{"id":177113,"date":"2021-07-10T11:59:10","date_gmt":"2021-07-10T02:59:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.adfwebmagazine.jp\/?p=177113"},"modified":"2021-07-10T11:59:10","modified_gmt":"2021-07-10T02:59:10","slug":"the-erotic-jesus-the-case-with-the-work-of-colombian-born-artist-carlos-motta","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.adfwebmagazine.jp\/en\/art\/the-erotic-jesus-the-case-with-the-work-of-colombian-born-artist-carlos-motta\/","title":{"rendered":"The Erotic Jesus"},"content":{"rendered":"

The case with the work of Colombian-born artist Carlos Motta<\/h3>\r\n

T<\/span>here are some works of art that I\u2019m convinced stalk me. They are patient, waiting years for me to finally notice their quiet, often wordless advances. This was the case with the work of Colombian-born artist Carlos Motta. I was scrolling through the webpage for Queer|Art\u2019s<\/a> mentorship program the other day when I stumbled across Motta\u2019s photo and brief bio. His name sounded so familiar. I stopped and googled him immediately, realizing that I\u2019ve encountered his work twice during the past few years, both times in work settings.<\/p>\r\n

The first was while I was working at the Art Institute of Chicago in the museum\u2019s donor stewardship department. A pair of wealthy donors gifted a print of \u201cUntitled\u201d<\/em><\/a> (1998\/2016) to the museum, and I had to write an acknowledgement letter to them on behalf of the museum\u2019s president, explaining why the photograph was an important addition to the museum\u2019s collection. I can\u2019t remember a single word that I wrote. Although, that\u2019s hardly surprising considering I wrote dozens of letters at a time, culling through the dense, academic texts written by the curators to pluck and reshape a sentence or two into flowery, gratuitous prose.\u00a0<\/p>\r\n\r\n

\"adf-web-magazine-carlos-<\/a>

Carlos Motta, \"Inverted World\", 2016. Photo courtesy of the artist.<\/p><\/div>\r\n\r\n

At the time, I didn\u2019t make the connection that I had seen another one of Motta\u2019s works a year prior. I was working as a visitor services associate at Wrightwood659. The gallery was presenting \u201cAbout Face: Stonewall, Revolt and New Queer Art<\/em>,\u201d a survey of queer art making the 50-year anniversary of the Stonewall Riots. The visitor services staff were essentially glorified security guards branded as docents. We rotated between the gallery\u2019s three floors, pretending to take notes and tally different conversations with guests on a form that one of our old managers appropriated from the Guggenheim\u2019s education department.<\/p>\r\n

The exhibition was claustrophobic. I distinctly remember trying to have a conversation with my coworker Amanda in the fourth-floor gallery and feeling like a fly caught between a window screen and the glass pane, buzzing endlessly back and forth to avoid being in the way of visitors. The space was bisected by a temporary wall filled with a dizzying amount of artwork. We had to keep squeezing our bodies against the wall, trying to avoid brushing against the art; although, it happened occasionally, and I pretended to forget that we were supposed to fill out the tedious incident report forms required by the museums and galleries the work was on loan from. The only gallery that didn\u2019t feel like my hoarder uncle\u2019s home was on the second floor, which is where Motta\u2019s \u201cInverted World<\/em><\/a>\u201d <\/em>(2016) was being shown.<\/p>\r\n

I\u2019m not certain that \u201cInverted World<\/em>\u201d was included in the exhibition or if I am simply manufacturing this memory. I tried combing through the gallery\u2019s website to figure it out, but there was no information on which works were included. I could email the staff and ask, but I decide it doesn\u2019t matter in the end. The image lives indelibly in my mind regardless of whether I experienced it. Here\u2019s what I remember: the back gallery was segmented like two brackets facing one another. One of Jacolby Satterwhite\u2019s 3D animation videos featuring gyrating, grotesque, big-dicked avatars dancing and engaging in sadomasochism was playing on the north gallery wall, opposite Motta\u2019s \u201cInverted World<\/em>.\u201d There was a small alcove between the two walls leading to the emergency stairwell where I liked to stand so that I could hold my clipboard at a slight angle from my chest to make it look like I was writing something, but I was usually texting on my phone. I must\u2019ve watched both videos dozens of times over the course of the exhibition until they became indistinct blurs of colors, shapes and sound.<\/p>\r\n

