shaved – Page 2 – Acetylene Eyes

Karel Temny – **** (2015)

There is something curious about Temny’s work.

Skimming through it’s easy to latch onto an essential Russian-ness to his aesthetic; from there, to pick apart various apparent influences, & etc.

Such actions ultimately impune the images as both derivative and internally redundant.

However, there are some interesting things to be gleaned if you squint a bit and think outside the box. In other words: Temny does literally thousands of things wrong but at the very least he does them consistently–and in that consistency there is something not unlike a recalcitrant artfulness.

To start with: the above is a shining example of #skinnyframebullshit. The vertical orientation serves no other purpose other than to–given a tight space–include as much of the young woman’s body as possible; even though the frame runs contrary to the logic of the lines of the door and oblique angle of the light which push the eye leftward. (The way the lower frame edge amputates the bottom third of her right food and her left leg mid-calf is also unappealing. Also, a wider frame would’ve diminished the distraction of light falling from a window onto the floor that can be seen in the background between her face and the edge of the door.)

Yet, in this botching of composition, there is something instinctive that should be celebrated. Given this scene the light is hardly ideal. Given the bright spot on the door and the reflected spill onto the floor, this image was made at or very near to mid-day.

A ‘better’ image maker would’ve waited for more diffuse illumination but there is something to be said for the way the light accentuates the texture of the flaking paint on the door, the pattern of tile floor (further enhanced by the fact that the hyper focal point of the image is actually mid-way between the model and the floor), and the arabesques of her sandals.

Also, the pose doesn’t work. Her upper body seems transfixed on something playing out just beyond the edge of the frame; whereas her knees press together in a slightly demure self-consciousness. (Contrast with these MetArt images of Brionie W or this still of Laney from an Abby Winters masturbation video; both are made with a voyeur clearly in mind but although stylized they present a realistic unself-consciousness that is designed to de-emphasize the voyeuristic imperative.)

There is at least one other thing of interest to note–despite the inherent Russian-ness of the image, there’s also a way in which the muddy mid-tones invoke a Francesca Woodman-esque tone; a tone that neither exactly fits nor doesn’t fit the image but strikes me as intentional. If so, whether or not it work, it’s an audacious inclusion and I hope Temny is better able to address the extensive technical flaws with his work because I get the feeling he’s got some truly bad ass ideas he just hasn’t quite figured out how to accomplish yet.

Source: kareltemny.photocentra.ru

Source unknown – Title unknown (XXXX)

The feels this image instigates are hell of conflicting.

Technically, it’s rubbish (#skinnyframebullshit-ery, bizzare vignette-ish blurring and the fact that the image maker assumes a shared cis-male heteronormativity from his audience–suggested by not only the depilated vulva but the fact that the camera’s perspective is slightly elevated and looking down on this young woman.)

Further, I do not enjoy anal play–although I admittedly dabble with it on roughly the same schedule as blue moons occur.

Two things about it appeal to me: First, I appreciate how the intensity of her experience undermines the hegemony of the male gaze; in other words, it’s very difficult to read the dildo here as even an implicit ersatz cock; instead, this is very much a document of–what in my limited experience–appears to be an entirely unfeigned response to physical stimulus. Second, this reminds me of the first time I apprehensively explored my self in a similar fashion.

EDIT: an awesome follower steered me in the direction of what is at least a better quality (if not the original) version of this image.

Alexander Bergström – Miss L (2014)

There isn’t anyone making fine art nudes about whom I feel more conflicted than Bergström.

Right off, I’m not really all that fond of his color work. The decision as to whether the image is in color or black and white seems less at issue than what film happened to be loaded in the camera at the time. And although he handles color skintone better than many, I just don’t ever feel that color contributes anything except itself to the sense of the image.

That being said, the one thing that is consistent throughout the work is the logic of the frame. I’ve never seen an image made by Bergström where I can find any fault whatsoever with where the edges of the frame have been fixed. (I do not mean to imply I always agree with the composition within those frame, however.)

In my estimation: Bergström is an extremely gifted, sometimes even astute B&W photographer. The problem with his work isn’t something I’d probably notice if it weren’t for a personal paraphilia.

