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Submission Submission - Bryana Fritz

Niet alleen RoSa verdiept zich graag in heiligenlevens, het is ook een thema in het werk van de Amerikaans-Brusselse performance kunstenaar Bryana Fritz. Speciaal voor de Uitgelezen-lezers deelt ze een fragment uit haar voorstelling Submission Submission, een sensuele collage van laptop-poëzie, performance, fanfictie en heiligenportretten. 

Submission Submission Option 1

Bron foto: (c) Bryana Fritz

Maar eerst even wat meer informatie over de artiest. Bryana Fritz woont in Brussel maar werd geboren in Chicago. Ze studeert dans in Minneapolis (US), Essen (DE) en bij P.A.R.T.S. in Brussel. Haar 'danser' noemen is haar evenwel oneer aandoen: Fritz schrijft, performt, dicht en organiseert  experimentele leesgroepen. Ze werkt dikwijls samen met of voor andere kunstenaars, zoals Boris Charmatz, Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker, Femke Gyselinck, Xavier Le Roy en Michiel Vandevelde. Samen met Henry Andersen richtte ze de Slow Reading Club op, een semi-fictieve leesgroep van choreografische lezingen met als centrale vraag wat gebeurt met een groep mensen die samen aan het lezen slaat? Wat gebeurt er tussen tussen lezer en tekst, tekst en tekst, lezer en lezer? 

Haar eigen werk bevindt zich op het snijvlak van performance, poëzie en desktop-art en ontstaat meestal uit een fascinatie voor middeleeuwse en feministische literatuur. In Submission Submission uit 2019 bouwt ze verder aan haar beminde ménage à trois van dans, poëzie en het digitale scherm. Ze wordt "amateur-hagiograaf" en beschrijft op verschillende manieren (muzikaal, performatief, tekstueel, virtueel) heiligenlevens: die van Jeanne d’Arc, Hildegard van Bingen, Christina de Wonderbare en Christina van Bolsena. Bij de herneming in Vooruit in juni jongstleden voegt ze daar de befaamde Catharina van Siena aan toe. Mogelijk is Juliana van Norwich de inspiratie voor een volgend tableau. 

Fritz bedient zich ook van het genre fanfictie. Fanfictie is een literair genre van teksten die geschreven zijn door fans van een film, boek, televisieserie of een ander type media. De bestaande personages worden 'geleend' om nieuwe, eigen verhalen mee te schrijven zonder de intentie daar rijk of beroemd mee te worden. Die nieuwe verhalen (heel vaak heerlijk van de pot gerukt, soms intiem, soms absurd, soms grappig, soms erotisch) worden meestal verzameld op internetsites, speciaal bedoeld om te delen met andere fanfictie fans. De Canadese auteur Anna Wilson schrijft in haar boeiende essay Full-body reading, dat heel wat geschriften van middeleeuwse mystici elementen bevatten van fan-fictie.

Wellicht is het dus geen toeval dat Fritz bij uitstek voor dit genre kiest in Submission Submission. Speciaal voor de Uitgelezen-lezers deelt ze er een liefdevol samengestelde collage uit van zinnelijke Jeanne d'Arc fan-fictie. 

Script for Portrait of Saint Joan of Arc

This text was amorously collaged from existing Joan of Arc fan fiction works that were found on the website Archives of Our Own. I remain entirely indebted all those fan writers who extend, in communion, their desirous and disseminate script. Fandom as devotion as difference. Leaky readers who contrive orifices from within and across the closed-off artefact of text. 

disclaimer: I cannot promise that any of the original text still remains intact… I have written into and transformed most of it.

© Weefsel van There is considerable speculation / Joan of Arc, (c) Louise McKissick, 1992 / Scan and weave by Bryana Fritz

Joan arrives unseen with her horse and her armour. She is a warrior couched in summer-smelling grasses beside the beach. There are no stone walls, nor filthy straw, nor iron bars. She is bright, like the sun. She is going to save this country… 

Suddenly an overwhelming sense strikes her, as if someone just outside her field of vision is watching her. She takes off her armour. She takes off her boys clothes. Joan is methodical in the way she presents herself. She rolls over and lays on her stomach, shielding her eyes and offering up her unprotected bum to the sun. 

Face and fingers in the sand, she feels an invisible hand tenderly brush against her. Not a hand but a thing, a physical sensation like the wind—a summer wind which pets her soft and delicate skin as if she were a days-old kitten. Her head tips back to bare her throat, her back arches to lift up her ass. She is open to anything offered. Lips waiting to be taken, cheeks and mouth redden as she begins to beg without her words for the sweetness of an angels kiss.


Joan is accustomed to hearing voices. It reminds her days spent in a prison cell. Early on in her trial, they attempted to link her to witchcraft, but it was dropped. Soon seventy charges turned to twelve. The biggest charge was the crossdressing.


This time the voice is closer.         

"Jeanne, may an alligator eat your heart and may you, I don't fucking know, roll a rock up a hill forever, open your eyes and listen to me." 

