(above: Untitled Nipple, acrylic on canvas, Zoe Catherine Kendall, 2010)

The sex lives of other people seem to be a highly covetable topic, especially amongst Run Riot readers. As a writer, I balance on a fine line between saying too much and not saying enough on a theme that is not only indisputably relevant in its universal appeal but also tantalizingly voyeuristic in the sordid intimate detail it offers about other people's lives. As an artist, I want my approach to be personal. Writing from my own experience enables me to pertain to a sense of self that the reader is invited into. It's surprising how many diverse life stories reveal the same themes again and again. By refusing to generalise, I allow my audience to see that as humans, we are not so different from each other, and in fact there is plenty of common ground between us, something which can be found in the detail of our everyday (sex) lives.

Recently, I have written two very revealing pieces for Run Riot on the subject area of sex, much to the excitement and intrigue of it's readers I have been told. Find them using these links:

My sex (and yours)by Zoe Catherine Kendall and The sex life dairy of somebody else by Zoe Catherine Kendall

However, without writing under a pseudonym, I’m not sure how sustainable this habit is. How much should one give away about their private live, how much of the minutiae of an intimate act can be shared without bordering on vulgarity? Is it indeed distasteful or is that just my catholic up bringing stretching its dusty vocal chords? I am regrettably starting to realise that what might be considered more vulgar in the realm of art (and life) these days is not actually the talk of sex but the so called 'introspection' that might be attributed to such texts as I have written for Run Riot.

So far, as an artist and writer, I refuse to work under a pseudonym for the very reason that it goes against my concepts of authenticity, derailing any attempt I might be making to invite my audience into a more intimate discourse about life. All of this in a bid to salve the malaise of our universal conscience or maybe just as a commentary of equal value. The question arising in my mind is where to set the boundary line – i.e. when does one run the risk of giving too much away? This must be a question in the mind of other artists too, especially those well known for their risqué sharing of intimate details. Sophie Calle, Bobby Baker and now Josephine King come to mind as contemporary examples.

Josephine King, whose recent exhibit Life So Far was on show at The Riflemaker Gallery, took a leap of artistic faith in exposing some very private details regarding her mental health. I wonder how the general public responded to bold statements like 'Manic Depression paralyses my mind. Painting and medication give release. Suicide ultimately.' I think it was extremely gutsy of her to do such a thing, and I bet there were a whole lot of people out there who knew what she was talking about. Hats off Miss King. However, I bet there were a whole lot more who were ready to dismiss her art as either self absorbed or universally irrelevant. I guess if you are trying to expose certain fault lines in society through a personal story, you are always going to leave yourself open to criticism, and there are always going to be people who are small minded enough not to get the bigger picture of the work.

Artists must develop necessary coping mechanisms for such criticism. I've heard the term introspection used as an unfavourable judgement more and more recently, however the way I see it, artists look in to look out. The self becomes a filter for everything you represent in society at a particular snap shot in time. Your age, life experiences, upbringing, health, social standing, cultural background, all of the above come together to paint an image not only of you personally, but of life today. The similarities we share as peers, as members of a class and political system, as children with culture and familial linkage, and ultimately (though I may run the risk of sounding dramatic by saying so) as members of the same species, should unite us. Why then are so many of us so isolated within today's society that we have not only become resistant but hostile towards those artists who express a sense of self awareness? Admittance of the self shouldn't be seen as an artistic short coming or a belated reference to the flower power of the sixties, but rather as a modern and transcendental method equipping us to overcome the isolating malaise of modern existence, and a far more sustainable and liberating model then that which is offered through mindless hours of tv consumption and shopping sprees.

(above: Not I, in search of salvation, all washed up, pen on paper, Zoe Catherine Kendall, 2010)

So the question remains, should someone such as myself continue to write such potentially risqué texts on the subject of sex, relationships and family life under the guise of art? Perhaps that will depend on my stomach for criticism, or perhaps not...

For more mental and artistic deviations visit my blog www.self-series.blogspot.com