Lou Andreas-Salomé, the psychoanalyst, writer and infamous lover, defined eroticism as “what ruptures the ego.” To enter into an erotic encounter is to break apart our neatly constructed selves, to invite destruction; it is also a chance for a volcanic eruption of selves that have long laid dormant to bubble to the surface, to spill out, take over and find their physical expression.

In a recent interview, Isabelle Albuquerque described the year she conceived “Orgy for 10 People in One Body,” the series from which “Sextet” is pulled from, as “the most sexual year of my life.”  Just as Mount Vesuvius erupting captured the bodies of Pompeii in place—crying out, stretching forth, entwined in an embrace—Albuquerque has allowed herself to erupt open through powerful vulnerability. Through body casting and expert use of 3D imaging she has, in six fabrications, captured the feelings that rumbled through her in this year of sensual experience, and offers us an erotic Pompeii of One.

Each piece in the show is exciting, gorgeous and worthy of the unhurried, spiritual attention one would pay at an altar. Albuquerque presents headless totems of feelings, not imprisoned in memory, or choked by the ego’s self-consciousness, but poised, reclining, spread on all fours, ready for the full experience. To worship here means to do away with the tired assumptions and worldly conceits about the body’s position—the expected politics of any given physical encounter—and instead meditate on and delight in subtler, sensual cues: a light lift of a finger, the relaxing of a thigh, the curl of a toe—all hinting toward the ineffable spirit of the moment.

Isabelle Albuquerque, Orgy For Ten People In One Body: 1, 2019. Courtesy Nicodim Gallery.

This is most pronounced in her gold-cast figure, 1 (2019). Here Albuquerque riffs on Yeats’ poem, Leda and the Swan, about Leda’s rape by Zeus. But unlike the suggestion of the poem, Albuquerque’s Leda is not helpless. Here, her gold body appears like a glamorous suit of armor and Zeus is no longer the swan overpowering her, but re-imagined as a golden saxophone. With its mouthpiece entering her, it is not the god-predator’s honks we hear, but Leda playing the instrument; the saxophone’s vibrations and notes coming from, and controlled by, her. With her hands relaxed—one resting on her thigh, another softly cupping her breast—we notice Leda relaxed, not giving in, but giving herself permission, and thus, move beyond painting’s many romanticized and problematic renderings of Leda “being ravished” to a place of Leda—and in turn, Albuquerque—in power and in control of her sexual self-expression.

Perhaps the most affecting figure in “Sextet”—3 (2020)—is the smallest in the show. The diminutive walnut figure stands alone in the far corner of a gallery, not supported by any pedestal, but rooted to the ground, illumined by the sun through the high windows, much like a saint. Although she measures the height of a child, she has the proportions of a fully developed woman. She is simultaneously gentle and commanding: one hand held above her breasts, another cupping herself below, her fingers gently stroking her clitoris. It suggests the most powerful self is the woman caring for her needs, committed to her own pleasure, and yet, like a child, unfazed by the risk of exposing it all. Here Albuquerque presents the quietest figure, this time holding still to hold space, and gives us 10 ways to break open vulnerably in one small body.