amorsexus:

patti smith

Two years ago, I had only the most pass familiarity with Patti Smith.

After seeing Anthropologie clad Brooklyn hipsters staring into Just Kids on the subway, I picked it up.

Of course, I fell in love with it immediately. The star crossed partnership of two fiercely creative souls unfolding against the milieu bohemian NYC would have been more than enough to command my interest; but the spare elegance of the Smith’s sentences and the detail with which discrete memories are rendered transforms distance into a continuous stream of first-hand discover. 

But, that’s not why I posted this. Neither is the recurring brilliance in Smith’s music (especially Horses).

What interests me about this has to do with fearlessness.

Audre Lorde advised: if you fear something, walk toward it. And as much as Smith’s work speaks to the vanquishing of fear, I was to see this photo (taken by Llyod Ziff) cross my Tumblr dashboard.

Due to rampant sexism and the western cultural imperative of objectifying/sexualizing the female body, motivations for choosing to appear nude carry an– I think– unnecessary political/consequential weight.

In my reading, this image not only sidesteps these concerns, it gives them the finger. Smith, is not an artist to affect a posture or negotiate her own public perception (unlike, say someone like Kanye West).

St. Augustine noted:

People travel to wonder at the height of the mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long course of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars, and yet they pass by themselves without wondering.

Or, to put it in the words of Smith’s patron saint Arthur Rimbaud—and more clearly placing creativity as a exercise in mastering fear:

A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed–and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone! He attains the unknown, and if, demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen!

In other words, what moves me about this image is its embodiment of my own personal belief that one can never be more naked before another than they are in their Art.

Ren Hang’s work elicits equal and opposite reactions in me.

Few photographers exhibit such an omnivorous eye; fewer gaze upon such transgressive material.

And I fucking adore Hang’s non-prejudicial and unapologetic depictions of an exceedingly broad range of graphic human sexuality.

Unfortunately, a by-product of what I love also makes the work uncomfortable for me: confrontation.

After more than a half century of pornography rigidly marketed to exclusive sexual demographics, displaying a picture of a woman applying lipstick to her vulva next to a photo of a male-on-male anal sex is an inherently confrontational act. I don’t have a problem with that. In fact, I applaud it: FUCK goddamn centuries of hetero-normativity and straight privilege bullshit.

What bothers me is the way the majority of Hang’s work features on under-current of aggression. As if the inherent confrontation of the presentation takes second seat to something closer to rubbing the viewer’s nose in what is displayed.

Which is why this image stands out to me: the color of the grass so closely matches the color of his skin that the boys erect cock, thrust hips and come-hither eye contact with the camera evinces an almost counter-intuitive vulnerability.

muss4you:

Ravens (54 of 72) by Najva Sol

Sol’s website proclaims: “Life is NSFW.”

Brilliant put, slogan as a dialectic tool: a widely held, seldom considered thesis (i.e. facets of life are deemed appropriate for consideration by workers performing their day-to-day functions) as well as the antithesis (i.e. the messy exigencies of living may be so cleanly bifurcated is absurd/fascist).

At first blush, the work suggests an uncomplicated simplicity—a muddy, lo-fi admixture of reportage and editorial imagery.

Yet, what keeps surprising me is the degree to which her images operate in much the same fashion as her slogan: saying and unsaying—in circles, in cycles. There is something immensely appealing in her unflinching willingness to allow her subjects an autonomous dignity—playfulness tempered by the gravitas inherent in possessing a limited, fragile body.

vanishing / Nicole / slowly, she did by Alessandra Celauro

Increased proximity to a subject expands the detail seen. But expanded detail comes at the expense of contextual clues with regard to the position of the subject and the relationship between the subject and its surroundings, etc.

Such is the primary reason I have such a profound distaste for close-ups.

This series is a notable exception; here, the lack of context adds a salacious charge.

The tight focus on the open mouth, pink lips, elastic bubblegum and tongue provides the viewer with an unusual vantage. Beyond the center images title, all cues with regard to gender, age and positioning in space/time are absent.

Although the images are stridently coy, there seems to be an anticipation of this criticism on the part of the image maker that is at least partially ameliorated by titling the images.

Still I can’t help thinking the cleverness of the work is just a smoke screen covering an inquiry much closer to spirit of Eadweard Muybridge work on Leland Stanford’s behalf.

