Thursday, December 23, 2010

The Round-About-The-Way-Girl
And Other Reasons Why I Became Chaste

Kofi Fosu Forson

In Charles Bukowski's poem Hell Hath No Fury he is seduced by a woman in an orange Volkswagon. The woman parked in the car watches as Charles Bukowski proceeds to smash bottles of beer onto the pavement. Another woman by a window suggests Charles Bukowski go with this woman. He enters the car and they drive off.

This poem inspired a rape fantasy of mine where I am picked up by three women in a convertible. Actually they drive up alongside me exit the car and grope me on the pavement and drive off.

Circumstances surrounding my discovery of sex is quite abnormal as I was titillated by neighborhood girls some of whom went as far as to teach me how to masturbate.
Women have always held the upper hand in my sexual conscience. It progressively became a matter of intellect and sex but originally like most boys from my generation I discovered sex through sex magazines, cable television and Hollywood teen sex comedies.

My parents role my mother in particular was to chastize me. The horror of my mother surreptitiously catching me watching adult programming on cable or spending almost half an hour forcing me to admit I was hiding an adult magazine behind my back.

I used most of these centerfolds for one reason or another but I also did illustrations of them. Our house maid discovered these drawings and once again I was chastized. The regularity of this probably had to do with my father changing me as a left-handed boy to a right-handed person. Whether it has resulted in ambidexterity isn't clear but I'm sure it has affected my thinking over the years.

I was aware of nudity and adult situations in American movies like Carnal Knowledge or Pretty Maids All In A Row. I particularly watched the teen sex comedies to see flashes of nudity.

I grew to find foreign films more interesting in the way they handled adult subject matter like Bunuel, Eric Roemer or Alan Rennais. Two American directors in Woody Allen and John Cassavetes were quite brilliant on their own.

At the School of Visual Arts I was introduced to the perceptions of language in literature, music and art. I discovered Nabakov's Lolita as well as the writings of Roland Barthes.

My style of writing at this point was inspired by what I was studying as an artist and it reflected in my poems some about women but over all it gained a sense of sophistication. I took an interest in the way philosophy was used to provoke language. It became clear to me all through my collegiate studies.

This began the patnership of art and women in my life as this was the language I spoke not as a boyfriend or even lover but as an artist. I implemented what would be muses in my life to make art. This then was my interactions with women which took on the notion I had growing up as pervert.

Given the idea of gender politics the time spent with these women became not only centered on art but sex as well. The role of pervert broadened into that of seducer. I had lost my virginity earlier but I was not keen on being a boyfriend and never did have the regular life of sex and relationships. Most of these encounters were mostly friendships that led to moments in bed. They weren't fulfilling as I cherished the quiter moments intellectualizing or be it fondling.

A year long affair with a married woman satisfied any notion I had wanted for having sex, making love or being in a romantic relationship. Having flushed out the angst and desire for sex I concentrated on working with young women who provided a sense of innocence which reflected in how I dealt with the issue of sex in my poetry, photography or art.

When it became clear to me that I somehow used these muses to fulfill my sex life I became uncomfortable. My purpose was not to sleep with them it was to make art. That was the purpose but somehow with drinking with lust it was difficult to balance the share of work with getting off as it were. It became gradually intense as I would sit alone with a muse rehearsing and my intension dark and distant was to seduce her.

An actress in particular made matters worse when she seduced me. I in turn proceeded to take advantage of our time seducing her until I almost begged her we stop. It was obvious she had the heart of Lilith.

Chasity was something I have toyed with all my life. I wanted to use the availability of this actress in question to make a statement. She and I went through the process of creating a play to address her sexuality.

During rehearsals we groped and fondled and partook in sexual activity. That became the damage and curse and a way for me to address my chastity. She endured this with me up until the performance when it became clear all her lovers were against her becoming chaste.

I have been chaste for four years now having willed away the torment of internet porn, advances from women seeking me as lover and the occasional moments spent kissing.

I am healthier now as my neurosis has always been sexual. My mother's divinity, my father's political prowess and my sharp sensibility.

