Whilst describing his artistic practice, Laurent Fiorentino uses the term ‘bittersweet narrative’, which recalls Anne Carson’s reflections inspired by a short line from Sappho: ‘Eros struck me and overpowered me, / this bittersweet and ever victorious creature’1. The ancient poet was the first to use the epithet ‘glycpicron’ in relation to the experience of love, indicating the simultaneous feeling of pleasure and pain. In the introduction to Eros the Bitter-sweet, a story by Franz Kafka is recalled, in which observation of children playing with spinning tops brings awareness about the direction of desire’s transformation: from an object to its absence. This entanglement lies at the heart of the Camera Apocrifa project, in which the dual power of eroticism is used by Fiorentino as a key to a room filled with memories.
It is not without the reason that this chamber is a bedroom, a personal but also limited space of action, in which a specific game takes place, reminiscent of the one described not only by Kafka but also by Freud in Beyond the Pleasure Principle2: ‘fort-da’. What appears and disappears from the horizon, however, are not ‘children’s’ toys, but rather those that we define as ‘erotic’, at the same time evoking figures and symbols belonging to the iconographic universe of Christianity (close to the author who grew up in the environment of the religious community near Naples).
The ‘communion’ of the saints in the universe of Fiorentino is a subtle search for the sweetness of their bitter suffering, through which – who knows – the author may mediate his own experience. In one of the photographs, we can see a foot – a fetishist phallic symbol according to Freud – to which a fly is pinned. Red liquid flows from the puncture site, and the whole image may recall the wound of the Crucified. Nearby, the larvae crawl on the underwear – the researchers of the cultural tradition of North American Indians would associate that with a metaphor of initiation into sexual life. Members of the Christian community would probably think about the conscience worm, the guilt that underpins religious systems. The shape made of clay covered with a piece of cloth resembles a reclining figure. One of the legs seems to elongate into the shape of a serpent, which played a unique role in almost all ancient religions. Nailed to the cross in medieval sacral art, it symbolizes the resurrection and, at the same time, the loss of the gift of eternal life and the (hidden) presence of Satan himself in the story of the Garden of Eden. Meanwhile, on the walls of Pompeii, a pair of snakes guards the ‘genius loci’ in the form of symbols of fertility: pinecones and eggs, the shells of which we can see in another photo of Fiorentino. These remains of the allegory of the act of creation are not accidentally accompanied by pubic hair. The tradition of eating eggs at the end of Lent, symbolizing the rebirth of nature, also has Eucharistic implications. In the case of Fiorentino, the body is an offering to be eaten. The artist says that he creates a personal, deviant cult, a metaphor of which – for me – is a photograph that we called Cathedral during the work on the exhibition (though it might as well be the Tower of Babel). Post-ritual seems to be the moment when things left on the table – candles, a lighter, a knife – return to their everyday functions after a rite transformation. On the verge of the celebration and the exhibition situation, the author places his image, as if guarding what can be revealed while maintaining mystery. On his head he wears chains, symbolizing communication, and bond, while his eyes resemble the fascinating gaze of Medusa. The use of the box formula (picture in picture) may suggest a game with the idea of martyrdom, especially if we associate chains with the BDSM culture, combining suffering with pleasure and violence with freedom.
The last of the presented photos is a black and white image showing a figure with a cast of a penis. It seems to slither out of the underwear like a snake, again personified in this exhibition. The open hand stretched out towards the viewer can be associated with the inviting hand, bearing traces of ‘passion’ preserved in Christian iconography. The phallic presence, described by the author as hunting and reliving, finds a special expression in the presented objects. There is a vase and a lily placed in it, a symbol of purity and innocence, which – in our opinion – sensuality does not contradict at all. The line of shapes on the floor is a work entitled Intrusive desire. Porcelain, hollow shapes are the negative of presence, which I mentioned about at the beginning of the text. Untitled [Fleshlights] were created in reference to silicone masturbators and in opposition to their flexibility. They are moulded from plaster, rigid and dry bodies, which the author speaks of as remnants of masculine dominance. In the Greek and Roman world, phalluses symbolized happiness and were adorned on dishes, jewellery, city walls and house doors, as in the already mentioned Pompeii, where they were supposed to protect against evil powers.
Genital rites persisted in the Christian world, including the practice of burying wooden penises with the signs of the cross in the ground, which contained the promise of continued life after death. The progressive religious, scientific, political, and economic discursivization of sexuality, which has been turned into a tool of social control, has removed such symbols from the public view (even if they are still talked about). Michel Foucault devoted the last years of his life to studying this history3. At the same time, during an interview with him by Stephen Riggins (in 1983), he stated” ‘I would like, and I hope I’ll die of an overdose of pleasure of any kind’4.
