In The Lair Of The Pussy Print-cess
Kari French's cooch art

Forget Princess Di, Kari French is the kind of Princess every cunt-lover wants to kneel before. This luscious, hazel-eyed Sultana of Snatch reigns merrily over legions of worshippers in various guises. Some call her "Kari Kaos," Our Lady of Pain. Others refer to her ominously as "The Cannibal Stripper," she who devours her own innards onstage.

See also...
... by Stephen Lemons
... in the Crave section
... from December 7, 1999

And of course, there's her talent for pulling a Ted Bundy on Barbie's sorry Mattel ass. In Los Angeles, New York, and Paris, she's known as a Barbarella Be-atch who likes to twist Barbie's plastic, gashless carcass into any number of perverted poses. Give the L.A.-based French a brand-new Barbie and a little time, and what does she come up with? Succubi from Martha Stewart's blackest nightmare: a "Dildo Barbie" with a cock-head for a cap; "Anal-Bead Barbie" with friggin' dolls' heads on a string, ready for poop-chute insertion; "Barbie Clit," a big, furry ax-gash with the toy's face as its smiling sex button; and, my fave, "50th Anniversary Hiroshima Barbie," a geisha-style Barbie with melted flesh.

But before French started violating Barbies, performance art was her game. Her most popular character has always been "The Pussy Print-Cess," a postmodern Tsarina of Twat.

With a little ballerina music playing in the background, French would dance out onto stages at La-La Land clubs in a fuzzy pink-and-green tutu and bustier, do a few whirls and then commence to makin' tempera prints of her love muffin on fuchsia-colored paper. She'd slap some paint on her honey-pot and squat on a low chair like she was squeezin' out a big butt-puppy.

She could print-up hundreds of the Rorschach-splats at a time like a female Gutenberg on crystal meth. Horny guys would crowd to the front and fight each other for one. In a past performance, French covered the walls of a gallery with her pussy-prints and made the doorway into a jumbo-sized pair of labia-lips with a ringable bell for a clit. The only thing missing was the smell of cooze-juice. (No scratch-n-sniff action, unfortunately.)

"I'm semi-retired," French told me when I first visited her Barbie-littered Silver Lake pad. "I've transferred the performance element into the Barbie-art."

Out of costume, French is a brunette hottie with a bod built for pleasure and a sweet smile. But I wanted to see The Pussy Print-Cess in person so as to better worship that hairy split-peach men bow down before like the face of God! French sensed my disappointment.

"Maybe I could get on the bill somewhere in town," she said. "It shouldn't be that hard."

A week went by, but French hadn't found a gig. Finally, we decided she would perform before photographer Lisa Galiana and myself in the Mod Room of French's split-level, estrogen-oozing house.

A corner of the room was blocked off with black cloth. In this corner sat French's palette on a small table; near it, a chair painted pink and green. Lights were set up to create a "glow-in-the-dark" effect. On the box, tunes from vintage '70s porno were playing. French appeared in a pink flapper wig with green butterfly hairpins. The rest of the outfit was classic Pussy Print-Cess: the aforementioned tutu and top; multi-colored eye makeup; body glitter; 6-inch-high "fuck-me" pumps; green stockings; and a necklace that read "CUNT" in block letters.

The Pussy Print-Cess did a few Swan Lake moves, put the paper on the chair's seat, rolled her conch-shell (for the most part, hidden from view) with paint, and sat on the paper, squirming like she had to pee. Then she threw the pussy print to the floor and repeated the process.

The more colors French spattered on her frug machine, the wilder the pussy-graphs got! Before the event was over, a pile of slit prints lay before us. French, a true pro, never broke a sweat.

"I've done thousands of these," she told us as she lifted her skirt to do another (there was a brief flash of black bush). "One time, this guy asked me if I could do one on his face. I said no. I did do a print on this guy's T-shirt before, but only after he took it off and put it on the chair."

She stood up after a while and ripped off a print that had dried to her puss.

"Sometimes that happens," she said, throwing it aside. "But I don't usually sit for that long."

As she wrapped up, French said she doesn't want to be lumped into the "sex worker" category. She's an artist, end of story.

But the act does give you a rise. French ran off to shower up, quickly returning in a black cowboy hat and jeans. I asked French to sign a few prints for me, which she graciously did, writing "Puss Power!" on one. The power of the pussy is indeed awesome. All hail The Pussy Print-Cess! Long may her Boho Beaver rule!

Stephen Lemons is a full-time writer and sex-fiend who contributes frequently to New Times L.A., the Los Angeles Times, Art Connoisseur, and SOMA magazine.