Jelly Belly

I’m thinking about the flop. The wobble. The parts that won’t stay firm. A form that’s been filled and emptied. Something once upright now hanging low.

I’ve been noticing changes in my face lately. I pull back the skin on either side of my chin and picture a lift, a stitch, a fix. My stomach’s never been the same since having a child. But my son loves it. He presses his little palm into my tummy and squeals—jelly belly, jelly belly—like it’s the best thing in the world. And I wonder, why am I so grossed out by something he loves?

Breasts, buttocks, stomach, cheeks. The flesh that jiggles, that dimples, that swings when we move. Why does it embarrass us? Why do we bind it, lift it, smooth it away? I want to capture this in the studio. The sag, the slack, the slow collapse. I’m both drawn to it—and repulsed by it—especially when it’s mine.

I found a recipe for a material called ballistic gelatin. A mixture of agar, glycerine, and water, it’s used as a stand-in for human flesh in forensics to measure how far a bullet travels through a body. There’s a whole subculture around it too: gun and sword enthusiasts chasing the sensation of shooting or slicing into something that behaves like a body. The YouTube clips—people decapitating ballistic dummies—are violent and unnerving. I made a test batch in a takeaway container. The material is strange and seductive. Firm. Translucent. Wet.

There’s another material I came across while death-scrolling one night—gel wax. Its commercial use is fairly mundane: it can be coloured, scented, used in oil burners. But its wobbliness seems to be what has TikTokers obsessed. It’s clear as water, solid at room temperature, and holds its shape surprisingly well in a mould. Despite its insipid utility, the feeling it gives you in your hands is uncanny. Like you’re touching something you shouldn’t. Cold. Smooth. Gooey.

I’m clearly not alone in my attraction to these materials—each with its own online fan-base. Things that wobble, that flop, that mimic flesh. They carry a kind of truth the body knows. Not fixed. Not firm. Always shifting.