The author of The History of sexuality asked about how to act in a world from which gods depart – Fiorentino (as it seems) found his own way: ‘illogical’ – as he puts it – rituals. An important role in them is played by fire, the traces of which we have already noticed in one of the photographs, and which appears ‘live’ in the exhibition space. This extremely capacious symbol of warmth, fertility, purification, health, but also destruction and death, is treated by alchemists as the element of connection in the centre of everything. One of the effects of Eros, described in the Greek lyric poetry studied by Carson, is the state of melting in the lover’s experience, which changes like hot wax. Remains of burning candles carry various connotations, but on a purely material level, they refer to the instability of forms and related feelings, which Fiorentino is consistently working on. The media he uses – ceramics, porcelain, wax, and photography bear the processual trace of an undefined presence that arouses desire and repulsion. These ambiguous emotions, according to Julia Kristeva, are caused by the out-of-control peripheries of the body, the experience of which is characterized by vagueness, stickiness, and defilement6. The taboo associated with corporeality has become a point of reference for art described as ‘abject’, which is approached by Fiorentino’s provocative – for some recipients – actions. Pathetic, obsessive, orgiastic, and baroque – to use the author’s words – photographs and sculptures bear the same features as the subject experiencing pleasure, losing the integrity of their own person.
Summing up his artistic practice, Laurent Fiorentino talks about an attempt to show an alternative to toxic masculinity and a path to forgiveness and freedom. Actions and work perceived this way can be included in the politics of pleasure, under the patronage of, among others, Audre Lorde’s thought about ‘caring of oneself’ as a ‘self-preservation and an act of social warfare’7, and about being erotically brave as a condition of energy and creativity8. Calling for masculine vulnerability and emotional expression, Fiorentino makes a gesture like bell hooks (‘Ultimately boys and men save themselves when they learn the art of loving’9). The author reworks such topics as the positive attitude to corporeality, getting rid of shame, compensation for harm, healing, which – according to adrienne maree brown – are necessary for collective liberation10. This collectivity is worth emphasizing because we must not forget that the artist shares his work with us, the recipients, contributing to the common delight11 of experiencing art.
The story presented in Wrocław is called ‘apocryphal’ and let me mention that the author also describes his practice as an ‘apocryphal passion’. The Camera Apocrifa may point to a modern discovery of long-known but undisclosed truths, such as that pleasure is essential (!). It is possible that it is about the vague or concealed nature of the space in which the artistic process took place (if not a bedroom, then what?). Another clue concerns the course of work, the elements of which may have been released from the control of the author (a work of dubious authorship). The word apocryphal comes from the Greek ‘apokryphos’ (hidden, counterfeit), which was used to refer to esoteric knowledge not available to the public. Religious understanding has placed the apocrypha outside the rule, the norm (Greek ‘kanón’), hence probably the element of fantasy and humour, which most holy books are deprived of. Non-normative, non-judgmental, open, and sensitive, work of Fiorentino invites us to an ending that is a return to the beginning marked by the words of Anne Carson; ‘The theme of this story is the delight we derive from metaphor. Meaning spins while holding vertical…’12.
Every year I visit the south of Italy: halfway between Naples and Sorrento is Monte Faito, where my friends organize a documentary film festival. While working on the exhibition, it turned out that Laurent comes from a nearby town, known to me. My favourite beach is there. This year I swam in the Tyrrhenian Sea with great pleasure.
1. Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet, New Jersey 2023.
2. Sigmunt Freud, Beyond the Pleasure Principle, trans. C. J. M. Hubback, London 1955 (and other ed.).
3. Michel Foucault, The History of sexuality, vol. 1-4.
4. Quotation after: An overdose of pleasure: nihilism and narcissism, https://emptyfoucault.wordpress.com/2017/01/25/an-overdose-of-pleasure-nihilism-and-narcissism/.
5. Anne Carson, Słodko-gorzki eros, dz. cyt., s. 53.
6. Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, New York 1982.
7. Audre Lorde, A Burst of Light [w:] The selected works of Audre Lorde, red. Roxane Gay, Nowy Jork 2020.
8. Idem, Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power, https://stilluntitledproject.files.wordpress.com/2014/11/audre-lorde-sister-outsider-the-uses-of-the-erotic-1978.pdf.
9. bell hooks, The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love, New York 2005.
10. Pleasure Activism. The Politics of Feeling Good, ed. adrienne maree brown, Chico 2019.
11. See: Barbara Ehrenreich, Dancing in the Streets. A History of Collective Joy, New York 2006.
12. Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweat, op. cit., p. 7.