On Curating Sex Work Art
Flyer of the exhibition Working Girls!
I heard of Matti Friis long before I met her. She had interviewed several friends of mine for her PhD research, and later, I ended up contributing—last minute—to a piece for the exhibition Working Girls!. One day, I randomly dreamed that she was baking me a strawberry and cream cake, oh! the lush and vibrant red of those strawberries! In retrospect, I think this dream reflected the generosity she showed us when we suggested adding new text to an installation just days before the opening.
Lately, I’ve been reflecting on her work as she continues her PhD in Visual and Material Culture at Northumbria University in Newcastle. Her research examines the intersections of sexuality, feminism, and gender in curatorial practices—raising many questions for me, particularly regarding her approach to curating sex work as someone who isn’t a sex worker. So, I decided to have a conversation with her and, as expected, she was as generous as my subconscious had anticipated 😊
Curating Art & Sex Work: An Interview with Matti Friis
1. Your recent exhibitions, like Purity & Danger and Working Girls!, explore the intersections of sex work, labor, and the art market. What first drew you to these themes, and what was the curatorial vision behind these projects?
My interest in these themes evolved through exhibitions. I’ve always approached art from an anthropological perspective, particularly focusing on how we perceive performance. I was first intrigued by the idea of whether self-produced porn could itself be considered a form of performance.
There are many artists who support their practice through sex work, and Working Girls! emerged from this reality, sharing a title with Lizzie Borden’s 1986 feature film and Sophia Giovannitti’s recent memoir-slash-critique, ‘Working Girls! Selling Art and Selling Sex’, .Another exhibition Purity & Danger extended those conversations, pushing further into ideas of stigma, morality, and artistic autonomy.
2. What challenges or tensions have you encountered when curating sex work-related art as a non-sex worker? And, what advice would you give to curators working in this area to approach their projects with integrity?
One of the biggest challenges was finding a space willing to host the exhibition and mediating conversations about the project’s purpose. Funding was another significant challenge.
As someone without personal experience in sex work, I had to be very conscious of the ethics involved in curating these narratives. My role was to trust in the lived experiences of the artists and their creative processes. When working on group exhibitions, ensuring that every artist feels heard and supported is crucial.
For curators working with sex work-related themes, my advice is to foster genuine collaboration. In hindsight, Working Girls! could have benefited from a more communal conversation about the exhibition title, for example. Giving artists ownership over the project is key.
3. There’s an ongoing discussion around the ethics of representation in art concerning sex work. How do you navigate questions of agency, authorship, and voice in your curatorial practice?
The curator-artist relationship must be built on trust. Transparency and collaboration are essential, particularly when dealing with politically charged themes like sex work. Curators hold a lot of responsibility—co-authorship, in a way—so it’s important to be mindful of whose voices are centered and how narratives are framed.
There’s also the issue of appropriation. Historically, sex work has been depicted in art without acknowledging the workers themselves. My role as a curator is to facilitate space rather than impose my own interpretations. Because my projects have been independent rather than institutionally led, I’ve had more freedom in this regard.
4. How do you think the art market influences the way sex work is framed in contemporary art? Are there specific limitations or contradictions in the institutional reception of these works?
Institutionally, sex work in art has often been framed in ways that don’t make justice to the workers’ voices. However, this is slowly changing. Historically, sex workers were depicted as muses rather than subjects with agency, and that perspective still lingers in mainstream spaces.
A key issue is how art institutions sanitize work. For example, I recently visited Women in Revolt! In London and saw a piece by Cosey Fanni Tutti. The way it was presented stripped it of its original meaning —sanitized to fit within the institution’s narrative. Similarly, in Denmark, an exhibition on ‘art porn’ primarily showcased appropriated works rather than pieces created by those within the sex work community.
With Working Girls!, I saw firsthand how placing something in a museum alters its meaning. The institutional context imposes a layer of distance that can shift the way the work is perceived.
5. What’s next for you? Are there particular directions or themes you’re excited to explore in your curatorial projects?
My dream is to curate a large-scale institutional exhibition that brings together historical and contemporary references to sex work in art. I’d love to work within an institutional framework while maintaining the integrity of the artists’ voices.
6. Is there anything else you’d like to add?
I hope these conversations continue to evolve, challenging institutions to engage with sex work narratives in more thoughtful, inclusive ways. There’s still so much work to be done.
Panama Diaz: A Longtime Muse & The Utopia Project
Credit: Panama Diaz for “The Utopia Project”
Series of visuals I very much adore from the first collaboration with Panama, (London, 2017).
I first met Panama in London in 2013. A Spanish photographer now based in Málaga, she was introduced to me by a mutual friend, and we ended up at a bar in Bethnal Green. Time slipped away as we exchanged stories, dreams, and endless laughter (being with her always guarantees belly laughs).
Back then, we were both students—full of aspirations and unshaped futures. But even in those early moments, there was something about Panama that stuck with me—an energy, a vision. Over the years, we found ourselves at countless London shows, sometimes with more decorum than others (haha). One night, we sneaked into a performing arts show after the interval, queued for ice cream, and annoyed everyone as we noisily settled in our seats. Then, after the second interval, we grabbed wine, and I got lost wandering the wrong rows. These chaotic yet beautiful moments define what it's like to be with Panama—spontaneous, random, and always fun.
