BIG ALUMINUM 2- ALICE ADAMS- 1965

I am sitting in an exhibition room, surrounded by sculptures created by women. Some are phallic and explicit, others are completely abstract. None of them are sexy. I am obsessed with the nature of eroticism and its distinct difference from the pornographic. I am plagued with the question of whether I can embrace a truly erotic lifestyle.

In an early journal entry, when these thoughts first occurred to me, I wrote, “I have been attempting to notice and amplify the sensuality within me and my own life. I have taken a liking to falling asleep in the grass. I have noticed little things about the women I surround myself with, like how they gesticulate or the layers in their hair. I have been decentring the online world, I have been reading Anais Nin, I have been relying on my personality, and noticing when people make me laugh more than usual.” Through this new deep awareness of feeling, my desire to articulate the distinction between the sensual, the erotic, and the sexy has only increased.

I am at home for the weekend, and I read Audre Lorde’s essay ‘The Erotic as Power’. She describes this force as not only feminine, but also emphasises that the embracing of the erotic power is an act of feminism itself. She writes, ‘The erotic is a measure between the beginnings of our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings,’ and defines the very nature of the erotic as a complete succumbing to sensation. What I understand of this sensation is an intense depth of feeling. A depth of feeling that is encompassing femininity, and is therefore scrutinised. Lorde captures me in her distinction between the erotic and the pornographic. Later, she writes, ‘we have often turned away from the exploration and consideration of the erotic as a source of power and information, confusing it with its opposite. The pornographic. But pornography is a direct denial of the power of the erotic, for it represents the suppression of the true feeling. Pornography emphasises sensation without feeling.’ But what is sensation without feeling? It is a washed-up rendition of intimacy.

I realised that understanding the erotic is having this depth of feeling and care towards myself and others. It is understanding myself, and therefore gaining the empathy to understand what it is to be somebody else. There is magic in unravelling yourself and becoming entangled in others. There is no difference to me, or indeed Audre Lorde, in writing a poem, the art of flirtation, or laughing with a woman I love on the sofa. When you embrace the erotic, to men, it becomes a threat, something confusing. This is because eroticism is not inherently sexy; there are no examples in which the pornographic feels transcendent. It exists to diminish the understanding and genuine feelings that come with the human experience.

I am in bed with a man on Sunday morning, and he calls me a witch. I am lying on his back as he states this, and pull away from my phone to relish in this compliment. I do not think he meant it that way, but he cannot see the joy on my face.

I have found a certain pride in my strangeness. In turn, I believe it is the gateway drug to embracing a life of the erotic. What I have never been in this life is agreeable; in fact, I am somewhat off-putting to certain people. This translates directly into my understanding of what it means to be a modern woman. What some of it comes down to is being disgusting. Throughout the death of eroticism and the rise of sexualisation, there is a bravery in being gross and unfiltered. At the beginning, it simply shows itself in having a strange face, a loud voice, body hair, and slowly, all of these things become the root of your confidence. I think that what is authentic is often perceived as filthy, and what is authentic is inherently erotic.

Abstract Erotic- Courtauld Gallery, 2025

I visited the Courtauld Gallery to see the exhibition "Abstract Erotic." I had originally planned to go on what was going to be the hottest day of the year (I did not know this before the day, in which I began to walk to the train station and could not get even halfway there without my entire skirt being soaked through with sweat. Needless to say, I turned around and decided to go another day.) I think this rain check on myself was a blessing in disguise.

The three artists being showcased were Louise Bourgeois, Alice Adams, and Eva Hesse. I had only seen Bourgeois’s work before. I learnt there that the term ‘Abstract Erotic’, coined by Lucy Lippard, was referring to their work as a ‘sensual approach to abstraction, evoking the body through organic forms and flexible materials’. These materials, the metal and latex, were extremely physical. I am not usually an admirer of sculpture work, yet the rooms seemed to close in on you in a way that seemed undeniably beautiful. There were two of them, and they seemed extremely small, yet they held a large number of intimidatingly huge sculptures, all formed from materials that demanded an alarming amount of attention and presence.

I felt this room held a sense of magic. I was struck by something as I sat alone upon a bench that was in the exact middle of the second room. I began to notice that I was people-watching more than I was experiencing the artwork itself. The room was mystifying for a completely different reason. The people who also happened to occupy it.

All the art being presented, to me, resembled an abstraction of a female body, certain parts or desires or feelings hanging upon the walls in separate forms, torn away from its original parts. Whilst these pieces greatly reflected the new form of eroticism that was presented in its introduction pamphlet, the women within the rooms were entirely whole, beautiful beings that seemed to float around with a depth of intense feeling and understanding. I was the youngest woman in either of these exhibition rooms, and there was not a man in sight. I became entranced by a specific trio of women: a mother, a daughter, and an even younger daughter, a baby, being carried through the room in her mother’s arms. They discussed the art in a way that made me feel far less intelligent than they were, but it was intensely beautiful. I began to tear up on my bench as I followed these girls with my eyes, listening to their conversation, a gorgeous display of multiple generations of women, connecting in the form of art surrounding the female body.

I spent two hours sat in that room, watching women float in and out. I concluded to myself that I only want to be in rooms of this nature for the rest of my life.

-L