Art Stuff (And Sex Stuff)

Andrea Fraser, Untitled, 2003/2004/2006

If you’ve read my bio properly, like all the way to the end, you already know this: I’m also an artist.

I didn’t start escorting and then become an artist.
I didn’t start making art and then fall into sex work.
I started both, more or less at the same time, using what I had: my body, my brain, my time, and some very specific fixations.

And to be honest, I still don’t really separate the two.
Sometimes I think they’re the same job, just with different audiences.

Clients sometimes ask, genuinely interested:

“So, what kind of art do you make?”
And it’s always a longer answer than they expect.

Most of what I do is conceptual work.
Some pieces I make myself. Some I design, direct, or delegate.

I make things that speak about labor, money, control, desire, and branding.
And yes, making those things costs money. Everything does. Time, tools, mistakes, people.

So every time you pay me for an hour, a night, a weekend, a portion of that money ends up funding the work. A material, a fabrication, a collaborator’s fee.

Which means that, whether you realize it or not, you’re already part of it.
Some of you know that. Some of you like it.
A few have even gone as far as to buy me equipment or materials directly, no strings attached.
(Although I always prefer the strings. Conceptually.)

For me, the line between art and sex work isn’t just blurred. It’s structurally fused.
They’re both about performance, control, transaction, narrative.

The real difference is institutional.

One is protected.
The other is tolerated at best, criminalized, stigmatized, dismissed as a phase or a problem.

You can sell a banana taped to a wall for $120,000 and get featured in Artforum.
You sell your body for an hour, and suddenly you're dangerous.

That’s the tension I work with.

A lot of my pieces are about how capitalism digests sex work, and what it rejects.
If I printed escort ads with the aesthetic of a tech startup or luxury skincare brand, would that make it acceptable? If they were framed, lit, captioned, hanging on a museum wall, would they suddenly be acceptable?

If the answer is yes, I’d genuinely like to know why.

If yes — why?
Feel free to tell me in my booking form.
I will actually appreciate.

One of the biggest inspirations behind all of this is Working Girl by Sophia Giovannitti. I recommend it, especially if what I’m doing feels contradictory, confusing, or just “interesting.”

She puts into words something I’ve always sensed but never fully articulated: that making art and selling sex aren’t opposites. They’re both ways of surviving in an economy that demands you sell parts of yourself, while pretending some forms of selling are noble and others are shameful.
They’re both about being looked at, and choosing how to be seen.

From today, you can engage with my work beyond the encounter. Something you can keep, that doesn’t moan or text back, but still speaks.

Stay tuned.
Other ideas are already taking shape.
And thank you, especially to those of you who’ve helped fund the uncomfortable, expensive, very deliberate things I make.

Yuki 🍓