Hobby Whores: Stealth Praxis in Broad Mediums

I rarely go out these days, but when I do I’m extraordinarily interested in the adults around me. That’s what happens when you’ve been living in "baby-land”, after having a child. It was a girls night out and that was also the case for the table next to us. There I met a delightful stranger who was quick to elevate the small talk to full convo status – something I always appreciate. She told me she was looking to produce more and consume less. When I asked what she made, she responded “nothing good” with a cheeky smile. 

It took a little prodding for her to reveal that she was a romance novelist. I was amused by this, of course. As I egged her on she told me of the tropes she leans into and the ones she avoids. How she attempts but doesn’t always succeed at applying the Bechdel test, and how she never writes in a flat, two dimensional female character you are supposed to hate. This fact, combined with the faceless buff men that adorned her covers, with titles like “Damaged Single Dad”, delighted me. She told me how her friends are “serious writers”, but she just makes garbage and laughed. 

There was something about her stealth feminist praxis within a trash genre that I loved. Of course, the fact that she did not seem to take herself too seriously was a bonus. As we chuckled about her work, my more earnest friend butted in and assured her she was in fact a real writer, and to not let genre snobs tell her otherwise. This seemed to make my new friend a little uncomfortable for a moment, but she thanked her for the reminder anyway.

There was something about her stealth feminist
praxis within a trash genre that I loved.

This got me thinking about my own practice. I started ceramics almost 10 years ago, first making busts of my friends, malnourished warehouse types who often inspired in me an urge to stuff them with a good meal. Typically it ended up being the other way around, and I was left questioning if they’d be okay after spending their food stamps on making me a meal. Those with the least are often the most generous.

This was me using my traditional training, making hyper-realistic busts that I’d have to smudge up to look more like “serious art”. Though there have been people impressed by my ability to replicate what I see, I never felt satisfaction with it. It seemed tedious and irrelevant, lacking any concept or meaning. But because I could, I went on, like a party trick.

Now some of us are a little plumper and a little more comfortable. Some are gone. I’m grateful to have captured the likeness of the ones who aren’t here, but I needed to make something different. That “something” evolved into creating figurative objects, ones that look like they might have been made by a caveman. Balancing the fine line between “complete mess” and “aesthetically sloppy” was hard, but I was determined to master it. Sometimes I’d just sit at my work station, ill-prepared, with no water left in my spray bottle, spitting and licking my finger tips to get the right moisture or speck for a repair. Feeling like god molding life into form, I had no time for earthly things like tools. I was usually left with a toppled mess, a face covered in clay, and chapped lips. 

After my first week of going into this new territory, I had a lumpy foot-shaped vase and a wild spiraling cactus of a  lamp base. When my roommate walked past my work space, they had little to say about these two items. Instead, they only asked what happened to the busts I used to make. I told them I wasn’t working on any at the moment. They didn’t have much to say after that. My foot and cactus were not a hit.

I surveyed my friends and one who suggested that maybe I was moving into a more marketable territory by making these pop art functional items. I was steering away from “high art”. I agreed, but I did consider these new objects to be more interesting. My nebulous and spiky lamp was smooth and sculpted, but also defensive and bristly, and I felt my bejeweled and rough-hewn foot challenged my own concepts of femininity – but was also a utilitarian object of domesticity. My intent was almost undetectable, but it was there. That’s how I liked it. 

As I reflected on my relationship with ceramics I thought that maybe these were my romance novels. Something I could get into homes to radiate subconscious messages. One can dream.

To be honest, I rarely get my hands wet with clay these days. Once I dig in, I’m inevitably called away by the cries of my baby. It is just not my season to create in this way. I find myself asking “where is my romance novel now?” There is little time to create or be seduced when you have created a whole new being, a whole new consciousness, that’s grabbing and suckling at you any chance they get.

I thought that maybe these were my romance
novels. Something I could get into homes
to radiate subconscious messages.

It’s in no doubt I must have been impressed with my new novelist friend in order to seek a relationship between our work, especially with something I don’t even get to enjoy these days. As I thought about it a little longer, I realized there were actually similar subtleties in the way I deliver my performance in my day to day work, work that I do not give enough credit to for being creative. 

As a sex worker I weave bits of myself in and out of my presentation. Everything I do has intent. The lingerie I put on is meant to evoke the softness of a 90’s mom. The music I play, an attempt to create an unidentifiable nostalgia, since everything I play is old and a little esoteric. My thought process? A great way to provoke nostalgia without accidentally tripping into memories. 

I also recognize the roles we play and how they not only set the tone for a hot time, but can also rewire one’s relationship with their desires and body. This is not something to take lightly or handle without care. Whether it’s dodging stereotypes during pillow talk, or starting the first lessons of sensuality – something with no fixed formula when taught correctly, which is radical in itself – all are opportunities. Like my writer friend, I decide which tropes I’d like to lean into and which ones I feel a need to be done with. Add a little giggling and a few jokes, it becomes undetectable.

It sounds so affected when written down, but it all happens without much effort. It turns out I have been using “Bobbie” for my own stealth praxis. The romance novelist uses a keyboard, I use my body, and we both use pseudonyms. We are both fantasy makers and thoughtful ones at that. 

Needless to say I have found sex work to be much more than work. It is creative, healing, and for me, a medium for political intent. I mean, this is when it’s at its best! Often the stealthiness of this is so stealth that no one is aware of it but myself. That is fine. Maybe her readers aren’t noticing her feminist moves either, but they are still at play. 

Maybe the fact that no one takes our mediums seriously is exactly how we are enabled to practice them the way we do. I guess that’s what unites these broad mediums. Lumpy ceramics, romance novels, and goofy escorts.

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