Aren't you coming down to watch TV with me and dad, Lennard?
Er, no mum, I've got, er.. extra homework to do...
So there I was; thirteen years old and crazy about legs, skirts, panties, nylons, garters, girdles, asses, corsets, legs, asses, skirts, legs, asses, etc, etc... in other words A FETICHISTIC NUT!
Trouble was, it was the seventies... and women and girls were on the bandwagon of liberation and the objects of my desire were no longer a part of popular culture, but banned as tools of the oppressive bourgeois society and hence exiled to the lingerie pages of mail-order catalogues (thank you Daells Varehus, and may you rest in peace)
Unisex jeans, rainbow colored underwear, legs adorned with dense clusters of "natural" hair, women openly parading their naked breasts on the beach as a celebration of their identity as free women (actually not so bad, that one...), and feminists in powerful positions in the media, just waiting to grab a branding iron with the letters SEXIST PIG, and ram it into your forehead (or your fore-skin if they could have gotten away with it...) all of this was the order of the day.
If you happened to think that sex could be other things than the sometimes mundane ritual of joining you and your partners genitals (anal- and oral sex is counter-revolutionary, remember?) you might as well go out a buy yourself a plastic raincoat and meet with your pals in the park behind the playground, because, obviously: YOU WERE A PERVERT!
If you also happened to live in an rather isolated part of a small town, zillions of light years before the internet, there was basically only one thing to do:
learn how to draw, fast.
And that was the reason why I became an artist, dear readers: Lust and adolescence.
Podcast Beyond the Red Hills
Not my people
Not my war