One of the greatest things about living in the age of the internet is that you can find almost everything after the fact. I was able to rewatch \u201cInverted World<\/em>\u201d on Motta\u2019s Vimeo account, immediately recognizing the video as the one that I had seen in early 2019. The opening shot shows a pair of hands deftly tying a knot around Motta\u2019s wrist and attaching it to a tie around his hairy thigh. His leg twitches, the soft flesh jiggling, but he doesn\u2019t resist. We can hear the rope being tied, the fibers scratching against one another like small rodents scurrying through the grass and the guttural, gastric sound of the wood floors creaking. Birds chirp loudly in the background, suggesting there\u2019s an open window or, more likely, a cadre of birds taking residence in the chapel\u2019s vaulted ceilings.<\/p>\r\n

The two bondage artists\u2014Stefano Laforgia and Andrea Ropes\u2014breathe loudly as they quickly finish tying a complex braid around Motta\u2019s ankle and foot. They fasten Motta\u2019s feet to a pair of carabiners in unison. Motta moans. His mouth is open in a devious smile that suggests pleasure. A black fabric blindfold is tied around his eyes. There\u2019s a mechanical sound as Laforgia and Ropes hoist Motta into the air. He continues to moan in short, lilting bursts that accompany each tug pulling him higher into the air. They remove his blindfold. We finally see Motta\u2019s entire nude body as it hangs in front of what appears to be an altarpiece.<\/p>\r\n

The bondage artists move in and undo the knots attaching his thighs and wrists, which come undone so easily it\u2019s hard to believe that they were even knotted, pulling the ropes out until Motta\u2019s arms stretch outwards and create the \u201cinverted crucifix\u201d image. Motta\u2019s flaccid cock dangles between his legs, pressed against his abdomen by the weight of his sagging scrotum and testicles, which kind of remind me of an upside-down heart. He moans pleasurably, although slightly withholding, as if he doesn\u2019t want to completely abandon control. The camera cuts to a slow, panning view of the 16th century chapel\u2019s altarpiece. He grimaces, two blood-swollen veins forming a prominent V on his forehead.<\/p>\r\n

<\/p>\r\n

I can imagine the throbbing sensation of blood pooling in his skull like when you\u2019re on a plane that\u2019s taking off, the lightheadedness and disorientation you experience as the plane gains altitude and pressure fluctuates within the cabin. Laforgia and Ropes stand on either side, bathed in a soft, red glow, their biceps and forearms flexing as they pull on either rope to keep Motta\u2019s arms outstretched. Yet, the subtle imbalance in their grip causes his body to gently drift back and forth like a pendulum. We\u2019re able to see that he\u2019s suspended from a wooden beam on the chapel\u2019s ceiling. His breathing is ragged and difficult. Motta grunts one final time and the scene dims to black. We don\u2019t see them lower Motta back to the floor.<\/p>\r\n

We are only allowed to watch the moment of pain, the experience of it. We watch with fascination. We can imagine ourselves in Motta\u2019s place, the immense pressure of the ties pulling at our feet in order to suspend our body, his toes curled, likely beyond his control. How long is he upside down? I realize that I\u2019m noticeably tense while watching \u201cInverted World\u201d <\/em>and must consciously relax my shoulders and remember to breathe. Motta\u2019s work intrigues me because of its subversive quality. He places himself in the role of Jesus, accepting all the suffering of humankind. He sexualizes the crucifixion, the crux upon which the whole theistic regime of Christianity hinges.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\r\n

Motta\u2019s \u201cInverted World\u201d<\/em> makes me think of another sexualized portrayal of Jesus in Michaela Coel\u2019s \u201cChewing Gum<\/em>,\u201d a British sitcom written by and starring Coel as Tracey Gordon, a restricted, religious virgin, who wants to have sex. In the first episode, Tracey tries to seduce Ronald, her boyfriend of six years, by stripping down to her underwear in his bedroom and begging him to let her sit on his face. He throws a bible at her and drags her out into the street where he threatens to call the police and have her arrested for sexual assault, shouting \u201cOh for my foolishness, God strike me down!\u201d He gets hit by a car. Tracey leaves him there in the street. Later, Tracey visits Ronald in his home to officially break up with him so that she can pursue her neighbor Connor. However, she notices him staring at his nursing aid\u2019s ass and the two men exchange a flirtatious smirk. Tracey suddenly notices a homoerotic poster of a shirtless Jesus leaning on a sawhorse, another of him flexing his biceps\u2014still shirtless\u2014and holding up two fish, a third of him reclining suggestively on top of the Sea of Galilee, and\u2014finally\u2014a poster of British diver Tom Daley on Ronald\u2019s bedroom wall. Tracey has an epiphany: Ronald is gay.<\/p>\r\n

