Boy Parts(58)

Finally getting around to critiquing your work! I know it’s been ages since you asked, but I’ve been VERY busy. As you suspected, the heavy praise you received for these photographs was likely motivated by performative allyship. While technically competent, you rely too heavily on your trans schtick and yeah top surgery is brutal, but I feel like it’s very obvious for you. I don’t know if you’ve heard of Frank Steel but I used to do a little work with her when she was still lecturing at CSM, and you should look at her career trajectory as a warning. Vanished from academia and now everyone thinks she was like a 2000s flash in the pan, and she could have been really important if she’d moved away from the LGBT stuff, don’t you think? Hacky! Boring! All of Gen Z is queer now so it’s a little… whatever if you’re aiming for your work to be gnarly and transgressive. Am I saying the photos are bad? No, they’re just meh. Identity politics is always a hard sell any way, and you should try something else.

I’m a big fan of a bit more detachment in work, I think it shows a little maturity – instead of it being like ‘me, me, me’ you know? Hard not to be me me me with ID Pol work, and ID Pol is hard to separate from immaturity, like I see these pics, and they’re fine but it’s hard not to see the genetic connection between these and teen girls taking pics of their period knickers and dyed-unshaved armpit hair. Yawn! So I’d say detach yourself from your work – dump photography for a while and try something else, even.

See you in the pub,

Irina.





EDDIE FROM TESCO, II




I keep the money in a plastic bag under the sink, deciding I’ll deposit one or two rolls a month. I buy some dumb shit – I used to buy dumb shit all the time, and then my parents took my credit cards. No credit needed now, I guess.

I come home with a bunch of shopping bags, and none of the lights will turn on in my house. I hide the shopping in my spare room, then ring my dad and tell him to come fix it. He’s over in half an hour. When I open the door for him, he hugs me, and kisses my cheek. His hair is still red, even though he’s almost sixty. He’s an ugly man, but I see the sketch of myself in him. We’re the same height and colouring. He has a sharp nose that points upwards, and high cheekbones. Mam and I don’t even look related.

‘Daddy,’ I coo. ‘I can’t work out what I’ve done!’

‘I’ll sort it, love, don’t worry.’

He sorts it. The bulb in the living room has blown and tripped the fuse. He sorts the fuse, then changes the light bulb for me. I follow him around the house and tell him about how well things are going. I tell him I’m seeing someone, and prep for the show is going really well, and I’m getting so many private sales that I was able to quit the bar.

‘Well, you can tell your mam yourself. I’m not telling her.’

‘I never said I wanted you to tell her,’ I snap. He climbs down from a wooden chair, a new light bulb in place. His knees click when he gets down.

‘Is there anything else you need doing, love?’ he asks. ‘While I’m here? How’s the pipes? Your sink still leaking?’

‘No,’ I say.

I direct him to the drawer of my bedside table, the one that won’t close properly. I make him wait outside with the door closed while I move all of my bedside-table shit into the wardrobe. I perch on the bed and watch him work. He smacks aimlessly at the drawer with a hammer.

‘Thank you, Daddy,’ I say. He smiles at me, and the corners of his eyes crinkle up.

‘I do worry about you, love. Quitting your job like it’s nowt. I know you’ve been on the sick,’ he says. ‘I popped into your work, and that lad told me. The muscly one.’

‘Why did you pop in to my work?’

‘I’m sorry. I haven’t seen you; your mam hasn’t seen you. I just wanted to say hello,’ he says. ‘I worry, it’s my job. And you’re just full of secrets, aren’t you? Always have been.’

‘Maybe it’s because you’re so fucking weird about everything I tell you – did Mam tell you what she said when I told her I had the exhibition? She just started going on about how she hasn’t heard of the gallery, and how she’s not homophobic because she thinks my photos are shit, or something. It’s literally like… why would I bother?’ I say. ‘Seriously, Dad, I’m asking. Why should I bother if you’re both just going to give me gyp whenever I sneeze?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m not giving you gyp, love, I’m just—’

‘Worried. You said.’

Dad convinces me to come home for dinner, even though I’m meeting Flo for drinks in a few hours. He waits while I put my makeup on. I only go because I’m hungry, and I only have a bag of spinach in the fridge and I’m not in the mood to deal with Eddie from Tesco today.

Dad has this awful, racing-green vintage sports car, and he always looks so fucking pleased with it. I keyed it once, when I was seventeen, because he dobbed me in to Mam for smoking after she found an open pack of tabs in his jacket pocket. He said they were mine and I’d worn his jacket out.

Mam complains that she didn’t know I was coming over.

‘I’ll fuck off then,’ I say. Rather begrudgingly, Mam lets me into the house, and continues to complain that they’ll have to rethink dinner. Dad will go and pick up fish and chips. I complain about carbs.