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Meet Me in the Market
Lydia Pettit
featuring Scandebergs, exhibition text by Mai Harris2 Oct - 7 Nov 2026
PV: Thu, 1 Oct, 6-8pm
Miłość is hungry to announce Lydia Pettit’s first solo show with the gallery, ‘Meet Me in the Market’. Through oil painting, the exhibition explores the preparation of the body and personality for dating, drawing parallels between dating apps and the rituals of preparing food. We serve an idealised version of ourselves to strangers, who do the same, at a marketplace with little protection for those most vulnerable to consumption. What are you willing to do to yourself to become appetising? Which parts of yourself will you serve? What will you sacrifice to be seen as delicious, rich and fatty, and sickeningly sweet?
Dating apps stand as markets, where we construct identities based on what others desire; funny quips and flattering photos creating a facsimile we browse through for purchase. We take on a role of a butcher prepared to cut down to size to be palatable, while it is our own body that awaits slicing, marinating, cooking and serving to strangers.
In ‘Meet Me in the Market’, Lydia plays both roles: the animal ready for roasting, and the butcher doing the cutting, artfully carving the most attractive parts of the self out for presentation. The viewer gets to witness the preparation stage – twine holding flesh together, rosemary, thyme pressed into skin, oil, onion, and lemon seasoning the body. A delicate elegance of finely plated food shrouds the gruesome nature of what we are willing to do to ourselves to be wanted, and the lengths we go to satisfy hunger.
Included in the exhibition is also one of photographic studies Lydia develops in collaboration with the Scandebergs duo, ‘Tender’. The exhibition text, ‘Butcher’s Hook’, was written by Mai Harris.
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BUTCHER’S HOOK BY MAI HARRIS
I am here, in pieces. My left hand is holding a bouquet of rosemary, garlic. I will throw it behind me if you promise to catch it. We can be next, I'll lay my body out for you on a silver platter. I am here offering you a butcher’s hook. Ankles in twine, roped and upside down.
Gloving up. The latex sucks to my hand, sweat pooling under my fingernails. I’ll be in the back, behind the curtains, plastic and vertical. You can see my body moving in panels, hear what does not make the cut. Do not enter, I haven’t chosen what I am showing you. Do you prefer left or right? I am picking apart the bouquet with my fingertips, the one you told me not to throw because you aren’t ready yet and neither am I. Stripping it bare, stringing up. There’s a clock on the west wall, where the plastic sheet doesn’t cover, splatters of my own mess have reached here, I’ve wiped it clean with the back of my glove. I do not know how long I have been in here, and I hope you are still out there waiting for me. The clock on that wall doesn’t work but I can hear it ticking, this all takes time, and we have that, don’t we?
I hear the bell. Salivating, wiping away with the back of my right hand. The bell is getting louder and the taps are more frequent and I’m frantic, pulsating blood around my body vibrating, heart beating, squelching, the crown on my rotting tooth is loose and I am ready to devour. It is my hand on the top of the bell button and it is me smashing my own hand down. I’ve prepared this food for you, and I am hungry. The food is ready, it’s on the pass but the garnish has been left out. Sorry no, I’ve misunderstood. It’s the left hand, left out.
Lay the table. Silverware in the drawer to your right. It sticks, you have to tease it. It works best when you push it hard to the left, but go slowly. Call me when you are done, I will tiptoe out in my apron. Take my gloves off for me, you can use your teeth. It’s an entrée.
Let’s sit. You say ‘grace’, you say the prayer, you tell me how grateful you are. It’s your turn to serve me. It’s crude to mention blood, sweat and tears but they are all here at the table with us, on the table with us. Move the chairs closer together, I want to feel you against my body. Hold my leg under the table, caress the phantom hand in the centre, I can feel it all.
Can we eat together?
Can you feed me parts of myself?
Can you pass the salt?
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