I know that many did not vote this year in the Euro election, but its with a huge disappointment that only 30% voted and in doing so gave Ukip the win with 23 seats.
More importantly this party will do nothing for us as the Youth of the United Kingdom. It fights every equality that has been fought for, it not only brings back sexism, homophobia and racism. But will limit resources and once again forget about the Arts/ Culture that the United Kingdom is losing and will lose furthermore if we are out of the cultural hub of Europe.
As Young people who have the capability to vote and organise some kind of political resistance/ protest. We need to stand together and fight this head on.
Art School Stole Our Virginity: Vienna Famous on Clayton Pettet and his oddly moral ‘sex show’
admin | April 11, 2014 |
“I am your anal virgin. You are my partner. Choose a banana.”
This was the moment I thought I had been waiting for, but I was terrified. My metrosexual front was crumbling; how far would I let myself go for art? I didn’t realize this was going to be quite so…interactive.
Clayton Pettet is naked apart from a pair of black undies; his body is daubed with graffiti saying things like NSFW and ANAL VIRGIN. Now he glares at me from 6 inches away; a fierce, fragile Syd Barrett waif. I can’t quite look him in the eye.
I fumble with the phallic fruit, wondering if I should choose one that won’t hurt him too much, and whether when, ahem, push comes to shove, I can do what I think I’m being asked. Ever the diplomat, I choose a medium sized banana from the massive pile, and return his gaze.
“Penetrate my mouth five times.”
Oh, ok. I can do this. I push it gently between his parted lips and feel his glare on my downturned face. I’ve never squirmed this much for art. I force myself to look up as I finish my final thrust, trying to make this one count.
He holds his hand out for the banana, taking it from me and breaking it in two. Then he throws it on the floor.
“Please leave now.”
Way to bruise a guy’s ego: Art School Stole My Virginity was clearly a lesson in audience chastisement. And so the event that prurient people across the world had prayed for and petitioned against played out like many first times; months of build-up and false starts, leading to a confusing and agonizing 5 minutes of action. And then came the disappointment and recriminations. My own deflowering was no less awkward, but at least I was drunk enough to pass out before I could cringe.
The setting was Theatre Delicatessen on Marylebone High Street, 5 minutes from Oxford Road’s rabid consumerism. The 120 strong queue was made up of 80% Chelsea art students, 15% press and 5% random stalkers. After having our phones and cameras confiscated at the door, we were corralled into a room and left for half an hour to fester in our own dirty minds. A looped video showed Clayton manhandling bananas to Serge Gainsborough’s oral sex anthem Les Sucettes (“I’m never going to be able to eat them again without hearing that song,” someone said after the tenth showing). In between, we listened to hysterical American news reports about the show.
Suddenly, Clayton enters with two boys and a girl, naked but for black briefs and white veils. He’s covered in the kind of frenzied press headlines that had appeared in the months leading up to the show: ’19 YEAR OLD ANAL VIRGIN’ and ‘TEENAGE SEX WHORE’. Clayton scrubs at the words with a heavy-duty brush, the room falling silent apart from the OCD scraping of bristles on bare flesh. The audience gasps as he scratches down into his underpants. Then the boy assistants hack at his hair while the girl applies black lippy: it’s a parody of TV makeover shows that reveals the self-destruction at their core. Clayton exits stage left, and an assistant barks at us boot-camp style: “If I give you a number, go and stand by the pillar.” 15 are picked out and lead off to an uncertain fate.
I wonder if it’s a slight not to be randomly chosen as the assistant’s veiled gaze passes over my head again and again. Finally, the imperious finger falls on me. “I hope we’re not all being slaughtered down there,” I joke to a guy in the queue with an infectious laugh. “Well, my friend came back up and wouldn’t say what happened, but she wanted to leave straight away. And she’s studying Porn and PR.” Does that course even exist? Whatever, the tension’s becoming unbearable.
We’re lead downstairs into a tiny room to wait with the almost-nude female assistant, sardines to the slaughter. Everyone ignores that fact that there’s a naked person in here with us; she’s just another element that adds to one enormous AWK. Another assistant barges in and beckons one person at a time. Then it’s my turn.
I’m lead to a chest-height ‘penetration booth’. “Enter”, the assistant orders, and inside sits Clayton with his pile of bananas…
Afterwards, I emerge blinking into a room full of paintings. “It feels like we’ve been ushered into the gift shop”, someone deadpans. His work is colourful and childlike; Fauvist figures with captions that manage to expose his inexperience while mocking our expectations. “When I was 13 I was desperate to be groomed,” it says in the corner of one self-portrait (with cock in hand). Faced with these unambiguous images, I’m no longer able to pretend I’m here for culture. As Clayton told Dazed afterwards: “They didn’t want an art piece, they wanted to see me have sex”.
And so the art turned out to be us, or at least our anticipation. “It seems a bit early in Clayton’s career to make critics’ reactions the focus of his work”, complained the Telegraph’s Theo Merz a day after the show, but that’s precisely the point. The one-to-many direction of social media means that every young artist has an instant audience whether they like it or not. On this media stage, it’s virtually impossible to make art that ignores its global audience but apparently distasteful to embrace it.
