EROTICA IS WORTH 1,000 WORDS
You are reading these thousand words because of this image. We understand. That’s why the image is there. That’s what this piece is about: the image. And your gaze upon it. Not these words. Not the politically problematic undercurrent that runs through any essay written by any male about any image of any woman in 2024.
Go ahead, take another gander. We have time.
To a hurried web surfer, it may not appear much different than a slew of other images popping up day and night, night and day, flashing, distracting, leading you down naughty rabbit holes even as you innocently shop for a bathrobe or search for the etymology of scatology, but, rest assured, this image is different. Take another gander. We have time.
Just enough skin in just the right places. A stunningly naked ear, a confident jutting jaw, a taut muscular throat, a deliciously hairy nape, flawless skin, mouth ajar, an unfluttered eyelash, dreamy eyes that don’t dream of you, a fist pump fist. Oh, and that buttocks, that big bright behind embellished by shadows and stray straps. The posture says she’s loose and yet tense, precisely posed and yet improvisational, just like her perfectly messy jet black tresses, descending to her breasts, having just been shifted to the far side, the way they do in certain films to allow full view of a face performing whatever act comes next.
What does come next? Any guesses? Few are chaste. Sneak another peek. It’s all right. Lingering allowed. Lento. Gawking welcomed. Sostenuto. The focal point keeps moving. Not only is this a leather-loving cop’s mug shot/lineup wet dream, but an ideal visualization of a woman you don’t know…in a pose you never imagined…and may never figure out…and whose next move is…
Wait. This brings to mind a three-word cavil about American erotica. Women get naked. Too fast. Too soon. Not like European debauchery, where women remain clothed to varying degrees from beginning to climactic finish. What good is shooting a nun or a bride or a cheerleader or a soldier who is totally out of uniform? You would have thought that Salome or Victoria’s Secret would have taught important lessons to pornographers. Less is more, more or less. That that seventh veil is sacred.
Though writers may cringe at such a cruel idea—we’re looking at you, Henry Miller--a picture is, or can be, worth a thousand words, or sexdecillion words, or a googol-worth of words. In our insta-snap-X world, the value of one good image has increased exponentially. Or decreased dramatically. (Still working on that algorithm, by the way; data is not our strong suit.)
Everybody wants to seduce you on the web. Search for best surfing spots in Australia and you wind up with the Ten Sexiest Athletes Down Under. Google nearby yoga centers and you find 20 Celebrities In Yoga Poses That Leave Nothing to the Imagination. Imagination? Who needs it? The newest Kardashian kid is loitering on a red carpet with a black athlete draped over one arm and a see-through designer garment draped over body parts formerly considered private. Imagination? What’s that? Do Shakira or Rihanna leave anything to the imagination? Does Emma Stone hide any little thing in Poor Things?
This image, however, lubricates the imagination, triggers a thousand questions. Is she Japanese or Eurasian or the girl next door? Would Trump bar her from crossing the border or adopt her ASAP? How did she end up in this pose? Or is it not a pose but a single frozen frame in mid-action? Is she slightly embarrassed or elegantly arrogant? Is that an expression of yearning or satisfaction? What is she wearing? When was the last time she ate a three-course meal? What is her right hand about to do? And why? Is her apparent pleasure genuine or feigned? How did her pants arrive and stop at that exact spot? Are they traveling up or down? Are her eyes closing or opening? Or forever doe? Is she thinking about you thinking about her? What did her left hand just do? And where is it going next? Is there anything underneath that leather jacket other than sweet-and-salty sweat? Is she wearing anything below the belt? Why am I thinking Middle Ages? Sir Lancelot? Is she looking at something tangible or just middle space? Is she about to sit down? On a chair? On a toilet? On a face? Can you hear Chuck Berry at the top of the hill?
The photographer is Jurij Treskow. He was born in Belarus in 1984 and raised in Brest, an unironic irony. Breasts do not interest Jurij Treskow. Colors do not interest him. Blacks and whites do. Starkness does. Do not forego the foreplay. Do not get distracted by light sources or narratives, by bed posts or flowers or wallpaper. No mise en scene. No mess on scene. Just her. It’s all her. Barely any of her.
What kind of footwear is out of view? Any tattoos?
Images by Jurij Treskow have appeared in Russia and U.K. and the EuroZone, magazines called TUSH, Numero, WAS, Grazia, Treats; in GQ and Esquire. We share some kinks, Jurij and me, inclinations, peccadilloes, male kinships. I’d like to go on a pub crawl with Jurij Treskow. I’d like to watch him work. I’d like to see how he makes his sausages.
No quotidian pork products here, however, no Kate Upskirt, no li’l Miley swinging naked on a U.N. pendulum wrecking ball. What do you really know about the woman in this picture? (Go ahead, take another look. We have time.) Not her name, her history, her mother tongue. Can we call her Tabula Rasa? Less is more, more or less. Your vast ignorance frees your jittery mind to wander hither and yon, and start anew with each digital rendezvous. This image is unfinished business, bub—until you do the finishing.
“And your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.”
That was Walt Whitman.
This is Kataryna Synogub.
I am Bruce Buschel.
You are welcome
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