The Rainbow Bubble and the Torn Edge
Thoughts on "Devoraste" by Destiny Haven Trujillo
It’s June 1st, 2023, and suddenly everything is covered in rainbows. Right on schedule, the sixth month acts as a social prism hanging in the window of our lives, generously sharing our progressive values across every nook and every cranny. I never particularly liked rainbows, and being the symbol of Pride Month hasn’t helped their reputation. Inside the rainbow bubble of June, there is an unlimited fountain of content, events, and advertisements selling the things I hate most: a perfect sex life, disingenuous happiness, and self-righteous anger. In the words of pessimistic icon Holden Caulfield, “You never saw so many phonies in all your life….”
There was a time when I would have claimed categories like genderqueer, polyamorous, and pansexual if asked. I wasn’t in the habit of broadcasting it; it was more of an internal experience or a private exchange. But I was in the rainbow bubble, and proud of it. In a moment of peak gay expression, I went to the pride parade in New York. I climbed metal scaffolding to get a better look at the feather-adorned dancers, and got fingered by a woman in line waiting to get into Stonewall. Somehow, the queer capital of the world, with all its bedazzled, grimy, fruity-drink-soaked glory, still couldn’t dispel the awkward discomfort and emptiness that shrouded my sexual reality. Of course, that wasn’t the story my Instagram story told. You would have seen me smiling in a rainbow bandana I purchased that same day, Spectrum IX by Ellsworth Kelly, and queer periodicals tumbling down 5th Avenue like urban tumbleweeds. For all anyone knew, I was on top of the world.
Somewhere between my own hypocritical ambivalence about this and the lingering irritation from an instagram reel of a particularly condescending gay hairstylist, I found myself glaring at an announcement for a solo exhibition opening at Dimin Gallery in New York on June 1st: Devoraste, a celebration of pride by Destiny Haven Trujillo. A mental image of her large brown eyes accompanied a sharp pain in my solar plexus. I was on a group phone call at the time, and let out a guttural “What the fuck.”
Destiny and I had our senior thesis exhibitions a semester apart. We took Advanced Painting and Drawing together, and rarely interacted much except on critique days when she and her group of girlfriends (self described as the “Girl Gang”) would venture sparse comments from the sidelines while, much like me, appearing mostly above it all. At the time, she painted large scale abstractions - heavy, teetering, flat shapes with edges mimicking torn paper. These clumsy objects interacted in curious ways — barely overlapping or nearly touching. It gave her compositions a precariousness and vulnerability that felt mesmerizing despite their simplicity. One night while working late in the studio, I noticed a small, colorful collage in the trash. I knew immediately that it was hers — the torn paper in sunset hues was a dead giveaway. It was messy, covered in accidental marks, holes, and fingerprints in blue paint. I kept it, and it sits beside me now as I write this. Unlike other student rejects I rescued from the trash in my art school days, this collage often ends up on my studio walls as inspiration, bearing into my consciousness whether I realize it or not.
Having followed her career, I knew Destiny’s paintings had become more figurative, inspired by the stylings of painters in her inner circle who moved with her to New York and the late R.B. Kitaj. The featured artwork, “Daddy’s Little Girl Ain’t a Girl No More,” depicts two of these women kissing, shown from behind. The woman on the right is wearing a Playboy Bunny top and fishnet lingerie, while the other is bent over in a thong. Like the other paintings in the show, the colors feel aggressive, yet playful - garish pops of neon pinks, blues, and greens applied to hair, skin and mundane objects. Trading in realistic light and perspective for flat color blocking, overlapping objects, and distorted planes, her painted snapshots feel surreal, like a glow bowl themed orgy. The paintings are fine, likable even. I could accept the changes in her artistic journey alongside my entitled sense of personal loss and move on…until I read the press release.
Destiny Haven Trujillo, “Daddy’s Little Girl Ain’t A Girl No More,” Acrylic on canvas, 48 x 48 inches.
Devoraste is an homage to the authentic sexual expression and freedom found in New York, and Destiny's paintings are described as the “ultimate exhale of self.” As much as I would like to believe this fantasy, these paintings feel (as 99% of the rainbow bubble content does) like a lie. Not to say that Destiny doesn’t actually partake in the “vivid exploits” depicted in her paintings. I am certain she does. But there is a performative quality to these snapshots of her life that seem less like a photo of an act, and more like an act for a photo. Her “colorful bacchanals teeming with joy” somehow lack any real intimacy, and have a pervasive stiffness that can only be described in the most cliche of arts writing terms: contrived.
Perhaps more concerning still, is the “joy-filled bacchanals” themselves, which epitomize the most destructive trope in the rainbow bubble: queer joy. I can empathize with a craving for relief, inner peace, or a positive focal point in life. Still, the movement of self acceptance has left a gaping wound in our public discourse around sexuality and gender expression. Sexual discomfort, trauma, and confusion are “resolved” with flag-shaped band-aids in an attempt to manifest a shiny new reality without them. Dissent and concern become bigoted attacks on queerness itself and anyone who identifies as such. But behind the trendy neon paint, rainbows, and glitter are people who have been left behind, isolated, and harmed by this shallow obsession. I am one of them, and in reading about Destiny’s history of emotional distress, I wonder if this narrative is failing her too.
My alarm is not unique to this exhibition. The art world, like other industries, clings to queer joy as a lifeline in its attempts for relevancy. It is the most palatable reality for progressive buyers and sellers alike. But joy is fleeting. When the bubble pops (as bubbles do), and we are in a pit of queer despair, a more relevant expression that speaks to our imperfections and pain is needed. In these moments, we need the torn edge.
