and then Tasmania changed everything.

Breakfast is on the way, thus--- I’ll tell you all a story.

Once upon a time, there was a very very smart man. Originally from Australia—he discovered a knack for professional gambling--- to be more specific, a knack for card counting. He traveled the country, the world really, making millions--- before the IRS or CIA or some crew you don’t want to fuck with caught up with him, and (after a bit of time in the slammer), banned this very very smart man from all casinos for the rest of time….

This man, still being very very smart, apparently decided to simply train people to count cards for him. Thus, this man still rakes in millions, probably billions, and stays completely in the clear. Now situated in Hobart, Tasmania, this very very smart man does things like open wineries, grow vineyards, and open billion dollar art galleries.

The past two days, I’ve been scampering about this ‘property’—situated right within north Hobart’s bay… friends from Melbourne- who have recently relocated to Taz have invited me into their lovely home, and insisted on my participation within this very very smart, very very rich man’s opening gala.

To be more clear, this has been a 10+ year project in the making. Visitors stroll through the vineyard, up to the hilltop—where several grassy fields unfold onto large stages (Stages that hosted everyone from Health to Wire)… there are bars everywhere, and lovely little food stations offering caviar and oysters, burritos and kabobs…

As it was their opening weekend--- all of this was FREE. Actually—the art gallery (the smart, rich man’s personal collection) will always be free. And it’s absolutely incredible. 

Having traveled quite a few places, I’ve nerded out in quite a few museums. And I’ve never seen anything this…. intensive. MONA. Ie: The Museum of Old and New Art. Everything from crusty mummies, to giant modernist paintings of hermaphrodites. I spent 4 hours plotting through its corridors, and after trying to articulate it’s most mind-blowing, shockingly offensive exhibits among friends, discovered I missed over a third of its content. I’ll have to head back later this week…

The whole museum feels like a system of catacombs… And there are NO signs on any of the pieces/installations. Upon entering, you’re handed an I-touch.  Yup. You read that correctly. An I-touch. As the museum entrance is on the top floor, you descend into the first floor, and hit your I-touch to ‘begin.’ It automatically senses where in the museum you are—and constantly showcases exhibits nearby. Even more incredible is the selection of information you--- as a viewer—are offered. Not only are you propelled into the general, ‘historical’ information regarding each piece, you’re showered with audio clips, pop-cultural context, even smart-ass ‘blurbs’ intended to jump-start your (probably un-processable) reactions. 

Let me give an example.

I walk up to a screen-print/photograph of a dog fucking a man. Again, yes, you read this right. Right there, in front of your face--- a dog (clearly in the throws of ecstasy) is fucking a grown man (equally thrilled). There are old people, and children, and solemn looking tourists everywhere. Yet, there you stand. Observing this ‘scene’ or ‘exhibit’ or whatever the hell it is. You advert your gaze to the I-touch. You find out the French artist developed this piece mere years ago. Fair enough.

But then? You click deeper. You listen to an audio interview wherein the artist (the crazy fuck!) describes how we’re all just animals--- and that sex between a man and dog is no different than a man petting a cat. The interviewer, clearly shocked (aren’t we all? No? maybe he has a point?) claims otherwise--- as ‘animals can’t give consent to sex’. Good point, you think to yourself, scooting closer and closer to this photograph. Becoming more and more aware of your discomfort. But why? Where is this urge to vomit, or run, or lean in, and listen harder—where is it all coming from? You turn up your I-touch. The artist states that animals DO consent to sex. In the same way humans do. By giving off signals. Thus, the dog fucking this man is no different then a man stroking a cat—providing it with pleasure--- indulging in its purring. Shockingly gross. Fucking disgusting. Offensive.

You click on another link provided. Here is what you’re presented with:

DOG BITES MAN. NOT NEWS.

MAN BITES DOG. NEWS.

MAN FUCKS DOG. NOT NEWS.

DOG FUCKS MAN. NEWS.

DISCUSS.

Another example? Sure, why not.

An exhibit titled ‘150 Cunts.’ The title itself commands a reaction. Suddenly, you’re walking along 150 (sculpted from live models) plaster vaginas--- mounted along a the wall of a hallway. All shapes, all sizes… ‘hand built’ from women ages 17 to 75. Hairy and bald. Chubby and thin. Flabby and tight… an endless display of vaginas. The I-touch provides several links/’food for thought’. A conversation with the artist (male) and an interested spectator (female) covers topics surrounding sexism and feminism. ‘He’ claims all men are pigs. That society is bombarded with dicks constantly— that the mere fact of balls/cock being socially acceptable stems from a severe fear of ‘The vag.’ Interestingly enough, the female listener defends men. She claims he is wrong. That sexism is on the outs. That women have come ‘so far’ and that ‘things are different.’ She’s outraged by such a blatant, vulgar display of labia--- how dare he! Regardless of whose ‘right’ or ‘wrong’-- his closing statement resonates. He claims that all of his 150 models—regardless of their age, sexual orientation, and cultural background volunteered their vaginas—themselves for him, in order to ‘be set free.’