It’s not that body hair is something I fetishize, exactly–although when it comes to women who choose not to shave their underarms, I’m likely to enter a pre-swoon state on site–I’m very much into the personal agency to do whatever the fuck one wants with ones body.

So I totally support Miss L’s decision to go bare. It absolutely suits her. But, then I start scanning back over Bergström’s work and it seems that he holds a definite preference for shaving or model’s who shave.

That’s fine, I guess. But it’s also disconcerting when my several of my friends who have children talk about how their pubescent daughters respond to changes in their body but feeling they are required to begin removing any hair that isn’t on their head. Thirteen year olds shouldn’t have to concern themselves with whether or not they need to shave their pubic area–there’s too much else going on at that time and extra bullshit pressure is the last thing a hormonal teenager needs.

Although in my informal count, the preference for a smooth vulva presents in about 65% of Bergström’s work, it adds a level of sexualization to the work that makes me slightly uncomfortable.

I realize there’s nudity is a bit like identity. Sometimes its just a celebration of physical embodiment, sometimes it’s political. And yes, sometimes its sexual or a veritable grab bag of other consideration. The point is–just like how someone chooses to identify–I don’t get a say in that. It’s ostensibly up to the person whose naked to decide that. Except well, when you aren’t dealing with self-portraiture, there is another person who contributes to the identification: the image maker.

I’d never think of accusing Bergström of not respecting the women he shoots–his images exude an almost religious reverence. But I am never sure if it’s a reverence for the woman as a complete self-realized, autonomous wonder who is also capable of sexual expression or a creature who due to her ability to express herself sexually is a complete, self-realized autonomous wonder.

In the case of this image–with what seems as if it might be a reference to Dorothea Tanning’s Birthday–I’m willing to err on the side of giving the image maker the benefit of the doubt that it’s the former option and not the latter.

Unfortunately, with all the work, I find myself not only confronted with beauty and skilled craft, I also find myself always wondering whether its the former or the latter that held sway in the exchange between being seen and seeing that went led to the creation of the image.

Source: Unknown

As far as terms go: ‘fisting’ is problematic.

It’s used because well, duh it’s hell of effective–immediately obliterating any ambiguity regarding its meaning.

Yet, with ‘fist’ routinely associated with the context of ‘fighting’, ‘fisting’ arrives on the scene back filled with at least an implicit connection to violence.

In keeping with this fisting depictions tend to emphasize the extremity and violence of the act. I don’t want to yuck anyone’s yum–if someone wants to have violent sex with (a) consenting partner(s), I support them. But to me, fisting has less to do with extremity and violence than trust and intimacy–again not that those things are in any way mutually exclusive.

…

She lay face down on the bed in my dorm room. I sat beside her, two fingers to stimulating her g-spot.

Shimmering pre-orgasmic tremors curled my fingers slightly and I began to twist my wrists side-to-side.

More. Her voice strangled and husky.

I introduced my right ring finger. Letting it gently plumb her wetness, her warm depth.

I teased her clitoris with my thumb for a moment before corkscrewing my fingers in her again, Her body began to tense.

With both hands she reached back, grabbing my arms: more.

Four fingers; More.

Quick–like dropping a heavy rock into thick mud, my hand was consumed up to the second joint of my thumb.

Are you okay? I asked.

She nodded, pressing my pillow around her face with both hands–a muffled: don’t stop.

I met resistance, pushed into it until little by little the widest part of my hand disappeared.

Her breathe–short, sharp gasps sending shimmering contractions racing along the musculature of her back and thighs

Instinctively, I licked the finger tip and gently massage her clitoris with my left hand. A long, atonal moan stretched itself out from her throat into the room. I twisted my hand so the first knuckle of my thumb moved over her g-spot.

Her moan stuttered and caught in her throat; my hand was suddenly immobilized and then shimmering spasms cascaded in waves.

Source: assboobstits

Giangiacomo Pepe – Untitled (2013)

PART I

Much of this rocks my socks: it’s shot on film, contains explicit nudity and the model is my ‘type’ to a T–thin with small breasts and geeky glasses; for good measure: throw in my permanent association of watermelons wjth Tsai Ming-liang’s brilliant (screw the critics) and perverse The Wayward Cloud.

There are at least two things about it that bother me, however. I don’t want to bring the body hair fetishism fire down, so let me start by saying: when it comes to body hair I believe–without equivocation– your body, your rules.

