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Please note: This exhibition contains words or language that may be considered offensive by some visitors. The works contain imagery and references to sexual violence that some visitors may find distressing.

About the artist

Natalie’s practice uses poetic prose and film to challenge patriarchal conventions of women and nature, and the analogous exploitation of both.

Using extreme close-ups of nature and the human body with recorded voice, the film BEEFCAKE engages the viewer by evoking an intimate and penetrating corporeality, that draws parallels between femininity in the human and the non-human.

Natalie’s work intends to subvert the idea of women and nature as object by offering a unique and visceral representation of the interconnection between humans and nature, inspiring reflections on the current state of the environment, and our impact on it.

Immerse yourself in BEEFCAKE

Natalie encourages you to watch her film in full screen, and at a reasonably high volume, and to continue to explore its themes by reading the poem that runs through it, here on your left.

Over the course of this week-long exhibition, Natalie will be sharing other poetry and visual artworks via our social media channels. Click here to explore.

Disclaimer: Modern Art Oxford will not process any personal data collected in this form. Natalie Sired remains the data controller. For any queries, please contact the data controller directly.



Alongside her exhibition, Natalie Sired shares BEEFCAKE 1, the primitive form of the poem that features in her exhibition piece, BEEFCAKE.

It is the first full draft, and stands on its own as an individual piece of work, while also illustrating the evolution from first draft to final product.

To find out more or read the original poem in full visit Natalie's website:

BEEFCAKE Transcript - plain text

Why, like a mouse, does my mind hide?
It hides under a blanket of voices and voices, that swim over me like meaty, rosy bodies bobbing in the sunny seas on their holidays in Spain.
The wave engulfs me with voices, wraps its tail around my throat, my neck as I gasp for air under the barrage of voices. I am dormant.
A dormouse. A doormat? Must I lie here under the choppy waters of social scenes like a doormat, waiting for the next person and the next person to scuff their genuine leather on my blushing, pretty, silent face?
A doormat that says, ‘welcome’. Welcome to my abode, my home, my body. Welcome to the safety of my domestic torture while they perch on their expensive vulture fortress. Velvet, I think. Still, a doormat, my mouth is kept quiet. Silent, quiet, dormant. Insult me with my silence.
My dormouse brain skulks in shadows of those loud loud loud voices, talking and cooing. Louder and louder, louder again, our voices will grow and bulge big enough to surf the wave of sin. The dormouse is dead. Deadly doormat. Definitely not dormant.

I’m a chick, I’m a bird, I’m a babe. Am I crowded into this tiny cage? We are bred to deformity: big lips, small waist. Excessively large breasts and tiny feet. Pour some sugar on me. “sugartits”. My lifespan will be radical. For them, radically short. Caged and tamed, domestic rage. Silence in movement. Tranquil and withering.
He said the cream of the great utopia dream. And the gleam in the depths of your banker’s spleen. I could crawl into the dodgy depths of spleens and bladders and snakes and ladders.
They’ll spit me out like a sour taste, a sour patch kid, raised on the wrong patch – of grass and manure. Maybe the wrong manure. From the cow, the cow next door, she ripped the doormat from her dormouse house and now the bankers call her a cow. She’s the cream and I it’s fertile dream. But to gleam a dream, wouldn’t be so futile. Bankers dance in the gardens, botanists’ fuss in the fuse box.

They can suckle on the tit of a banal beefcake body. Sugar the tit. Draw them in, the metal bars won’t feel a thing. The sorrow is sinful and noticeable, yet we don’t notice? The sinful sorrow is carved into every face and every flesh we eat. It’s a sinful cycle. We suck the supple sorrow, consume digest, till it reunites with the mud and feeds the sorrowful sows ready for sinful harvest. Sugartits. Beefcake.

Entangled empathy. Medicines are plugged into our face holes: anti-biscotti-baby-controli. Eggs lost; eggs consumed. Make up your mind, though I don’t think we do. We sensually swerve through streets of meat, pussies in pigtails, or pigs with pussies? Oink oink. Wink wink. Beefcake. Sugartits.

We bloom and bloom, only for a while, not for ever. Only useful for a while, not for ever. That’s what they tell me, yeah, to bloom and bloom for as long as possible because once that’s no longer possible, well.

To be anything other to be anything other than blooming, a bloody, blooming, un-bloody beauty then. that’s not right. cut you down at the stem, stab the heart of the brain within. To be anything other than the red rose in your lapel, on your arm, your wrist, twist the wrist and wring its neck, she’s no longer blooming.

Despite knowing, despite acknowledging the many beauties within my body, my brain, my mind beautiful blossom that will blossom forever. Still those voices tell me otherwise, to rely on those voices complimenting your skirts and shirts is something I reject yet, can’t disconnect.

The velvet skin so velvet petals, velvet cheeks and a velvet vortex. They only care about my velvet vortex. Little do they know I have a bloody vortex, thoughts, feelings, brimming bubbling and rimming under the surface. When the prime is lost, blossom falls, they’ll ring our necks, eat our flesh and throw away the pretty heads.