Men In Ropes: nothing but color, rope, and flesh

He came to me with a request: Make me art. Make me nothing but color, rope, and flesh.

I began with his face, wrapping it in layers, erasing human, leaving only form. The smooth silence of mummification; no eyes, no voice, only presence. An orange collar, bright as a wound, stamped with QUEER, a proclamation in place of a name.

The ropes traced his body, a Takate-Kote that worshipped his strength, sculpting him into something both bound and free. His hands, fingers tipped in blazing orange, stretched outward, defiant, exquisite.

He was no longer a man. No longer a self. He was a vision. A queer offering. An object. Art, as he desired.

And when I stepped back to admire my work; Men In Ropes are certanly something to admire.