Phallus Challis nightmare. Printmedia nightmare. Boy's V's Girls at dem big galleries.

I've tried not to rush into wrtiing about Benjamin Armstrong's show at Tolarno, I don't just want to be ranting, appalled and prudish - but I wouldn't give other work so long a chance, it's like Emily Floyd's Temple of the Female Eunuch at Anna Schwartz, I feel obliged by the content to try and like it but in the end don't too much. Armstrongs closeted work is icky like Lady Chatterley's Lover, in that it don't have to much to do with being a human being. Sperm swirling in orrifice drain pipes, pube curtains parting, ejaculation, condoms, cocks, used condoms, and penetration, freaking redickulous. I liked the pink wax. It's the undeclaredness that is uncomfortable, but then again with titles like 'Wharton’s Jelly' perhaps his intentions are plain, but is it a joke on me? if only he let me know that I could laugh a little - is it a mortar and pestle comedy routine? I guess the answer is in the totem of the bits in traditional tribal spiritual art ----- but I'm still grossed out.