Through this meticulously stage-managed non-event, Clayton successfully played off our competing urges to see and be seen against each other, and it was us not him who stumbled out into the West End evening having lost something. While I’m glad he didn’t do what I thought I wanted him to, I have to wonder whether he really emerged unscathed. I overhear that the first group were instructed to face-fuck him 10 times instead of my 5. It seems even this token abuse is real enough to hurt.
Artist John Bingham, who claimed Clayton had stolen his idea, called off his own rival show Art School Stole My Sexuality the day before after sage advice from his tutors:
“I have been well supported and advised that it would benefit my career as an artist not to go through with such an outrageous, pornographic and self-abusive performance”.
In an even wiser career move, Clayton Pettet made his show all about how far we would go, not how far he would. Working so hard for our pleasure was a painful experience, and that’s precisely how art can matter in an age of instant gratification.
I was fortunate to get into Clayton Pettet’s much-hyped performance on April 1 and it certainly fooled anyone expecting a live sex show. Instead, it was the skilfully executed culmination of months of high profile publicity. I guess that was the intention? The only penetration was made with a (lot…
ART SCHOOL STOLE MY VIRGINITY IS HAPPENING ON THE 1ST OF APRIL 2014
If you are interested in coming to the private performance there is a reserve list. Which means if one of the 150 do not attend you will be granted full access to the performance of Art School Stole My Virginity. To be on this list please RSVP to firstname.lastname@example.org and I will send you more details immediately
Art School Stole My Virginity and the boy who wants to steal my art.
My name is Clayton Pettet, as you all know I came up with an idea Art School Stole My Virginity after months of research into Virginity and sexuality and my own personal emotion with art and society.
Today I found out that a boy has replicated my piece called Art School Stole My Sexuality a complete replication of my idea.
He also says that we met in 2010. I was fifteen in 2010 turning 16 in 2010 and I was doing acting back then, he mentions that we met at Camberwell Exhibition. At 16 I had never heard of Camberwell just the normal bits of London like Oxford Circus etc.
This man is 24 and I am 19, we have never exchanged a word with each other.
These are the type of people who are ruining Art the people who don’t care about the work and the personal aspect of how much this piece means to me. But who care about the celebrity of it all. He wants to take everything from me, this piece is everything to me and all of you know this.
This man also registered for tickets to see the performance in October he also sent me a message today introducing himself and asking to collaborate but told the journalists that we had met in 2010. If this were true and it was his idea why didn’t he mention in it in October why now.
What have I done to you?
As planned Art school will happen on the 1st of April. He does not know the piece and what is happening at all.
Please do not give this boy any of your attention you are all to good for people like him.
I believe that if Virginity exists, that it is our own Virginity to lose, and to lose in a way in which however we choose. Mine as a performance piece called Art School Stole My Virginity, this is the only way I see myself comfortably becoming sexually active, sexually involved if you will. But whilst losing this type of personal Virginity it is to be remembered that I am going to be stealing/destructing every dirty, cruel and unfair effect that the word has on our society. Your projections of my Virginity that you have already performed in your heads and written down in your newspapers “The Anal Virgin” this obsession with the penetration of Clayton will become clear when you witness my personal experience, the penetration manifestation. I am using myself as a tool for the pain this word has caused you, your family, your friends. I will be your medium; I will be your last Virgin.
The performance is now on the 2nd of April, with the Orange Dot a collaboration that I treasure because of the mere fact that they will collaborate with young artists. I am excited for the future of Londons Art Scene when we have people who want to finally leave the safety and nostalgia of the 90s.
And if this is the piece that I am remembered by my whole life, let it be, for I am more than happy to represent and create a beautiful piece out of something that I truly will put myself in great harm for. I put it quite plainly as, I am my art, my art is me.
What the "actual fuck" is the point of treating all men and speaking of all men as though any of us is the same as the worst of us. Many men including myself identify as feminists and do the best we are able. (Though we make mistakes). You perpetuate hate and disguise it as progressivism.
If a child is nipped by a dog no one blames them for fearing other dogs.
If a woman is abused, raped, assaulted, beaten, humiliated, degraded by a man everyone blames her for being wary as if she has the innate ability to know which other men will abuse her, no different than a child not possibly knowing which dogs are mean.
Do not talk to me about feminism - a movement started by my sisters for women. Talk to your brothers who abuse, rape, assault, beat, humiliate, degrade and oppress us. That is the best you are able to do. Call out your brothers for their sexism and misogyny no matter how small. Any male “feminist” that attacks a woman for her feminism is nothing but a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Feminism is not about you. Feminism is not about looking after men’s feelings when men are the number one threat to a woman’s life.
I will never, ever preface my feminism with “some men”. It’s not “some men” that abuse, rape, assault, beat, humiliate, degrade and oppress women. It’s “some men” that don’t.