MY EYES ARE DOWN HERE

You can’t look away. I’ll make it easy for you.

Headless, hand-woven female bodies wait in the gallery. The ladies proudly look back at objectifying eyes. These women won’t be objects of desire. Embroidered eyes glare from breasts and loins and ovaries -- their faces wouldn’t be seen anyway. Gaze. In the pressure cooker of the gallery, pride, not shame; strength, not fear. Gender power is symmetric here.

Out-of-place eyes and domineering arrows direct the viewer to improper places without wasting any time, away from the missing brain. Or is her brain elsewhere? Identity is forced to become the body.

The walls will be lined with body-costumes, female figures draped on coat hangers. Fallopian pillows will border the walls. Sewn-on eyes will look back at viewers, daring them to protest.

Look at her and slur. Look into my eyes. Wait, you already are. You can’t look away.