I am a huge fan of \u201cChewing Gum<\/em>\u201d because of how cleverly Coel is able to make fun of Christianity. Coel converted to Christianity at 18 after joining a dance group that she learned later was part of a Pentecostal church. Her humor is the product of someone who once had a deep spiritual connection within the church. Her jokes rarely cast judgement and refuse to portray Christianity as fundamentally wrong. She doesn\u2019t seem interested in advocating against the church. Instead, she offers a much more complex type of humor, drawing our attention to the absurdities of prudish Christian morality.<\/p>\r\n

In one particularly memorable scene, Tracey thinks that she may be pregnant after giving Connor a handjob and performs an absurd treatment using suppositories and diet coke to flush out the imagined baby. She prays to a poster of Jesus in her room, asking for the courage he had to tell them he was the son of God, and kisses her hand, pressing it to his benevolent face. And then she turns to a poster of Beyonce, saying, \u201cI need the strength you had to make the switch from R&B to hip-hop when they doubted you.\u201d She gets her period a few minutes later, exclaiming, \u201cYou gotta have faith, yo. He lives!\u201d She looks up to heaven.<\/p>\r\n

Tracey never seems to explicitly want to renounce her faith. She wants to have sex. During the penultimate episode of the first season, Tracey\u2019s ultra-religious sister Cynthia gets drunk on alcoholic chocolates that Connor brought to dinner and when Tracey asks her if she's okay, Cynthia taunts Tracey, \u201cAre you okay, oh, are you okay? Oh, I\u2019m Tracey. Oh, look at me, my crisis of faith amidst the dark and confusing world. I\u2019ve got a penis in my mouth. I put it in my mouth. I take it back out.\u201d Cynthia is flippant and drunk, but her rant reveals something important about Tracey\u2019s story. Amidst this dark and confusing world, Tracey is determined to have sex, and she pursues her pleasure relentlessly until she gets what she wants. In an interview for Vulture<\/a>, Coel describes \u201cChewing Gum\u201d <\/em>as a show about a Christian girl who wants to lose her virginity, but also as a show, perhaps more importantly, about \u201ca girl who is marginalized from the world and wants to be a part of the world, and so she pursues that right as loudly and as absurdly as she can because it\u2019s part of her humanity.\u201d<\/p>\r\n

\u201cChewing Gum\u201d <\/em>resonates so strongly with me because I often felt marginalized from the world as a trans person growing up, simultaneously finding safety and community within the Christian church while also struggling against the church\u2019s archaic moral codes, which were rarely substantiated by the Bible\u2019s scripture. <\/span><\/p>\r\n

When I was three years old, my parents enrolled me in preschool at St. Peter\u2019s Lutheran Church and School, which my family also attended on Sunday mornings. The building is garish, a mostly windowless building built at odd angles, conflicting angles with a dark brown, metal roof and a large, copper-colored cross affixed to the front facade. I hated it. Although, my hatred for St. Peters was mostly because I was cast as a sheep during the annual nativity scene while my cousin Joslyn played one of the angels, complete with a pair of finely feathered wings and a glittery halo that my aunt bought from Party City. I wanted to be an angel. They were beautiful and inspired fear, always having to warn whoever they visited, \u201cDo not be afraid.\u201d<\/p>\r\n

We only went to St. Peter\u2019s for a few years. My parents decided to join Heritage Church, a new, non-denominational church that was renting space from Lutheran North High School, which was visible from St. Peter\u2019s, both occupying the same stretch of 24 Mile Road across from the public library. The non-denominational designation simply meant that they were an Evangelical church that played rock music and put on increasingly costly light shows mostly so that they could say they weren\u2019t dreary and uninspiring like the Catholics.<\/p>\r\n

