Here is a hole that’s more absence than presence; here’s our most holy vessel of psychosexual delusion and social precept. Here’s a thing that’s not object but abject, target of both disgust and desire: a place so sacredly obscene, so repulsively sexy, its name constitutes a slur in itself, and its integrity is still protected by the laws of the lands. This is the partition that separates our esoteric inside from the matter around, perhaps the most unfair reminder of our crude biology. This is the most intimate and delicate part of our breathing body, shrouded in libidinous fantasy. In old times, they politely called it fundament: the grounding of life and death and lust, the ultimate offender. Here is an attempt to defuse this fundamental offense. As private fetish invades public life, sub rosa blurs the demarcations between hobby handiwork and professionalized creativity. The self-important, fetishist neuroticism of conceptual art is dissolved into the accessible artistry of crafting; the figments of our public disgust and secret desire are knotted from the same rough yarn. And are crafts not the fundament of Fine Arts, equally despised and romanticized? Have they not been subject to taboo and fetish, banned to the constraints of the home? Are they not an attempt to fill a gaping absence? Between home and hole, between soft and porn, between death and DIY, blooms a delicate flower. And here, under the rose, lies a way inside you, inside all of us. And here, under the rose, we can see: an empty body is filled by the mind alone.
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