Joan opens her eyes and Claire, a woman with short black hair stands in front of her, wearing blue denim. She looks at Joan, tiny in her armour, short hair like a boy, and she feels like her soul is on fire. She reminds Claire of an angel.

"Who are you?" Joan asks. 

"Introductions later," the woman says. "For now, you've got two choices for how to get out of here. I'd prefer number one, blow a hole in the side of this cell, but you might like number two, teleport the fuck out of here." 


The woman pulls out a small device, shining silver, and presses a button. There is a blinking light and the resonant sound of a pulsing stick. Joan wraps her hand around Claire’s hand and unclasps the hinged armour. She no longer wants to protect herself. Resting their two hands against her inner thigh, they lock eyes. 


“Yes” Joan says with a trembling voice. 

“Do you want me to take you to the next level?” 

Joan blinks her reply.

When Joan can see again, she is back on the beach walking through the sand towards the sea. She is wearing a gold and white bikini which leaves almost nothing to the imagination. She dives in. Greasy water slimes her mouth. She chokes on it, coughs, spits out the foul stuff and inhales air just as foul. She gags, but does not vomit, and runs a hand through her now wet hair.

“Looking good out there, Joan!” 

Joan smiles and approaches the towel that the blonde is sitting on. Heat uncurls through her long hair laying in coils on the towel. Her body is translucent, her eyes wide, her voice almost seems hollow as she speaks. 

“Hey! I didn’t know you’d be here today.” 

Blondie brings her hands behind her back, gently playing with one of the lower strands.  

“It’s a nice day, isn’t it? Plus, the water isn’t too bad. Almost makes me want to stay in it all day.” 

She kneads her leg, seemingly content.

The way the sunlight illuminated parts of Liane’s hair and made it shine was truly brilliant. The swords woman was glad to see it hadn't lost its shine. Joan casually places her hand on Liane. Thinking: this is the softest thing that I have ever held onto. 

Liane stirred, shifted to move closer and draped her hand on Jeanne's back. She runs her fingers through Joan’s short hair over and over again, accepting that dressing like a man may help Joan in her audience with the prince. Joan sighed in affection, looking at her peaceful expression….

Blondie leans in even closer and whispers, “you are always too hot”. 

Joan feels her nipples stiffen, “you are always too cold”. 

Blondie extends her hand and traces her fingers

“Joan, you are aware that if you spend enough time in the water, that white bikini won’t hide anything from anyone that happens to see you, right?” 

A soft blush radiates on Joan’s cheeks. She falls silent at the feeling of strong lips pressing against her own. The flame of uncertainty had been extinguished. 

“Are you okay” 

“Yes, I’m more than okay"

Christine intensifies the kiss and whispers,“I want you to suck me, Joan”.

Her hands move down Joan’s back and grip Joan’s cute ass. She reaches for her own bikini bottom letting her stick spring free. Her tongue travels along her lips as she pulls Joan even closer. Joan is on her knees, receiving in the woman’s stick not seeming to care how she got it. Letting her take her time. A soft moan escapes her own cunt, as she makes her way around the stick towards the warmth of a cunt. Its sweetness filled Joan’s mouth, welling up in every place it touch her, blooming here from her throat, here in her hip, from the curve of her back to the bareness of her neck. Joan smiles with a thin strand of saliva connecting the cunt to her lips. 

Joan finds herself with her back in the sand, pulling her bikini top over her breasts and her bottoms to the side, exposing her cunt buried deep in the sand. 

“Please… ” 

Anna nods and doesn’t hesitate. Her tender hands slowly and gently explore Joans body. She feels Joan’s inner walls tighten around her hand. It was the combination of a hand playing with her breast and a hand moving in and out of her inner walls. She quickly wrapped her arms around the blonde’s neck and pulled her into a deep and passionate kiss. The feeling of being sucked was hot enough to send Joan over the edge of her already building orgasm. It was wonderful.

Rope after rope of Blondie’s potent cum flooded Joan’s walls,  painting it cloudy with her seed. The woman very slow to pulls a cunt out of Joan’s cunt as her inner walls clamp down like a vice. Blondie is trying to milk it for all it’s worth. A lustful smile spread across her features as she writhed and squirmed in the sand like there was no tomorrow.  

“That felt incredible…”

Her hands were still twitching and she grasped her skirt, wanting more carnage, but it was all over. She rolls over and pushes herself up on hands and knees. She wraps herself in the wool. It reeked of horse. Her mouth opens in a quiet, sharp breath and all that is left to her is love.

“Glory,” Joan said in a hoarse whisper.     

Part of her never wanted to get up from the sand again. Joan opens the blanket and stares at her own bare chest, thinking of what she had seen swords do to flesh. Deep down, Joan knows that she breaks everything she touches. As a young girl, she reached for a monarch butterfly, but her fingers held onto the wings and the creature fell to the grass, dead on arrival.

And when morning comes, let her get up, put her armour back on, sheath her sword, and walk back out into those battlements. Years later, in 1453 the war was over. England had been driven out of France, and France rejoiced.

This girl's name is on the lips of the entire country.

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