Sumptuous close-ups of un-stretched skin belie the fact that none of Christiansen's subjects look the camera in the face. It's coyness at its most millennial; we'll get naked for you, but opening up is like pulling teeth—slowly—and we like it that way. Included alongside the portraits are anonymous, uncensored writings about the artist, from the young men who give her book its namesake. Admits Christiansen to Creators, "I was quite surprised the pieces weren't more mean or more sexual. Many of the men I thought would have a lot to say about me seemed afraid to say anything that made them vulnerable. You definitely see this resistance in the book but it also amplifies the pieces where a few men expressed their deepest desires or feelings about me."Says one admirer:
[…] I love it when you tell me to smack you/choke you/spit on you when we're fucking and my God the pitch of your voice when you moan..
À bientôt, j'espère. [See you soon, I hope.]
Ahem. For the past three years, the New Zealand transplant has been elbows deep in a practice that combines photography with video installation to provide an experimental self-portrait of her time living and fucking in New York. Tonight, the book debuts at Chinatown Soup in the Lower East Side, providing the beguiled a chance encounter with the artist. But don't expect anything, not even a copy—the self-published book is limited to 200. Which is fitting, as another BAD BOY writes:
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What a mysterious girl. One that entices you to tell so much about yourself without reciprocating much at all. Just enough to say you know her. Not enough to say what youknow.
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