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Confessions : The Henry Moore Room

The other day I went to the AGO by myself. I bought an annual pass a little while ago so I've been going a lot, it's a nice place to go alone. Because of the way my work schedule is I spend a lot of day times by myself which is part of why I like my work schedule.

I wanted to tell you that a little while ago you said something that has lit a little spark. You said you think about meeting someone in public, going somewhere, anywhere with them, fucking in a hotel room, the single bathroom in the coffee shop, pushing their underwear aside in the back alley, against a brick wall. Every single time I'm in the Henry Moore Room I think about fucking in it, or almsot almost...where could one go, near there? Often, at least a few times a day it will occur to me, I'll see some space, some quiet corner someone could drag me into and convince me, entice me to go somewhere, for just an hour maybe two...

But there is something about the Moore Room. It's sculptures look like skeletons, giant bones of something that doesn't live anymore. I always feel like they should be outside, that you should stumble upon them by accident, covered in moss, while lost in the woods. The room though is large and grey, the ceiling presses down and is also filled with light, as incongruous as finding these sculptures inside.

Every single thing about the room makes me think it would be excellent to fuck in. I think about what it would be like to fold each other over the planes and curves of the stone bones of a reclining figure, how skin would slick and stick to surfaces, the way curves render in the light, the almsot reflections on the floor, like murky pond water. There is no softness in it.


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