
I went to the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum because I am in Santa Fe, NM (USA) attending an intensive professional training. It seemed to me that every sex educator should make the pilgrimage across the plaza to the museum if they are in town. I visited her collection because I wanted to see her beautiful paintings of labia and clitorises and vaginas and all things juicily vulvic. Although I was aware that Georgia O’Keeffe had protested the eroticizing of her work, I had always responded with a knowing nod. No need to be so coy, Georgia. You’re among friends here.She made gorgeous art, much of it abstract, that caught the eye of a fellow artist and photographer that happened to own a prestigious gallery in NY City. They became smitten with each other, and as part of their personal and professional partnership he showed her art in his gallery, inviting the world to know her creative brilliance. Nobody made a peep about anything looking sexy. As the movie said, “she painted her joy” and it was evident in her brushwork and colour.
Critics evidently thought the same thing I did about her photographs, and they didn’t forget that impression when they next saw her artwork. Without asking her, they deemed it a steamy pile of sex and spread their assumptions about her saucy artistic endeavours far and wide. The thing is, it wasn’t erotic art; it was a pack of eroticly primed and expectant viewers. O’Keeffe was painting her joy, not her pussy, and she did not intend them to be one and the same. She told them they were mistaken, but nobody listened and nobody cared. Come on, Georgia. No need to be coy, we’ve seen you naked. We know what you’re about, we’re in on your little game and it’s delicious.
I was agast with her critics of the time and ashamed of my smug sexual pushiness and sexism. I listened as the movie showed me what happened next. She was so upset by the way in which her art was received that she abruptly changed her style, painting only realistic images of things like fruit that could not be misinterpreted. Eventually she moved to flowers, which were painted in a largely realistic way, and again she was forced to assert the non-sexual nature of her work to ears that didn’t want to hear it. She moved on to landscapes of New Mexico, frequently painting a very realistic image of the view before zooming in so that she could always point at the former to defend the latter. No matter how many times O’Keeffe non-judgmentally insisted “It’s not me, it’s you” people winked in response and declared it not just a painting of a canyon wall but a giant crotch canyon of smouldering wanton lesbian lust. After all, we saw her naked and in the picture next to that one she looked us right in the eye while topless.
Well, what the farts?! Those clandestine pussy portraits weren’t pussies after all. Close-ups of flowers’ sex organs were eroticized by me, not the her. I didn’t listen when she directly told us that we had misinterpreted our sexual intent for hers.