As an acne-ridden, pubescent teenager, I was smitten with Jesus. I thought about him constantly as if I was overcome by an uncontrollable crush. How could I not think about him? He was everywhere. On Sunday mornings, my friends and I congregated in the far-right side of the auditorium where all the other teens gathered so that we could silently file out after worship was over. We took communion. Ushers passed around platters of unleavened bread\u2014which were packaged tortillas cut into bite-size squares\u2014and wine poured into tiny, individual glasses, except the wine was Welch\u2019s grape juice, substituted in order to be mindful of the recovering alcoholics in the congregation, of which there were many. The disposable cups always ended up being set underneath the folding chairs and forgotten, trampled underfoot as people rushed out to the lobby after the service.<\/p>\r\n

The pastor instructed us to eat the bread, reminding us that it represented Jesus\u2019s body, whipped and bloodied after Pontius Pilate sentenced him to be crucified. The tortilla was gummy and stuck to the roof of my mouth. I was relieved when the pastor told us to drink the wine, which represented Jesus\u2019s blood spilled to atone for my sins and the sins of all humanity. We sat in silence. We were supposed to be quietly reflecting, communing with God, but I caught myself running my tongue along the surface of my teeth, savoring the lingering sweetness of the grape juice. I was thinking about Jesus\u2019s body, how he would taste on my tongue.<\/p>\r\n

One of my earliest erotic memories associated with the church was a reenactment of the crucifixion. The youth pastor, Pastor James, was cast as Jesus. He didn\u2019t resemble popularized images of Jesus in the slightest, but he was tall, white, and in his early 30s which was close enough. He once came to visit me in the hospital after I fractured my hip during a car crash where another driver fell asleep at the wheel and plowed head on into my dad\u2019s jeep. I was in second grade at the time. Pastor James was doleful and sweet, holding my little hand in his big, doughy grip and squeezing tightly. He said that he would be praying for me. I was painfully aware of the fact that I was naked underneath my hospital gown and didn\u2019t want him to see my prepubescent body, feeling ashamed like Adam and Eve as they hid from God amongst the trees in the Garden of Eden after they ate the forbidden fruit and realized they were naked.<\/p>\r\n

I can\u2019t remember why our church was doing a reenactment of the crucifixion. It must have been around Easter; Although, the reenactments weren\u2019t always wedded to holidays. Our church was prone to theatrics year-round. Pastor James wore a simple, white cotton tunic with a sash around the waist and a faux crown of thorns on his head as he carried a recreation of the cross on his back, pretending to stumble underneath the weight. Except the cross was incredibly lightweight. It was made from soft, pliable pinewood, put together by one of the many handymen in our congregation. They were always putting their trade skills to use, building ahistorical replicas of Jerusalem\u2019s markets for the children to dress up and pretend to be Biblical characters or setting up the hot tub used for baptisms on the church\u2019s stage.<\/p>\r\n

<\/p>\r\n

I don\u2019t remember Pastor James being particularly attractive, but I was enamored by his proximity to authority, both as an adult in a leadership role and for his presumed proximity to God\u2014he was God to me. During the reenactment, two men helped him place the cross into a prefabricated base before they helped him onto a small step screwed to the cross that lifted him a few inches off the stage. They performatively tied his arms to the wooden arms of the cross, and I watched them restrain him with fascination. I wished that I was closer so I could watch their nimble fingers work. He was illuminated from behind by two bright spotlights that made it difficult to look directly at him. I was disappointed. My family had recently watched \u201cThe Passion of the Christ<\/em>,\u201d and I remember crying during the flagellation of Jesus as the Roman soldiers relentlessly whipped Jesus\u2019s semi-nude body until he was bloody beyond recognition, his face distended and oddly colored like a peach I forgot in the bottom of my bag, battered by the sharp corners of whatever book and assortment of pens and cosmetics I was carrying. The reenactment with Pastor James lacked the grotesque foreplay necessary to warrant an intense emotional reaction from me. I wanted to watch the men humiliate Pastor James, to strip him naked and bludgeon his body until he wept and begged them to stop, forgiving them for their unwarranted cruelty. Forgiving all of humanity for its unwarranted cruelty. Instead, I watched ambivalently as if sitting through the subtitles of an action movie, waiting for some taunting easter egg at the end that suggests the story isn\u2019t over yet.<\/p>\r\n

