Daisy Collingridge’s world is full of big floppy, wobbly, undulating bodies. They dance across the wall like fleshy fabric friezes, boobs and bellign flapping about. They wrestle and pose in photographs, their heads are covered in varicose veins, their tummies ripple with a million folds.
Collingridge’s work usually takes the form of enormous costumes she wears in films and performances. They’re vast exaggerations of negative inner thoughts, all those terrible things you say to yourself in the mirror made flesh. Here, they’ve become 3D wall puppets, textile beings of fat and folds, their guts exposed, their jowls sagging.
The back room is draped in pink curtains, a huge monumental head sits awkwardly in the corner, a lamp is made of intestines, a pair of infinitely sagging breasts hangs off the wall.
It’s brilliant. Neurotic, intense, nasty, miserable, all your harshest body image fears come horribly to life. If you’ve ever thought something shitty about yourself, it’ll feel painfully, uncomfortably relatable.
Could it be a celebration of big bodies, of physical difference? Maybe, but in all its stifling, terrifying, pink intensity, it feels way more like a violent smother than a gentle cuddle.
