For years, I’ve undressed my soul on canvas. I’ve painted desire in oil and shadow, turning the intimate and the forbidden into something you can hang on a wall and live with. My brush has always been my instrument of confession.

But when I stepped onto the set of The Centipede Strangler, I had to let go of my control. There’s no “drying time” in film. No room to repaint the lips or adjust the gaze. The camera is merciless—and in that mercilessness, I found a strange kind of erotic freedom.

I didn’t approach this role as an actress. I approached it as a living canvas, one that breathes, sweats, and reacts. On set, my body became my brushstroke, my silence became negative space, and my eyes became the deep, dark lines that anchor the composition.

Film has its own sensuality. It watches you like a lover, close enough to catch the tremor in your lips before you speak, or the way a bead of sweat slides down your neck.

In my studio, I create desire through composition and color. On set, desire existed in real time, pulsing under my skin.

About the Film

The Centipede Strangler is a psychological thriller drenched in obsession, dark femininity, and a slow descent into madness. It follows a psychic investigator chasing a killer with a fixation on centipedes — creatures that crawl, coil, and linger in the shadows.

When I first read the script, I felt the same rush I do when I discover an erotic photograph that demands to be painted. It wasn’t just the horror—it was the sensuality in the horror. The heat hidden inside the fear. The intimacy that happens when two people are bound by danger.

Lisa isn’t me, but she is a mirror. She moves with quiet seduction, even in the midst of darkness. She listens with her skin as much as her ears. She knows that fear and desire are sometimes the same thing.

To create her, I drew from the same place I paint from:

• A pulse of emotion beneath the surface—something unspoken, almost dangerous.
• Textures of intimacy—a slow inhale, a hand on the small of the back, a mouth slightly open but saying nothing.
• Imperfections left bare—like a rough brushstroke, or a tear smudging mascara in the middle of a scene.

On set, I realized something that will change my art forever: sensuality is even more powerful when you don’t try to perfect it. The camera loves a truth that is messy, trembling, unfinished.

• Sensual art is not about posing—it’s about permission.
• Erotic energy is not always in the obvious; sometimes it’s in the almost.
• Vulnerability is the highest form of seduction.

That’s why I felt at home in The Centipede Strangler. It wasn’t just about playing a role. It was about exploring the same territory I’ve painted for years—desire, fear, power, surrender—but in a way that moved and breathed.

If you’ve ever owned one of my paintings, you already know they carry a certain energy—something raw, sensual, and unapologetically human. Now imagine that energy alive on a screen, in a body that moves, breathes, and reacts in real time.
This experience has made my paintings even more alive. The cinematic lens taught me how to distill a gesture, how to make a moment heavier with meaning, how to hold the viewer in tension a little longer.

When you collect my work now, you’re collecting not just what I’ve lived—but what I’ve embodied.

I’ve always said that my art is about freedom: the freedom to be naked, to be vulnerable, to speak the unspeakable. This film was an extension of that freedom.
Lisa Reed may live on screen, but she carries the same DNA as every figure I’ve ever painted—women who dare to be seen in their shadow, their sensuality, their defiance.

And maybe that’s the truth: whether it’s oil on canvas or light on film, I will always paint what others are afraid to say.