Molhada & Quente – Untitled (2014)

I’ve mentioned my fascination with depictions of ejaculation several times. Mostly it’s the synesthesia wherein watching ejaculation results in a sympathetic resonance. Even without that freezing the essentially random trajectories and their illustrative fluid dynamics is just fucking endlessly intriguing to me. (Further, I think due to the customary highfalutin pretense of fine art photography wanting to explore questions of pornography without being pornographic has caused ejaculation to be a woefully under explored photographic motif.)

I have mixed feelings about the above image. On the con side of things:

the close-up framing diminishes contextual clues as to locations and circumstances
in tandem with the shallow, low contrast tonal range there is an even further disjunction from interpretable visual cues–rendering the image little more than blow job on a beach.
if proximity to the subject comprises a spectrum of voyeur to participant, the camera is–in this case–without question: participant.

By the same token, most of the cons also contribute–at least tacitly–to a knee-jerk efficacy. For example:

Although the close-up is a poor creative decision, it does bestow depth and dimensionality to the stream of semen.
the tonal range is distinctly reminiscent of some early twentieth century photographer whose name–despite four cups of coffee–I cannot currently retrieve.
the caption accompanying and the Molhada & Quente’s mission statement–which I have not reproduced here–it would seem the proximity of the camera to the action was intended more as POV documentation first for the couple and second for mass consumption.

It is entirely understandable why this was shot the way it was–arguably even justifiable. And I’ll never suggest it’s not an interesting image, though I would argue against suggestions it is good. My point is merely the potential for it to be good or even great is built-in. Should the camera have been backed two feet away from the proceedings, it would’ve been indubitably clear that this is public sex.

And I admit I am a context whore but in this case I thing more context also equals a more transgressive document–a result of which I will always be vociferously supportive.

Ashkan Sahihi – [ ↖] O; [ ↑] S; [↗] C; [←] C; [+] N; [→] J; [↙] C; [↓] T; [↘] K (2003)

Taken together, the nine images above constitute Sahihi’s series Cum.

On the surface, what they are is obvious: carefully crafted head and shoulders portraits featuring an assortment of men and women with semen on their faces.

I am admittedly exactly the opposite of a fan of facial cumshots in pornography; however, the immediacy in the confrontation of the viewer by the subjects’ gaze is compelling in a manner reminiscent the obviously exposed nerve as raison d’etre that contributes such vitality to the cinema–birth by poetry–that became the Iranian New Wave.

However, upon researching Sahihi’s work, I find his conceptual framing frequently emerges from both sides of his mouth. For example, to make the images in the Cum series, he “asked his male and female sitters to bring along a male partner to ejaculate on their face just before the photo was taken.”¹ Whereas, when it comes time to courting the art world, he refers to his impetus as addressing the “pornification of everyday culture;” and just in case that isn’t specific enough:

I wanted to do a series on how I feel popular culture is getting more and more saturated with pornographic imagery whenever something needs to be sold — any product, any TV program. The pimp-and-whore look is everyday fashion. But as people get more and more sexed up, they don’t necessarily have a happier or healthier sex life. They don’t have a better relationship with their sexuality. My point was not to claim that pornography or sexual self-empowerment were “bad” or “immoral,” just to say it’s everywhere, and our acceptance of it is a pose. If you told some of the same people who wore pimp-and-ho clothing that you support gay marriages or gay adoption, they’d be up in arms.²

In other words it seems doubtful that Sahihi informed his sitters of the aim of his project beyond him wanting to take classy photos of folks with jizz covering their faces. But in subsequently packaging this as a critique of consumerist culture, he enacts the same sort of transaction he claims to be criticizing.

The additional art speak rationalization is fucking patently unnecessary–analogous to seeing a monkey sitting in a recliner in a room and having the narrator explain that you are seeing a monkey sitting in recliner in a room.

And as much as I like these images, seeing the way Sahihi uses people as props in so much of his work, is as deeply problematic as it is disturbing.

Ultimately, he does share in the provocateur tradition of the Iranian New Wave. Unlike it–the Iranian New Wave was provocative because of the perspective it espoused, Sahihi seeks to suggest provocation as a means of selling his work.

