In one image, a drunken, disheveled man dips a jug into a bucket of home-brewed beer that sits next to his chair in a squalid living room. In another -- a close-up -- a woman eats a slice of pizza. She's obese, covered in tattoos, and wearing a weird assortment of shabby clothes; the pizza oozes from
"To me, the television is sex, the bed is sex, the sky is sex, you're sex, I'm sex, everything is sex."
Annie Sprinkle flies bare-breasted and smiling in the face of art-world pretension. Her work, a marriage of performance, pornography, spirituality, and science, is the undiluted product of 25 y
Standing there among all the Sensation hubbub, somehow overshadowed by issues of elephant dung, were 21 child-sized mannequins wearing identical running shoes and standing in a circle. Some had penises where their noses should be, some had anuses in lieu of mouths, and vaginas melded the ring of bodi
Orlan is a devoted martyr and a jaded exploitationist, a sincere Feminist and a technological utopianist, a social artist and a shameless self-promoter all rolled into one. Her ongoing Performance art piece, which has been variously entitled "The Reincarnation of Saint Orlan" and "Image -- New Images