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.

William Eggleston – Two Girls on Couch 1976

When photographers gather and conversation turns as it will to Eggleston, you hear a lot of talk about color. After all, the man all but made color photography a meritorious visual art medium single-handedly.

What everyone misses in the justified fuss and bustle over grand spectacle of color is just how deliciously subversive the work is—rich with subtly deviant, transgressive flourishes.

Take the Red Ceiling: check out the poster edge stretching into the lower left corner of the frame; and how damn fucking creepy is this one yet you don’t stop to think about that because the print is so warm, mellow and aesthetically pleasing.

Eggleston is unrivaled in inciting within the spectator an understanding of why—visually speaking—the photo was taken without being aware that such understand implicates the spectator in the artist’s gleeful disdain for anything conventional.

Yes, Two Girls on Couch is not overtly sexual. At the same time, it is not asexual. It focuses on a slippery intimacy, how crossing that perilous bridge over the chasm of puberty changes our instincts with regard to bodily relationship to others.

The fluidity of girl-childhood and femininity in a shimmering ghostly game of leap frog. Customary lines of communication shorting, reconnecting, fading. Being your self to another no longer fits as well, pinches at the seams, effort a new ingredient to produce the same old recipe.

If this possessed the sumptuous colors of Eggleston’s dye transfer prints, the voyeurism of these girls intimacy would read as a leering older man fetishizing a moment he is outside.

Make no mistake such undertone belongs here even though it has been carefully diminished with harsh lighting (a single overhead bulb?)—atypical in Eggleston’s oeuvre. By checking the customarily sumptuous color, the focus shifts away from the artist’s craft and more toward the immediacy of the moment. 

This is not porn. It isn’t exactly transgressive either. But to not recognize the way it edgily toes the line is to miss at least half of what is at work here.

I dig the shit out of edgy. All the better when the craft is fucking impeccable.

I love their closed eyes, the bright flush to their faces, the bodies tense with forestalled impatience— I want you to enjoy it, enjoy me enjoying you enjoying it—a full-blown sensory flashback: I remember my knees shaking and teeth transformed to mercury quivering in my gums and the weight of knowing— God himself did make us into corresponding shapes like puzzle pieces from the clay; knowing is not enough against wanting, wanting to see this through tired-tired eyes spread holy-holy awed and wide as the wet of lips meeting and our fumbling lead boned find those secret fleshy spaces with their tiny, tiny alters to bear and burn lonely so many offerings.

The pale one, her fingers slid up almost to the wrist into the others blue-grey briefs, deeper; while she is herself caressed through white knickers— I remember the slick groove of a dew pussy leeching through cotton and then glistening silken on gliding fingertips.


Kennedy Kressler

I had no idea who Kennedy Kressler was two days ago; now, I can’t get her out of my head.

Most images of her are garbage, portraying her as receptive, wide eyed and winsome, performing for the pleasure of a stereotypical straight male spectator.

This makes me EXTREMELY uncomfortable. I do not know Ms. Kressler; and while I certainly wouldn’t piss and moan at the prospect of an introduction, chances are she wouldn’t give me the time of day. Yet, there she is in almost every picture staring out at me with feigned intimacy and come hither eyes.

I am not faulting her—she is good at what she does.

I prefer her in the above image. Despite the typical pornographic trappings—her positioning toward the camera to provide an unobstructed view of her bald vulva, the lack of imagistic context (is she curled up, masturbating in a lawn chair for any reason other than to provide a photogenic backdrop?)—her gesture is interesting. By spreading her outer labia with both hands she offers a more intimate view. This is, however, not her primary motivation; instead, she wants to be better able to tease her clitoris with her fingertip.

In so doing, her self-conscious eye contact with the spectator is broken and she focuses on her own sensations instead.