Source: ashkansahihi.com

Source unknown – Title unknown (19XX)

I tried to draw attention to this series a few posts back but on the grounds of quality of craft, i.e. adept handling of a diverse tonal range and unimpeachable attention to skin tone/texture.

Yes, some of the framing is awkward but I feel that’s more than counter balanced by the fact that the camera remains at enough of a remove that it remains voyeur instead of becoming an ersatz participant in the liaison.

(And my Wittgensteinian side thrills in the fact that the action–haphazardly framed or not–is firmly grounded in the context of a background equal parts Ostra Studios and anticipating Saudek.

Source: robotromis221168

Source unknown – Title unknown (20XX)

Images like this give me a feeling like maybe I’m not irrevocably broken.

I’m not sure I can explain why and I’m even less certain such feelings are a good thing…

Touch is such a goddamn minefield for me. Generally, if I don’t know someone and they touch me–something as little as their coat brushing against me as they walk by me on a subway platform can be downright unnerving. Extroverted people who throw their hands about when they laugh to collide and rest briefly on my shoulder, arm or thigh make me shudder and have brought on full blown panic attacks.

I’m split as far as how to respond to such incidents–half the time I snarl get the fuck off me, the other half I bite down hard and try to swallow the discomfort.

When it comes to acquaintances and friends, I try–and admittedly fail more than I succeed–to follow the other persons lead. Any contact will make me uncomfortable but it feels like that’s just the price of admission.

The weird thing I’ve found is that closeness isn’t prescriptive when it comes to touch. I know people who’ve insisted on hugging me upon our first introduction and I’ve been fine. Whereas, it makes me feel all squirmy inside when one of my oldest friends wraps her arms around me by way of greeting.

And here’s the rub of it: those people who can touch me with a seeming impunity to negative reaction–to a one, I would sleep with them without so much as a second thought if there was a mutual desire and clearly articulated consent.

The decision to do so would be based less on desperation (even though I have been sexually inactive for 5.5 years at this point) and more motivated by curiosity.

I don’t for a second believe I am entitled to sexual gratification from anyone simply because a random, proverbial dice throw by the universe reconciled my instinctive response their body. But I do feel–and much more often than I am willing to openly admit–that there is a disconnect between the frequency with which I experience attraction and the infrequency with which I express to those for whom I feel it.

People just don’t respond well to such admissions (from me). I just wish things in my life could be more like two of my close friends in college–both female and straight–who after a wild night woke up in bed together and although hungover one admitted to being extremely horny and the other admitted to always wanting to go down on her.

After neither was embarrassed or ashamed and they are still dear friends to this day.

To me this image not only conveys an intoxicating post-coital afterglow, it also resonates with the calmness of knowing how to ask a question so that it is not only heard but in no way presupposes any sort of response. (And I believe the entirety of my sexuality is encapsulated within that sentiment.)

Lastly, it must be noted that no matter how much this image resonates with me, it is textbook #skinnyframebullshit.

400

I know, I know… I’m the purveyor of a hopefully artful sex blog. I don’t exactly keep things consistent with regular posts. And when I do I doubt that people really want to hear my opinions on social issues that don’t directly pertain to the politics of visual representation.

However, I would be grossly remiss in this endeavor if I neglected the fact that a substantial degree of privilege allows this project to exist.

Although I DO NOT identify as white or straight and am extremely uncomfortable with my gender assigned at birth, I pass as Caucasian, cis-gender and heterosexual.

This translates to an appreciable decrease in the frequency with which I face experiences such as racial profiling and street harassment among a myriad of other flavors of traumatizing as fuck oppression.

The decision by a grand jury–consisting of 9 white folks, 2 MoC and 1 WoC despite the fact that the demographics of Ferguson, MO are at least 2/3 black–not to indict racist shit heel, police officer Darren Wilson for the murder of an unarmed 18 year-old named Michael Brown is an appalling miscarriage of justice. Full stop.

Over the last 36 hours, this reality has never strayed far from my mind. I have a mess of impressions, thoughts and feelings on the matter. But I don’t want to make this horrifying manifestation of institutionalized racism about myself.

