-naked nun wearing the habit's headgear and little else. She appeared to have little cups of aluminum foil on her tits. She offered to hear my confession and soon confessed herself that she was a working girl who was not able to ply her trade that night.
Unaccustomed to such a scene, I spent more time gawking at the customers than staring at the art. But after an hour or so, the extreme posing of the scene began to wear on me. With all this provocation from the "art" and the servers and the customers too, it was interesting to note there was no actual sex. Nobody was kissing or making out in dark corners, that I could tell--not like at certain dance clubs...hell, not even like at a junior-high party. I marvel at what our sexual-posing culture has wrought: the ability to project, portray, and commodify sexual expression into performance, art, and clothing, yet somehow rob it of its danger. The show's customers were mostly couples or small groups of friends, very few if any people seemed to be on the prowl, and everyone was acting with that we're-all-so-grown-up-and-jaded lack of abandon. Herbert Marcuse himself couldn't have imagined the lengths to which we've taken repressive desublimation and made polymorphous perversity into yet another item on the cultural menu.
I liked the outrageousness of the scene and the outfits, but I was puzzled by the lack of outrageous behavior. In an era of greater repression, this kind of public display of sexual expression would have prompted some serious losing of control. Or so one would think. Yet somehow the straightjackets of social convention remained firmly buttoned.
It could also be that maybe I just didn't stay late enough.
The art itself ranged from creative to absolutely putrid, but that's what happens when your only standard for an exhibit is that it's "dirty." So artistic crap that had sexual overtones saw its day. There were some clever things and some nice photos, but they were few and far between. This wasn't really an "art exhibit"-- the art seemed like basically an excuse for people to flaunt their erotic costume possibilities.
And there was a surprising amount of that. The show's sponsors set the tone, using nearly naked women to serve at the bar, stroll as candy/cigarette girls, and even (in the case of one large-breasted woman wearing only pasties and panties) squeeze fresh lemonade, leaving the mind rather boggled. Naked women painted like tigers in body paint, female impersonators in outrageous drag, and a half-naked cheerleading squad also helped create a certain decadent mood. Even the free food was erotic-- milk-free sugar-free sweet treats in the shape of penises and testicles. And there was a photo booth where you could snap your own shot and get the print, no questions asked.
The stage show alternated between really bad poetry readings and not-so-great "burlesque" which wasn't really stripping but just a bunch of half-naked women mildly simulating lap-dancing and doing some glumsy steps. A woman I talked to while we watched the show said she wasn't impressed, saying the Suicide Girls, who'd she seen perform in Indianapolis, were much better. No doubt. Though she was stunningly erotic herself (dressed in a tight sweater, miniskirt, and patterned fishnets), she professed that she was too old to be a Suicide Girl herself, having had two kids. She must have been all of 26 or 27.
There were more fishnets among the customers than you'd see on a Newfoundland village at dawn. Outfits ranged from fashionable club gear to dangerously exhibitionistic costumes, to dress-up, role-playing, and fetish wear. Why isn't the Detroit area more represented on sg? It makes me wonder. there were plenty of incredibly sexy women in attendance with fantastic outfits. One woman was a half-naked nun wearing the habit's headgear and little else. She appeared to have little cups of aluminum foil on her tits. She offered to hear my confession and soon confessed herself that she was a working girl who was not able to ply her trade that night.
Unaccustomed to such a scene, I spent more time gawking at the customers than staring at the art. But after an hour or so, the extreme posing of the scene began to wear on me. With all this provocation from the "art" and the servers and the customers too, it was interesting to note there was no actual sex. Nobody was kissing or making out in dark corners, that I could tell--not like at certain dance clubs...hell, not even like at a junior-high party. I marvel at what our sexual-posing culture has wrought: the ability to project, portray, and commodify sexual expression into performance, art, and clothing, yet somehow rob it of its danger. The show's customers were mostly couples or small groups of friends, very few if any people seemed to be on the prowl, and everyone was acting with that we're-all-so-grown-up-and-jaded lack of abandon. Herbert Marcuse himself couldn't have imagined the lengths to which we've taken repressive desublimation and made polymorphous perversity into yet another item on the cultural menu.
I liked the outrageousness of the scene and the outfits, but I was puzzled by the lack of outrageous behavior. In an era of greater repression, this kind of public display of sexual expression would have prompted some serious losing of control. Or so one would think. Yet somehow the straightjackets of social convention remained firmly buttoned.
It could also be that maybe I just didn't stay late enough.
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
voltaire:
I have been to events like that.... and honestly, I think alot of the probalem is overstimulation. like sensory overload. I know that I personally would not feel like making out in a corner when there's already too much to look at. I usually wind up dissappointed after going to events like that.... It sounds like the whole thing was just grossly overdone. If I was going to do an erotic art show, I certainly wouldn't have a crapload of naked people running around. It can make the inexperienced(but curious) intimidated, and shy. I would have had maybe some women dressed appropriately, but not that stuff sounds like stripper shit to me the way you describe it. Sorry you had not so rad a time. But it sounds like It was both poorly planned and organized.
mana:
What's a screenwriter?