Neon pastel palettes, soft violence, and silent screams. When Teá Mox gets cut, she bleeds surrealism. She stars as her own world’s Eve—womankind personified—in scenes of gendered agony. TeáWorld is a feverish dreamland, littered with oceans of milk, phallic butterflies, head-growing hookah trees, and heartbroken princesses. Legend says when you unplug from the matrix, you wake up there. Today, we caught Teá tied in bondage to a wooden chair. We figured we might as well pick her brain before she escapes and inevitably retreats into old hermitic ways.
Small talk is a snore. Let’s get psychoanalytical from the get-go. You cast yourself for every role. Why?
As Frida would say, these paintings are autobiographical. They are my personal commentary on Earthly life. I am particularly vocal—through my work—about matters of sex and romance. I believe art is the closest we get to accessing other people’s internal lives. Every tiny, seemingly insignificant mark in a piece is the result of a chain of decisions made by the artist. That chain is like a finger print. Every single decision is filtered through a human brain that has been uniquely natured, uniquely nurtured, and uniquely injured. My art is a window into my skull. Also, I harbor secret movie star fantasies. Two birds, one stone... Please don’t throw stones at birds.
Lilith is quite a trip. You often reference religion in your work. This piece, however, revolves entirely around a mythological figure. How is this painting autobiographical? And, more importantly, is there an emo devil living inside your ear? This is a judgment-free zone.
Give me another year; Lilith is only the first in a religion-based series. This painting is about female objectification in heterosexual romantic relationships. I designed the initial sketch with a shattered heart. It is painful to see your essence reduced to a fleshy opening between your legs, especially when the reducer is supposed to be a lover. Funny, you hear them call lust “love” enough times, and you start viewing sex as the coin that buys the magic word. It is frightening how easily the most beautiful four letters collapse into a black void. Oops… I went too deep. And yes, I carry an emo Satan around. He performs love well. He is ideal and tragically unattachable. We thrive in co-dependency.
What about XX? An ocean of milk, a slain cow, a giant tarry hand, two funky Xs, a short poem, and a nude self-portrait in self-produced milk bondage. You strike me as a puzzle fanatic. Explain.
As a woman, I relate to dairy cows deeply. They exist solely to be sexually exploited. Their fate is set by their gender. There are many curses one can be born with. Unfortunately, they get two: they are females, and they are cows. I am lucky enough to not be a cow. I am a human in a place where violence against humans is, though prevalent, frowned upon. Our suffering is not comparable, but we have one thing in common: those cursed double X chromosomes.
Umm… That manila folder on your lap... The one that reads “Evil Masterplan” in bold letters... What is that about? Should we be concerned?
Every girl dreams of world dominance. Isn’t this a judgment-free zone?
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