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Talking my place under the spotlight I wanted to keep my eyes on him as I spoke, but the bright lights meant I couldn’t see anyone’s face, so I just hoped my words made him understand what my art meant and how much I loved what I did.
“Thank you all for coming tonight.” I pressed my hands to my heart. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. When I was a little girl, I dreamed of making art. I’m not sure six-year-old me dreamed about making erotic art, but hey…” Laughter echoed around the room.
“Some people might think I make this art for shock value. I mean, what better way to get your art talked about than make something controversial, but I make this art because I am fascinated by sex. Not the act, although that’s fun, but the idea that we can trust someone… whether it’s a best friend, a partner, or a person you just met in the bar, enough that we’re willing to share ourselves with them. For me, sex is a connection. A way to immerse yourself in another person. A way to give and receive pleasure. The ultimate act of trust. Whether that trust is for a lifetime or a quickie in a bathroom at a club. In that moment, the other person holds your pleasure in their hand and how they choose to honor that gift defines the experience you’ll have. My art explores that connection and every piece you find in here tonight is an extension of that.”
Clapping and cheers filled the room. “Sex should bring us pleasure; it should be something we can drown in and explore. I love the fact that every single one of you in this room tonight will have different places on your body that make you shiver, different things will bring you to orgasm and you’ll enjoy different kinks. And hopefully, some of you will do that with my art in your room or watching over while you make out on the sofa.”
Whoops and cheers sounded out again, and I waited a minute for the noise to settle.
“Right, I’ve said enough. Please, drink the champagne, eat the canapes, and feel free to ask me any questions about the pieces. There is no right way to interpret them, so whatever you feel is exactly the way you’re meant to feel… even if you hate them, although I hope you don’t.”
I stepped off the stage, making my way to theemployees onlyexit so I could take a minute to breathe and let the enormity of my first ever show settle for a minute before I went back to schmoozing.
Archer
Fuck,Fuck,Fuckety,Fuck.
I had enjoyed talking to the stunning woman who approached me with a drink. Tall, curvy, long hair tumbling down her back like a waterfall; she almost distracted me from the weird art that filled the room. The show was full on. Everywhere I looked, there was something sexual. Even if it wasn’t overtly so, it was still sexual, and given the very asexual place I seemed to live in these days and how little I understood about what I liked and didn’t like, my head spun.
Then I’d told her that the artist was acting up, trying to shock. How would I know thatshewas the artist? I mean, I thought it would be some fifty-something woman with bad hair and multi-colored clothes that she’d handmade herself…oh my God, how judgmental have I become?
When she spoke on stage, her words made my skin tingle; talking about sex being all about trust made things start to click into place. I didn’t trust anyone. My dad left when Sophia was three. Laura was five, I was seven. I listened to Mum cry herself to sleep for months. I held her when she was too sad to get out of bed. I took care of my sisters as best I could while she told me that I was the man of the house and it was my job to keep them all safe.Fuck, a therapist would have a field day with my childhood.
When I was twelve, Mum was brought home by the police because she forgot where she lived. They thought she was drunk, but she didn’t drink. Six months later, she forgot my name. She finally saw the doctor when she didn’t remember that she had kids who needed collecting from school.
It took a little over a year for her to be diagnosed with early onset dementia and I think hearing what was wrong with her made her give up. She declined way faster than the doctors predicted. Within six months, I was her full-time carer; I was fourteen. I quit school, forging the forms that told them I was being home schooled. I took care of Laura, who was twelve, and Soph, who was now ten. I washed their clothes, got them up for school, cooked, and helped them with their homework, all while I tried to keep Mum safe. I did everything in my power to shield the girls from her angry outbursts when she got frustrated or the times she soiled herself because she forgot how to go to the bathroom. I bathed her, fed her, dressed her, and put her to bed like a toddler.
A social worker got involved when Mum was hospitalized after she wandered out of the house and straight into the path of an oncoming car. The extra help was a godsend. Carers came in each day and I got to be a teenager for a tiny moment in time. I managed to go back to school part time and joined a youth group, which was where I met Charlie and Fox. They taught me to play the guitar and piano and it turned out I was a pretty decent singer.
We started Alchemy Myth when we were seventeen, only meaning for it to be a bit of fun. When we were twenty-four, we were approached by Addison Stone, who ran the Gods of Melody record label after she’d heard us busking in central London. Our first single,After the Rain, shot to number one and stayed there for nine weeks, followed by a number one album. That was two years ago, and we’d never looked back.
But our rise to fame made my trust issues worse. When I was a kid, I didn’t open up for fear that my sisters and I would be taken into care. I put up walls, and no matter how hard things got with Mum, I coped. I protected the girls and kept us together. Being in the band meant I didn’t trust because everyone had an ulterior motive. Money, fame, a tabloid story. I put up more walls, and other than my sisters and my bandmates, there was no one in the world I trusted or could talk to. So, the idea that sex was about trust made so much sense. I didn’t trust, and I didn’t want to or couldn’t have sex—I hadn’t worked out which yet.
Thinking about her words made me want to find her. To apologize. But as soon as she’d finished speaking, she vanished into the crowd and I was left feeling like an asshole.
A hand pinched my side. “Arch, you having fun?”
“Laura, you could have told me who the artist was. I’ve just made a total dick of myself,” I hissed.
“You’re in the right place, brother. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there are dicks everywhere.” She let out a mocking gasp, and I rolled my eyes.
“What’s her name? I need to apologize or send flowers or something.”
“Shit. What did you say?”
“That the artist was doing it for shock value and I didn’t like any of it.”
This time her gasp wasn’t mocking. “You said what? I hope Ionee ripped you a new one.”
“Who?”
“Ionee Millar. The artist whose show you just insulted. Fuck, you didn’t tell her I was your sister, did you? You’ll ruin my street cred.”
“No, I was too busy forcing my foot into my mouth.”
“I’m going to go find her and apologize for my idiot brother.”
“I’m going to go. I’ll send a car back for you.”
