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Now you’re just sweat and pubes on my sheets and I wish I could freeze you in time so I could get familiar with all your crevices and poke and prod around like you’re my high school science experiment before we go any further with this, but I don’t quite have the technology.
When I was a little girl, I had the milky-white, nearly translucent, perfect skin of a redhead. It was the kind of skin that, between its near-invisible pores and soft dusting of freckles across the nose, elicited coos of “She looks like a little angel!” from strangers in the grocery store.
In “The Anthony Weiner Weiner Collection,” on display through July 21st, we are asked to follow New York artist Anthony Weiner through an uncut, sexually-charged, erotic journey into his self—and loins. It’s a myriad of raw self-portraits, drawing from Weiner’s throbbing ego and drawers. But, once we’ve felt his work, like a high-profile tryst splashed on the cover of tabloid rags, there is no satisfaction.