Celebrating the muse for me now is less addictive and controversial as it is more human and centered on art and life matters.

Sexual intercourse as a manifest either happens or it doesn't. I don't seek it. Although my body wants it. My half-hearted attempts spent talking to women isn't meant to further anything sexual. That is not my approach. My opening lines aren't indicative of an entry into their minds. In a sense it is never a pick up line.

To find a lover or a partner would be interesting but gender politics as of now is diseased. People more so seek adventures online. The local girl has never been a good or positive choice more so now than ever.

So now I exist. I exist sexually because I am a sexual being. The need to have an actual lover would not prove much other than a female with an actual physical body.

The amount of discourse on intellect and sex which I would prefer probably would be best found virtually or even if in a human female she would play that role and I would seek sex in a round-about-the-way-girl.

Photo by Minouche Labulle

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Channeling Picasso and de Beauvoir
Inter Connectivity of Art

Kofi Fosu Forson

As a seven year old I stuck an Ever-Ready battery in the underwear of Regina. I was trying to get her pregnant I confessed when I was caught.

Male / Female politics has always been pronounceable in my life for as long as I can remember. Much of this was inspired by an upbringing whereby I was influenced by the female from my mother to others including neighborhood girls, extended family members, love interests and professors.

Pornography was immediate in my childhood from flirtation to sex games I played with girls. Here in New York I discovered Playboy among many other adult magazines. Cable television introduced me to pre internet porn hustlers and adult television programming.

Advertising in men's magazines pushed the edge between men and women. Much of this was featured in campaigns for cologne, underwear or just about any product. I had a particular fondness for models both male and female. They seemed like artists and celebrities in their own right. I was very much the pre poseur often mugging for the camera. At this point I had acquired my very own style acquiring the name GQ.

The 90's presented a heightened sense of fashion, drugs and sex. I took a particular interest in sadomasochism after Sharon Horodi, Israeli video artist presented me with Venus in Furs by Masoch. We had met at a Kathy Acker reading.

Design Porn was quite common in advertising campaigns. A modernist style of fashion and sex in commercials and ad campaigns inspired by Man Ray and Helmut Newton. Fetish and other sexual behavior permeated society.

It was at this point I sought after model and actresses to work with me. Donna Benfatti, a college student was my first model. I remember our session as polite and innocent. I promised not to undress her or have her pose nude. She struck poses as I drew portraits and even composed a song for her which I sang accompanied by drums. This was the first merging of my art with a model.

Heaven a neighborhood cafe was frequented by young highschool students at a point in time when the barely legal was introduced commercially. I staged a play Black Birds in Leather Pants, about two characters who dabbled in sadomasochism. Two young women I met in the cafe were my actresses.

The muse became an understanding in my art as I worked with models and actresses in my independent practice.

At The Riant Theater I was able to write and direct actors in showcases. This was my emergence as a professional writer and director.

Currently I meet with Dianne Bowen New York City artist and writer. We confer on art as well as politics of the day. It is seemingly becoming a channeling of who and what the luminaries i.e. Simone de Beauvoir, Picasso and Hemingway were to Paris in the 1940's.

The 90's was the last decade to express such an interest in language and an interplay of discourse.

Modern society is cursed by a narcissistic conscience and the alienation of self.

Dianne Bowen and I offer each other the availability of language, a mutual respect, the inter connectivity of art and continue to inspire each other as artists. Most important of all we become more human.

Without the person and his or her inner turmoil art becomes fanfare.

This is what we suffer from today.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Conversations at the Breakfast Table
How My Mother made me into a Thinking Person

Kofi Fosu Forson

The street philosopher proceeds with will a means of conviction. He is not afraid to speak even if what he says has no cohesion and can't be fully understood. It doen't resonate. But he is excited to express himself and in doing so he possesses an excitable demeanor. Language is at his desposal.

What continues to disappoint in this modern world of faux personalities and extra curricular activities always can be found in social networking or the activity of texting where educated people are inspired to massacre the modern language. By all means chatter do let the thinkers think please allow the semioticians moments to philosophize. It's abominable what has become of speak or the potential to communicate and express ones-self.