My fascination with the crucifixion doggedly followed me into adulthood. It was mid-September in 2017 and I was working as a sales associate at the Topshop on Michigan Avenue. I was supposed to be returning clothes to the sales floor that customers tried on and decided they didn\u2019t want, but instead I was talking to this cute guy on Grindr. I went to the bathroom and took a photo of myself with one knee up, the sole of my foot resting on the edge of the ceramic sink so that he could see the black kitten heels I was wearing and the fishnet tights that accentuated my long legs. It was the first time I had worn this pair of heels out. They rubbed the edges of my feet raw until they were red and tender. I sent him the photo and he responded almost immediately, \u201cDo you want to come over after you get off work?\u201d<\/p>\r\n

\u201cWhere do u live?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\r\n

He sent me the address of his apartment, which I quickly googled and realized was out in West Town. \u201cKinda far...\u201d<\/p>\r\n

\u201cI\u2019ll send an Uber to get you. Just lmk what time you get off.\u201d<\/p>\r\n

\u201cKk.\u201d I texted, smugly grinning to myself. After pretending to work for another 15 minutes, I sent him another message to say that I was about to leave. He responded with a tracking link for the Uber car. No one had ever ordered me a car before. My legs were tingling as I got into the backseat.<\/p>\r\n

When I got to his condo, I used the call box to scroll through and find his name. He buzzed me up. We sat at his kitchen counter, and he poured me a glass of red wine. I kept glancing out the floor to ceiling windows that looked directly over a relentlessly green park. There were moving boxes stacked in one corner. He told me they had only finished construction on his unit last week. We talked forever. I made him listen to St. Vincent\u2019s single Los Ageless<\/em>. I had been listening to it on repeat since it was released. We sat on his kitchen stools and listened in silence as St. Vincent crooned, \u201cI try to tell you I love you, but it comes out all sick<\/em>.\u201d He talked, and I nodded along. I was too young and naive to have much to say. I said that I wrote poetry and he asked me to read something, so I read a poem that started with the opening line, \u201cI love America like a dog loves to eat its own shit\u2026\u201d <\/em>He laughed. The poem wasn\u2019t good. He told me that he designed book covers for an independent press and showed me one of the recent covers he had worked on. Years later, I found his name in the acknowledgements of a book that I bought on a whim because the cover was so appealing, featuring a minimalistic, flesh-colored pig\u2019s head superimposed on a mustard yellow background. Our conversation turned to sex.<\/p>\r\n

\u201cHave you ever heard of sissyplay?\u201d<\/p>\r\n

I gave him a puzzled look and said, \u201cI\u2019m not sure.\u201d<\/p>\r\n

He described it. How he liked being submissive, having his sexual partners force him to dress like a woman, to shave his genitals while they watch, to apply makeup, to clean the house in women\u2019s lingerie. I imagined him bending over in a pair of lace panties, the delicate fabric stretched across the hairless moon of his round ass. \u201cIt\u2019s also sometimes called forced feminization or forcefem,\u201d he said.<\/p>\r\n

\u201cOh yeah, I\u2019m familiar,\u201d I hedged, adding that I had just never heard it referred to as sissyplay. I didn\u2019t want to come across as naive or ignorant. He was visibly excited and asked me where I had first come across it since he only discovered it while researching different forms of kink during undergrad. \u201cI think I\u2019ve seen it on Tumblr,\u201d I said and quickly added, \u201cand I\u2019ve watched some videos on PornHub, but I never realized it had a name.\u201d I took a sip of wine and licked the bottom of my lip, relishing the bitter notes of licorice. We didn\u2019t break eye contact.<\/p>\r\n

\u201cWell, should we play?\u201d His eyes were gleaming, reflecting the peach-colored glow from the TV behind us, which had shuffled through a playlist of songs and returned to St. Vincent\u2019s single. I nodded.<\/p>\r\n

