The Weight of Venus
My gender, my identity, to me has always been one of turmoil. It used to be straight, linear, parallel, all-seeing, all-knowing, but now it's become frayed, fragmented, blurred.
I want to go back to how it was before, but I was boring then. I didn't have any particular redeeming, eye catching qualities about myself
So i decided to change, because everyone else is
If I force myself into a mould that others have set out for me, will I fit in then? Will I understand?
Is there a secret code of conduct that they conform or deviate from, to make them act the way they act, appear the way they appear?
This mould - will I force myself to like me then? Or will I always appear a stranger in the mirror,
Looking down at myself, in the bathtub, in my bed, in the shower, the water overlapping my vessel
She will always appear a stranger to me.
I often look back at old pictures of myself, but I don't recognise me
Is it me, was I possessed to act and appear different that day?
It's not me, when I'm in bed, the sheets enveloping me in a sweat laced embrace
My sweat, my excretion, my fluids
If i close my eyes tight enough and curl up small enough, perhaps I can disappear into myself and erase myself entirely and become someone else, in a new vessel, in a new life
I don't like this container, this chalice, this meat casing
Is that all i am? Just my body? Not my mind, my soul?
If I wear a dress, I am a part of the sisterhood
If I wear trousers, I will be shunned from them for life, but also welcomed from the men with open arms. It's either one or the other.
The weight of venus rests on my shoulders.
My vessel trembles - is my soul ready to come out/take flight?
My heartbeat in my throat, she's coming out, up, up and away, taking flight, wings outstretched and straining, too long have they been folded and restricted against.
She soars into the sky, the heavens above, gliding.
My body, my vessel, what to call you, what to call you?
I don’t know. A meat casing. An organ house. A kingdom of reds, pinks, and beiges, each worth more than the other.
Was I birthed to give birth? Is my only value my reproductive value?
Too many thoughts are wasted on the phantom phallus my vessel failed to form.
Why must I feel like this? A stranger in my own body? Does anyone else feel this way?
My body was once pure, then sullied by god knows what. It became rough, jagged, blunt around the edges. I have sanded over these impurities, so to speak, but the weight of it still sits in my chest, a smooth marble, I fear that’s the best way I can describe it.
lucy fennell (she/they) is a person claiming to be an artist/writer, although they don’t have much to go by, in terms of an artist career. currently in her third and final year of battling for a fine art degree at falmouth university, her impressive body of work (according to her parents) traverses the themes of surrealism, postmodernism, feminism, performance art, body art, and whatever else that comes up on their foryou page that remotely piques her interest.
most recently, they have been exploring the body as an art form in terms of performance and video, as to how we can use this to investigate identity, senses and physical and mental limitations. their aim is to facilitate the viewers to conceptualise their own interpretations of the works, to share these with others, to foster communion, and above all, to question the essence of what the hell they’re looking at.