I’m going to write this in all of its complications. This will be the first of many attempts. I am going to begin by first declaring: I cut butterflies from the images of naked white men, deemed by some as lewd. I do this knowingly. And still, I need to write and say this out loud.
I’ve cut out more than 10,000 butterflies over the course of a decade. I began this practice in response to the artist Damien Hirst’s art installation titled “In and Out of Love,” resulting in the death of 9,000 butterflies. I began as a protest, matching the killing of 9,000 lives with a corresponding number of male genitals and anuses, all in an effort to say, “What a dick. What an asshole.” It seemed appropriate at the time. It seems appropriate even now.
What began as a protest evolved into a practice of meditation. This memory of the body’s muscle enacted in the gesture of cutting, moved from anger to mindfulness to mourning for all that was lost in that claiming of art. I surpassed that number of 9,000 butterflies. I stopped counting after 10,000, still this cutting and still this loss that won’t stop cutting.
I’ve adopted the practice of using these butterflies as material for the making of what I see as art. Sometimes I use them to amplify the consciousness of queer identity, as if to say, “It’s just the male body; it’s just two men having sex.” Other times I use them as confrontation in my understanding of whiteness, the white male body as a pervasive presence, whiteness as a conditioned desire, and whiteness as an infestation.
Desire is complicated and fraught with shame. Anger is deep and, thus far, endless.
I’ve been asked on more than one occasion why I only cut from the images of white men. Desire is complicated and fraught with shame. Anger is deep and, thus far, endless. Resentment is a lifetime of endured experiences. Each time the answer is a concoction of equal parts indignation, defense, agitation, and defiance.
Who am I kidding?
I know you are but what am I?
What’s it to you?
So what?
Really?
The truth is, no answer is complete. No answer is entirely true. I was asked this question by a white man: “Why do you use only the images of white men?” I am under no obligation to respond. And still, I found myself responding. It’s an out-of-body experience where I am witness, yet again, to the white man who insists I explain myself and I see myself succumbing to his expectations. Don’t do it, I say. I’m always saying.
Confronted, I said, “It has to do with cutting. I refused to cut into the images of Black and Brown men.” Usually, this is where the inquiry ends. But why the refusal? He asked with insistence. “Because I don’t like cutting into the images of Black and Brown men.” I think my voice was turned up an octave. Again, his insistence on asking why. “Because I won’t fragment their images for art’s sake, in the act of cutting. We are fragmented enough.” The white man continues: “And you are OK with cutting into the image of white men?” “Yes.” “And you are OK with the violence?” “Yes.”
I am writing this now because I did not say. I was not quick enough at that moment in my own head. I am writing this now because I want to say: This violence at best is metaphorical violence. It’s art. What is a metaphor when in reality? I want to say: What of the actual violence endured by Black and Brown bodies? This question is not art. It lacks the luxury of metaphors.
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From How to Exi(s)t: A Poet’s Memoir by Truong Tran. Copyright © Truong Tran, 2026. Reprinted with the permission of City Lights Books.