Either way, it’s solid work from a talented young image maker.

nymphoninjas:

nymphoninjas:

Approximately 65% of my sexual pleasure arises from orgasming. The remaining 35% is determined by what occurs afterward.

Closeness and cuddling are wonderful but I need more before that, something which demands more than I think I can withstand.

I am not necessarily talking so-called post-orgasm torture—though if that’s on the table, I won’t object. No, I crave something and more gently insistent; stimulation which recognizes and respects my heightened state of post-ejaculatory sensitivity while dismissing the notion that there can be such a thing as ‘too sensitive’.

Alas, this is not something I achieve alone—past a point, my nervous system short circuits and my body locks up.

Being alone for the last four years has caused me to seek out the vaguest hints of the same pleasure overflowing into pain, requiring complete surrender to overwhelming physical sensation.

This is a Polaroid of me—holding my ex’s panties stilling bear the marks of her former longing with which I sometimes in an Icarus like attempt to remembered some shadow of the glory arising from responding involuntarily to touch as if shivering in a desperately cold draft.

I feel like this submission would work really great in an art gallery, the photo is beautiful and touching. And the write up sounds more like an essay than a poem or message. Thanks for your submission dude I really fucking like this one and am proud to have it a part of SS. 

graeandresen:

cutter painties – Copyright © Græ Andresen

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A former flat mate—who despite being super rainforest crunch is still a friend—claims all conflicts arise as a result of unmet needs.

I chalked it up to hippy naiveté. And I would have dismissed it outright if not for the implicit critique of what qualifies as need.

Needs, to her, included the basics: food, water, shelter and clothing as well as safety, fulfillment and love. She argued being alone or unfulfilled in life causes suffering no more or less physically debilitating than hunger or thirst.

Of course, she went on to use the notion as an aide in unpacking geopolitical concerns—an at best reductive approach—which resulted in me dismissing the idea.

I’ve been re-evaluating that decision. It’s partly as a result of learning that in a month I’ll be laid off from perhaps the only job I haven’t utterly reviled. And the one thing making me not despise this job was learning first hand that I was dead wrong to dismiss my friend’s ideas because when it comes to interpersonal relationships in small groups/communities are concerned, meeting or failing to meet individual needs makes all the difference in the world.

Thus, all this messy brain spew gets entangled with this image. 

I can’t claim to be a cutter. On the other hand, claiming I have never cut myself seems a more egregious mistruth. I look at the few small scars that have yet to fade and they do not seem like they belong to me. I never cut to see myself bleed or to feel anything, I cut because in those trance-like moments there was a very real feeling that I was cutting through my body in order to reach something I wanted to destroy with the totality of my being.

It’s the strangest things to feel nothing when presented with my own case; yet, when faced with a cartographic account of similar travels, I ascribe meaning ex nihilo: maplines of unmet needs.

I identify with everything in this image. The clenched fists self-restrained, tightly cinched and pinned by panty elastic to her hips. The three day stubbly growth on the mons pubis—an outward effort to adhere to perceived norms.

There’s further resonance for me: yesterday, I left my desk to wander the deserted world where I work. With all the doors propped open I wondered in an out of buildings. I wasn’t aware that I’d had any destination in mind until I found myself standing in the doorway of the now empty room where the young woman upon whom I have a crush slept, woke and struggled over the nine months. 

All that remained was a silica gel pack against the baseboard, a small sheet of cream cardstock gatefolded with different flavors of tea printed on each section, the corner of a blue and white Nestlé plastic wrapper, a few pennies scattered among a litter of baby dust bunnies. Fingernail clippings on the desk and bureau; sequins and a Bobbie pin in otherwise empty drawers. Three or four Kleenex in a CVS pocket pack behind the mirrored medicine cabinet door above the commode and thin white bar waiting in the shower soap dish.

Presence in absence, it’s the obverse are I’ve known for so long—I no longer cut my body, no longer want to destroy, I just want to break through to reach someone, anyone, to touch and in the moment give a portion of what was given to me back to you.

kalkibodhi:

Tops

KalkiBodhi Archives

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This is exactly and uncannily what I want when I am feeling horny distilled to some #skinnyframebullshit that had decent color before some fucker futzed with it.

Still though: unf and total sploosh.