Instead, I would like to listen to and in listening validate the experiences of those without the same privilege from which I benefit every day.

I saw portions of this segment air on Atlanta’s NBC affiliate Channel 11 last night. In it, MoC in the same rough age range as Michael Brown articulate with devastatingly clarity what this verdict means to them and their experience of being black in America.

Many SJA types–myself included–have an academnifying understanding of racism but that’s head-based. Until you’ve lived it day in and day out, the knowing down to the bones will be missing. As the quote that’s gone viral states to feel anger and outrage instead of abject terror in the wake of the non-indictment is a huge fucking privilege.

It’s time for me to shut up and listen.

Jacques Biederer – Women in Love (1930)

If your thing is top shelf vintage (think 20/30s & not 60/70s) erotica and porn, drop everything and check out The Venusberg. (Note: the URL is mispelled, the ‘u’ and ’s’ are inverted.)

The Venusberg came to my attention due to another breathtaking menage a trois post. It deserves far more attention than its received but the sense in this of unabashed intimacy is something for which I am craving desperately tonight.

iwriteaboutfeminism:

#AllTheTruth

Prue Stent – selections from Pink series (201X)

choomathy:

soulsandfishbowls:

7knotwind:

Prue Stent is a 20 year old photo student from Melbourne. The themes of her photography center around femininity and the struggle of identity in women. The color pink is used to represent femininity either physically or emotionally throughout her work.

Her Pink series explores feminine beauty. Stent uses the element of color to raise questions about society’s standard of beauty; breasts, buttocks, and lips are slathered with pink paint to illustrate these commodities are a woman’s own.

found via: http://www.ignant.de/

love it

If this is the future of fine art photography, then Bring. It. On.

Prue Stent = Pure Genius.

Source unknown – Title Unknown (198X)

I consider it a damn shame that I can’t trace exact attribution for this image. All I know is that it seems to have been a popular set shot in Russia circa the 1980s.

Its #skinnyframebullshit is so egregious it’s laughable. However, setting that point aside this and the rest of the images from the aforementioned set are disarmingly charming.

I love how he’s naked and she’s clothed. Her exposed labia are a little too dimly lit to comply with porn expectations–instead I read it as reading as the boy going down on her prior to the scene in the above image (which appears to be supported by the set).

I love how he’s stroking her hair and her visual preoccupation to the proceedings in the majority of photos from the set.

Taken together the set suggests a curiosity the mirrors the rapt, passionate explorations of the couples. Nothing about it feels staged, artificial or contrived.

X-Art – Sex and Submission feat. Teal & The Red Fox (2014)

I run–ostensibly–a sex blog. Porn flits across my dash on the daily. Surprisingly, in the two years I’ve maintained this site I’ve found myself seeking out pornographic content less and less frequently.

Recently, I did go rather out of my way to check out two videos–the above [based on the intriguingly atypical way the money shot is handled, i.e. not in close-up/ not involving a(n intentional) facial and the way the stud doesn’t disengage just because he’s come] and Courtney Trouble’s indiequeer Fucking Mystic [based on the glowing recommendation from a genderqueer acquaintance].

Viewing both in the same week, there’s definitely an added push to compare and contrast. The first thing I feel should be noted is the above is not only the highlight of the X-Art video, it’s the only thing you need to see of it. Despite high production values–horizontal tracking shots, holla–everything remains paint-by-numbers pro forma porn.

Alternately, if you can squint passed the paper thin ‘plot,’ Fucking Mystic is hands-down-your-pants haute–even if it does suffer exstensively from a questionable-to-downright-shite production values–wild tracks and tripods, yo; learn them, live them, love them–and despite it’s amazing anything goes approach to sexuality, it ends up turning a little pro forma (anal penetration) itself. [A justification along the lines of it’s a queer critique of mainstream porn holds a few ounces of water at most.]

It all leaves me wondering, why high production values and real-ish depictions of non-exclusively heteronormative content can’t sit side by side more often.

I know the adage be the change you want to see in the world. And truth be told, I confess that I am very interested in the prospect of directing a (singular) porn movie. Unfortunately, I have zero idea how to go about it.

Source: deliciousnights