these WOMEN are ROBOTS 👠🎀💄

On the creative gesture of making women and robots—and both?

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You walk into a white room and are told not to get too close to her. She, of course, is looking back at you, wearing a green mask, that of an aged witch. She has been dancing for a long time, I would assume, given that her thigh-high boots are scuffed, black. Her fingers even appear to be dirty. What was she doing in here, all by herself?

She was gyrating when we entered, waiting for someone to slip the money into her thong so she could begin. Her hands were pulsing, blinking to the mirrored wall. She kept looking at us all, making eye contact. Was this a part of the program? Or were the five of us strangers all placed in the right place to catch her eye line? Thankfully, she was tethered to the wall by a pole: she couldn’t get us, even if she wanted to.

She started dancing to Paul Simon’s “Graceland”, stopping periodically to give a speech — in a man’s voice. The artist’s voice? “My mother is dead. My father is dead,” she said. “I’m gay. I’d like to be a poet. This is my house.” It felt like a femmebot had sex with a spambot. My Husband Is Dead, she could have said. I Only Want Sex.