In the movie Love and Other Drugs a female character says to a male character at a cafe table "This is where you talk about when you graduated and what you majored in..." or something to that effect. That old adage of women study literature and men work with machines has never been more true.

Commercially men are thought to keep their emotions hidden. But in truth the street philosopher who possesses extreme machismo is first to express his emotions that a fury of ideas once set to thinking ending up in speech with passion supposes a governor from those in the corporate world. CEO's have people who think and work for them. They represent a higher status but much of the backbone is within the corporation itself.

And how wonderful was it to see Obama give a speech. That in the history of the world there has never been a man so eloquent. Presidential speeches aside I have great recollections of my mother and me at the breakfast table. Ours was special. Mine as an artist and hers as an educated woman in the corporate world, a chef and clothing specialist in fashion design brought us many topics to hammer.

Unlike the torture with which people disassemble modern language ours was constructing a dialogue by hammer I would imagine a carpenter or architect designing a room or building a table. It requires skill, attention and dedication.

My conversations with my mother at the breakfast table has helped shape me as conversationalist and thinking person.

My mother always kept me close as the eldest of her four sons. In retrospect I have fond memories of us traveling together by car or foot. Somehow it was never with my younger brothers. It seemed as if she was grooming me for some improbable future.

It never occurred to me what attraction there was between my mother and me until I got older and formed a sense of sexuality whereby she would chastize me. Or surreptitiously I see her partially naked whereby she would look like a nude from art history. When we fought as mother and son I became turned on. Our argument would bring a rise out of me until I fawned over her or as honor I would confess my love to her.

In the darkest momemts of my life she was the only person who was there. Having to survive a bout with depression she accompanied me to doctors, served as my friend and at times offered what I now know was emotional incest. She confided in me a wealth of feelings and emotions. Some strangers thought we were a married couple. My father was jealous although he benefitted when my mother came to bed relaxed and overjoyed after spending most of the evening chatting with me.

Certainly my mother has had a great influence on me. My strained relationships with women as art muses all stemmed from my mother. She Eva Forson was the original art muse.

I have exorcised our relationship which is basically now pleasantries and topical conversations. I see that when we talk she burns. I excite her. She welcomes the challange to capture who we were. Our discourses so beautiful her friends would wonder how a mother and son could have such an engaging time talking. Just talking.

Putting words together with sound. It's the simplest thing.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Digital SELF Portrait
If Garbo Fell...

Kofi Fosu Forson

Tell the boys in the basement I'm marching off with you
We are going to paint pictures of people falling down
If death found us buried under the books of tomorrow
What will Tuesday bring?
These men watch with their hearts broken and in love
Desire is a word but so is contempt
Among those who bash heads in ours is ink: bloodless
Fight them off with your boxer's stance
Stand the little giant plain-Jane-chique southern blonde
Their Oscar Wilde eyes are watching
Little Red riding Hood I am here if the walls should rape
Come knock on my door Come let us walk the floor
Gathering wheat and water this early morning

How would they know if we folded unto bed
Rumours fall from these bestsellers and paperbacks
Why then should we kiss make music of this
Not when our minds draw a perfect circle
Love within these letters spill across the aisles
We collect them baskets woven with humor
Sit before me damsel wearing an autumn dress
For you with breath I carve dream mold shape
Listen as I read these words victims from my closet
They rest tip of tongue pop from lip filling the air

Return again on a night that resembles Garbo
Tortured white weather overcoming us your grace
Like Hollywood Hills during the 70's we lounge
Lost aspiring actress svengali our Polaroid faces
Pose nude for me looking at you star-lit
Lie before my couch Klimt the palest of skin
Drink me in this cranberry gin put to sin our sex
You cried for Jim was I criminal did I let you down
On the verge damage I had made what could I say
You wanted me so bad I left you burning fresh as yolk

Thursday, December 02, 2010

Photos By NYC Artist Dianne Bowen