My thought process… free from what? Is he right? How is it that I--- being a western, privileged, Caucasian woman in an advanced ‘progressive’ society--- am uncomfortable with the question of ‘when was the last time I saw/showed a vagina in broad daylight?’ Are people just afraid of Cunt? And why? Where did this assumption come from that dicks are attractive? ‘Vagina’ is cloaked in so much shame it seems… A woman’s sex or sexuality is constantly the white elephant in the middle of the room--- a fragile subject that can only be danced around, yet never directly addressed.

This exhibit—this very very smart man’s art collection attacks such topics.

Death and sex. Fucking and dying.

Two of the most critical elements to ‘being human’—yet two of the best dodged, fully avoided topics within our daily existence. MONA confronts both head on.

Other exhibits?

The gory mold of a suicide bomber, head and shoulders intact, but intestines slopped about the ground--- all made from chocolate.

A black virgin mary, covered in sex toy images.

Films of women devouring fruit, combating time, and inevitably becoming ‘the forest.’

MONA, in its entirety is an experience.

Within its walls, while swimming along its innards, you’re forced to not only slop between uncomfortable organs; you’re dared to admit the hilarity of their necessity. You willingly sit down in the sand, and in doing so—realize you’re contained (and perhaps always have been) within an actual sandbox. ‘The Sandbox.’ Suddenly, you’re uber aware of boundaries, limitations--- despite a lifetime of adhering to them. It’s as if you’re handed a rulebook, that you unknowingly wrote. Social norms, societal expectations--- the invisible matrix our ‘humanness’ swings down from MONA’s rafters and punches you in the throat. And it hurts.

That said, half the fun is watching others around you double over from the blow.

You overhear two women appalled by an exhibit. A goldfish bowl sits on a small table--- encased within it? Two fish, absentmindedly swimming between a large butcher knife,—which, blade down—divides their habitat. 

The women are furious. Grossly offended. That’s not art! That’s FUCKED!

You silently watch them unravel…. Fascinated by their display of displeasure, even more so then the ‘art’ itself. Here, among the most outrageous collection of ‘work’— along displays announcing topics such as ‘cunts’, suicide, rape, religion as war tactic, death, and chaos--- this --- this mildly cryptic DIY aquarium is what causes them to crack (?!?!?)

In another room ‘The Orgasm Machine.’ A large screen portrays a woman with her legs spread. Ok, WOAH. An elderly couple ahead of you follow the ‘instructions.’ In short, when fingers are placed within a small box to the left of the screen, the woman’s legs begin to thrash wildly. You, the viewer--- actually become the participant, and thus, part of the exhibit itself. Again, WOAH. You are the Orgasm. What you put into it, it gives back. Perhaps even more telling then the artist’s show, is the couple’s reaction. They’re beside themselves. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Excited. Aroused even. Fuck, you’re embarrassed for them! How horribly awkward!

And the aftermath of questions: Why IS this uncomfortable? Would it be different if it were a man’s orgasm? Is this even art, and if so—doesn’t pornography need more credit? How does age play out in this? Am I simply shocked by the age of the couple before me? Would it be easier for me to process if it were a younger couple? Why can’t society openly accept ‘aging gracefully,’ and thus, fucking while you do so? What about sexuality? How would my reaction differ if I spied upon a lesbian couple interact with the orgasm machine? Would I be aroused if it were a male orgasm machine? What if I were alone with the orgasm machine, and a group of 15 year old boys?

It’s like the beauty industry. We (women especially), dump billions of dollars into this idea of beauty and youth. I buy the fancy eye cream, because I don’t want wrinkles, and want to look ‘young’ for as long as possible. This is what I’ve been accustomed to viewing as attractive- and hey, who doesn’t want to look good? In other words, we collectively PAY to keep this as secretive as possible. Throwing in the towel, (trashing the eye cream), and just ‘aging’ is absolutely not an option. With sex, while I may not pay with tangible dollars, I openly contribute to a system that enforces and reinforces this idea that sex is not a big deal. Sex does not control every waking moment of my life. Sex is just sex. Orgasms are just orgasms. We’re all just animals, after all. 

Bullshit.

Despite considering myself an occasionally outlandish, reaction-driven gal—there really is no number of beers that could convince me to comfortably and confidently approach a man at a bar for nothing other then sex. To say this has never crossed my mind would be a blatant lie. Even in recognizing that sex is all I’m interested in, and probably all he’s (anonymity, just for fun) interested in--- we still have to play the game, and go through the motions of buying each other a round, pretending to laugh at each other’s lame one-liners, acting as though our mind-numbing lives are fascinating. I realize how cynical this makes me sound… but how funny that the main thing we’re after is the exact thing that trips us up in the first place…

If sex is simply a chemical reaction of sorts, a sloppy fusion of nerve endings, fluids and colliding cells---why is it impossible to compartmentalize it as thus? If sex is the crucial element to our ‘humanness’, the foundation from which we (as ‘beings) pivot from—why can’t we all just openly address it? Why does it have to be a secret exhibit, in a securely isolated room, within a very, very rich man’s collection to pin point the pink elephant in the room?

From within this sandbox, I ponder onwards….