The trouble is due to the ubiquity of utterly depilated female bodies, undue cultural pressure against body hair exists and by existing it makes it more of a struggle to go your own way.

There’s the matter of her amputated legs, too. (Such is never justified–especially in the context of images featuring full-frontal nudity–but at least there is a compositional sense to it–her navel marks the center of the frame, the upper frame edge just misses her raised forearm and the concrete door jamb running along the second vertical third.)

I feel compelled to compare/contrast Pepe’s work Lina Scheynius, Igor Mukhin and Ren Hang. Yes, there’s extensive variations in styles, themes and tone: Scheynius is playful, Mukhin, insular and unflinching and Hang walks a fine line between confronting taboos and centering them on his audience.

In a similar vein, Pepe leads with his fetishizing of the female body.

The feels such fetishizing gives me are a complicated knot I’ve been wrestling to unravel for more than half a decade.

(PART II)

Source: giangiacomopepe

Exclusive Teen Porn – Teen Threesome featuring Peach + Kyara (2012)

I would really rather skip the citations here because ExclusiveTeen Porn’s features a downright creepy website.

I am more surprised by how unsavory it is than I really should be considering my first reaction to this was SMASH THE PATRIARCHY!

But between the third and fourth syllable of ‘patriarchy’ I’ve registered the red outlining the lower crest of Peach’s right ear, pink flush speading through her checks. And Jesus Christ, her expression–eye closed, lips pressed hard against enamel. trying to focus on sensation, to concentrate to not lose the rhythm, holding out against surrender but want to fall hopelessly hard, now and forever.

My thoughts shift back to how bankrupt this is of artfulness or subtlety. Don’t get me wrong the more graphic the depictions of sex, the happier I am. But I just don’t see how this is anything other than an effort to cater to the basest aspects of what society whispers behind its hands is the stuff firing masculine sexuality. This fellow has two young women who are presented as focused on his sexual pleasure. (Admittedly, the rest of the series does pay lip service to an interest in the women’s pleasure.)

There’s momentary fluttery where I realize that Peach’s labia are just crowning the swollen corona of her lover’s erection and you can see his glans peaking out. That has to feel exquisite.

This isn’t art. Not even close. It’s not supposed to be. Ultimately though it’s like only being able to eat candy when you want something healthy and substantive.

I guess I just don’t understand how with a seemingly legit location with reasonable lighting and people who are willing to be photographed doing virtually anything, why more of a thought isn’t given to presentation.

Put another way: given all the same ingredients, I fundamentally believe it is possible to make art. The fact that no one ever tries is something I take a little bit like a kick in the teeth.

Not to mention it is some insufferable #skinnyframebullshit.

Two final notes:

there is another version of this image floating around Tumblr. It looks terrible. Why do people insist on doing this?
this image has been cropped a quarter of an inch or so on the bottom to remove a watermark.

Source Unknown (.gif by Sumptuous Daydreams)

In solidarity with Evan Rachel Wood.

And OMFG: freckles.

Also, the bottom one sends shivers bouncing around in my tummy.

Source: sumptuousdaydreams

boudoirboudoir:

(via Gilles Berquet la chair)

According to the American Cancer Society one (1) in eight (8) female bodied individuals will develop invasive breast cancer.

Breast cancer is the second leading cause of death for female bodied individuals (after lung cancer).

It’s great news that new instances have decreased and that prognoses have grown more optimistic. The American Cancer Society, Pink Ribbon and other organizations have done a solid job raising awareness, emphasizing early detection and spurring research.

For all that–which should not be diminished–what about the eight person in that room. What part does that individuals fear, suffering and, hopefully, heroic recovery have in the conversation about breast cancer?

Some photographers have started asking these questions. I chose the Gilles Berquet’s image its fetishization of the body (and some definite #skinnyframebullshit).

Still, there is a regal, animal fierceness to the image. A strength and dignity in the face of fashion lighting and overtones of sexualization.

It’s a sight better than the more focused but less adept work of The SCAR Project.

Although the best image I’ve seen encountered is Sandra Blánquez’s stunning Ponte el pañuelo contra el Cáncer de mama.

Matters of respective quality aside: this is important work and it deserves a much wider audience.