new-york

Leigh Bowery

Tanya Bonakdar Gallery

Every time he got dressed and undressed, every time he posed, coifed, put on makeup, stitched a sequin in place, Leigh Bowery asked, Where does the body end? It does not end with skin, it does not end with a sheath of latex or stacked platforms but perhaps close to there; it does not end with you, although at times perhaps you’d like it to, for another you not to be in your pores surging like acid, the thought of another you in your head headachy, in your mouth wanting such an entry to stop or not.

Bowery was fond of lumpy obstetric bulges—around the stomach, of course, but also on the cheeks; those that expanded the ankles, or bubbled up from the neck. His bulk he either emphasized or corseted. He erased his face with latex and rubber masks with eye-slit openings and wiglike curtains of beaded fringe. In the two costumes on display in this exhibition, the pink-floral glitter frock of Helmet

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