Powdered Milk

At an exhibition opening earlier this week I struck up a conversation with one of the artists about our respective work. When I discussed my lactation project, she told me that she was breastfeeding her child at the time her own grandmother died, and as she cleaned out the matriarch's effects she came across her compact. For motivations unknown to me, she pressed the makeup to her breast, and the scent of her own milk mingled with the scent of her grandmother's face powder... As with much I have encountered this week, this story released a flood of emotions in me. The use of milk in beauty products, the lifeless powder damp with the lifegiving milk, the passing down of feminine rites and rituals...

Breasts and Chests

This is from my personal blog (mildly edited), but seemed relevent to post it here somehow:

It is possibly pure coincidence that the week I started pumping and upping my dosage of milk-making drugs to increase my supply is the very same week that I collected my first chest binder from a friend. So my bewildered breasts don't know whether they are coming or going- one minute they are encouraged to grow larger and tingly and milkily exuberant with letdown, only to be squished into flat silence beneath my tshirt the next. Haven't worn the binder out in public yet, but put it on as soon as I came home the night I received it and... well... I don't know if it was physical or psychological effect, or both, but the intense pressure was quite arousing, like moderate breast bondage, and then to look down at a (relatively) flat chest... I do believe I'm going to like this a lot. Just have to remember not to fall asleep for the night in it, as rather uncomfortable the next day *ouch*.

Divine Bovine

Hellfire is on April 20th at The Gaff (Oxford St, Darlinghurts), and my show should be around 1am I think. Here's what you are up for:

Calling all dairymaids and cowboys! It'll be warmer than fresh milk at April's Hellfire, as MooZoo takes the bull by the horns in herlatest incarnation as Divine Bovine. Unrefridgerated, unpasteurised,unhomogenised and unholy, this sacred cow will leave you udderlymoo-ved as she slices and suckles her way from the belly to the breast of the beast. Marinated in her own juices, slipping and sliding acrossthe slaughterhouse floor to stir your loins and plump you rump. Meat,Your Mother.