We moved to his bedroom. He pulled out a medium-sized closet organization bin, and I dumped the contents on his bed, surveying my options. I could feel him watching me, but I knew that I could take as long as I wanted. I was surprised at how cheap his sexual paraphernalia was considering his evident wealth. Plucking a French maid\u2019s costume complete with a lace-up bustier and miniskirt from the pile, I held it up to my chest. The fabric was clearly worn from excessive use and made of cheap polyester. I would\u2019ve never purchased it myself. I had expected real silk at least.<\/p>\r\n

\u201cGet undressed,\u201d I ordered, and he moved quickly, peeling off his t-shirt and pulling down his jeans and underwear in one swift motion. His jewelry took the longest as he carefully removed each of his rings and placed them in a catch-all on his nightstand. \u201cPick up your clothes and fold them.\u201d He bent over and quickly folded them into a neat pile and set them beside the bed. I stared at his ass, admiring the dark rosebud of his asshole. I handed him the costume and he stepped into it. \u201cSit on the bed.\u201d<\/p>\r\n

He sat down on the edge of the bed, and I kneeled in front of him, pulling a pair of black nylon stocking up his thighs. I pretended not to notice his dick as it twitched and rose to attention between his legs, poking through the mesh folds of the skirt like an overcooked sausage swollen with water and oil. He gasped as I fastened the clips of the garter to the lip of the stocking. I looked up at his face and savored his desperate, pouting expression. I paused for a moment, trying to decide what I wanted to do next, and then ordered him up onto the bed. I inspected the restraints that he had pulled out from both sides of the headboard while I was perusing through his outfits. I didn't move the heap of women\u2019s clothing and he didn\u2019t either, laying with it underneath him like a bath towel thrown across freshly laundered sheets to make the cleanup easier.<\/p>\r\n

\u201cYou\u2019re just a dirty little sissy, aren\u2019t you? Just fucking on top of all your pretty things and making a mess. I can\u2019t wait to make you clean this up afterwards,\u201d I whispered in his ear as I fastened his wrists into the restraints. I moved down to his legs and linked them tightly together using a pair of cuffs. He moaned and I noticed the cunning glint of precum on the tip of his cock. \u201cYou like this, huh? You\u2019re such a dirty little bitch.\u201d<\/p>\r\n

I leaned in closely and kissed the fat arrowhead of his cock. He tasted wonderful, like freshly roasted walnuts coated with salt. He flinched, pulling against the restraints and made a desperate sound like a dog tugging on its leash at the sight of another dog. His biceps flexed dramatically. I worried for a moment that he might accidentally break the thin, fragile-looking straps of the maid\u2019s dress. I didn\u2019t want to make a bad impression during our first night because I was enjoying myself and had already started to think of future scenarios I could force him to do. I slid the length of his cock into my mouth. He hadn\u2019t lied about having a huge dick. I grinned with him in my mouth, accidentally brushing him with the porcelain edges of my teeth. He whimpered. I moved lower, feeling the head of his cock brush against the back of my throat.<\/p>\r\n

His moans started to get more fervent and ragged like a car engine sputtering and popping right before it overheats and blows, emitting an acrid cloud of white smoke. I knew he was close. I stood up abruptly and stared down at him from the foot of his bed. He looked at me with his big, watery eyes and mouthed, Please<\/em>. I laughed out loud. He looked pathetic with both his arms spread out on either side of him and his legs bound together, like a sad, perverted rendition of the crucifixion. If Jesus had been dragged through the streets of Jerusalem in a cheap French maid\u2019s outfit purchased from Amazon and crucified on a memory foam mattress. I realized that I was rock hard underneath my linen shorts, but I didn\u2019t undress. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above his bed and realized that my neck was flushed red. I was giddy at the thought of him being Jesus and crawled back onto the bed, gripping his cock in my fist, leaning in to gently bite his jugular.<\/p>\r\n

\u201cI\u2019m gonna make you suffer,\u201d I said and breathed into his ear. He made a desperate crying sound and pulled against the restraints. I wanted his forgiveness more than anything regardless of how much agony I put him through. And I knew he would forgive me afterwards, nuzzling his tear-streaked face into my armpit. I would glow with satisfaction, knowing I had taken him to the edge and beyond, offering him his humanity through metered, orchestrated pain. So, I move down his body, twisting his pliant nipple between my thumb and forefinger, and take his cock back into my mouth.<\/p>\r\n

And here I am, amidst this dark and confusing world, thinking about Jesus.<\/p><\/article>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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