Eroticism

[bookworm69]

Is it the image that remains (like a snapshot) which reinvigorates, or is it the memory of the sensation and feeling of it? Or all of the above? Curious to know for you. For me, it is the image (I’m quite a visual person) and that relights things and starts a chain reaction.

For me, the image is visual married with sensation and feeling. Caveat, the image can be corrupted by time and any overlapping memory (& feelings). After all the brain, constantly collating everything is a complex organism.

 

[bookworm69]

I have been a little busy, and so have not been posting. It's a busy stretch at work, but I've recently been interested in Ellen von Unwerth's photography. Her world of women fascinates me because they capture women in their different guises. yet, under all these captures, I see in von Unwerth's vision a fragility, a sensual fragility. I want to love the women she captures because they are fragile, becauzse I see my own fragility in them. This is not the fragility of a physical kind, nor moral or emotional. But its a fragility that stems from the awareness of being woman, the awareness of one's constant hounding, constant surveillance, and the subterranean voices and impulses.

I see the awareness, my awareness of my constructedness. That I am, and always will be a moment of pure desire.

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Beautiful, gorgeous images. I never considered the fragility that you speak of. But, I can see what you’re saying. From a male perspective, that’s rather eye-opening and I’ll be thinking of it in the future.

Thank you.

 

[softbird]

This is a raw form of eroticism, dark, gritty, flawed, imperfect, but so tantalisingly desirable. Daïdo Moriyama’s work is so compelling, because it believes, has faith in the beauty of the banal.

 

[softbird]

Do you love me because you see me, engulf me in your avarice, because I am your Frankensteinian monster? Or do you love me because I see you, because my eyes acknowledge your presence?

Is the erotic possible only when it embraces, or is it distance that brings it to life?

 

[bookworm69]

MMmm ... that's an interesting question -- do I love you because I wish to engulf you, seize you ... or do I love you because you acknowledge my presence?

As a male, the subordinate of the species, I have to say the latter. While you may fit in a given acceptable template of desire, most males walk through life invisible. So, when our presence is acknowledged .... ahhh .... that's where love begins. Look in the animal kingdom. Look, for instance, at birds, the male has to do the courting ... making sure that the female believes that she has picked the strongest, prettiest or the one who has built the best nest. Clearly, the male has to be acknowledged.

The answer to the second question is the erotic must be embraced. It is only possible where a moment has to be taken to appreciate. A moment where the senses and the mind have been seized and where the erotic is considered. While there may be some distance involved, the look or the presentation say, "reckon with me." While there may be some distances in the images above, see Image Nos. 1, 2, 3, 5 and 6. All the women have a look that say, "look at me; I am someone you should see."

 

[kneelingagain]

Do you love me because you see me, engulf me in your avarice, because I am your Frankensteinian monster? Or do you love me because I see you, because my eyes acknowledge your presence?

Is the erotic possible only when it embraces, or is it distance that brings it to life?

these are gorgeous

 

[softbird]

these are gorgeous

Aren’t they?

 

[softbird]

When she walks away from me, I feel the earth abandon everything, I feel the wrath of loneliness, but also, the sweet ache of what was.

 

[bookworm69]

When she walks away from me, I feel the earth abandon everything, I feel the wrath of loneliness, but also, the sweet ache of what was.

All too true. Although that "sweet ache" ... is overcome by the enormity of the abandonment.

 

[softbird]

All too true. Although that "sweet ache" ... is overcome by the enormity of the abandonment.

But that there was once sweetness...is this not enough? Do you think the sweetness is defenceless against emptiness...?

 

[softbird]

These are moments when the calmness of the mind, coalesces with sun-kissed contemplation.

 

[softbird]

I feel, increasingly, that the erotic lies somewhere in the silences between things, the moment before the finger touches skin, before lips say prayers to flesh, before sunlight marks my body wrapped in sleep.

 

[softbird]

Here is a thought - the history of the world is the history of men's love affair, one bordering on obsession, with the woman's body.

 

[softbird]

Having discovered that you had been looking at her, when all she wished was for the world to turn away, she stared back, almost as if challenging, goading you to unsettle the hornet's nest.

 

[Cultivateddesires]

I feel, increasingly, that the erotic lies somewhere in the silences between things, the moment before the finger touches skin, before lips say prayers to flesh, before sunlight marks my body wrapped in sleep.

But also in the unexpected eroticism of that touch you weren’t expecting, brushing past someone, or the glimpse between shirt buttons that disappeared as quickly as it came.

 

[softbird]

Yes, but isn't the eroticism of these things made more palpable because they are fleeting, and it is the memory of these things that make them erotic?

Forgive me...I'm playing devil's advocate here. I really should stop being so contrary...

 

[softbird]

These pull at my heart strings. Achingly sad, crushingly painful, and compel me to drown in them. I wonder what it is about these images. Perhaps its the way the spaces these figures inhabit drown them, or that they seem to be mere fleeting presences as they disappear from our sight. I see myself in them, in their ghostly, almost somnambulic restlessness.







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[softbird]

Where women gather, there is a soft burning of intimate understanding. Words are nomlonger currency, but touch, presence.

 

[Coconutty70]

When she walks away from me, I feel the earth abandon everything, I feel the wrath of loneliness, but also, the sweet ache of what was.

Ah, you’ve made me cry! It’s not just the ache of what was but the promise, hope and anticipation that she brought. Oh what it is to lose that! Gosh, you hit a nerve.

 

[Cultivateddesires]

These pull at my heart strings. Achingly sad, crushingly painful, and compel me to drown in them. I wonder what it is about these images. Perhaps its the way the spaces these figures inhabit drown them, or that they seem to be mere fleeting presences as they disappear from our sight. I see myself in them, in their ghostly, almost somnambulic restlessness.

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These all speak of yearning to me, for what might have been. Something deep and sensual and a knowing that one is denied.

 

[wizard59]

I think the eye prefers curves to straight lines. But we live in cities of straight lines, such a tyrannical regime of lines that brooks no resistance. So, when we see curvilinear forms, we give it a name - Eroticism

These thoughts and definitely these images cause pure burning to feel, touch, taste down to the heart and soul.

 

[softbird]

Ah, you’ve made me cry! It’s not just the ache of what was but the promise, hope and anticipation that she brought. Oh what it is to lose that! Gosh, you hit a nerve.

I hope you don't shed too many tears...

 

[softbird]

Renata Litvinova has the look of a She-Wolf, silent, deadly, strong, commanding. But she also has the aura of a cat, sensuous, fluxuous, oozing a kind of charisma that melts me each time I come across her.

Her germanic roots are palpable, a conquering prussian/Viking aesthetic, but it is tempered with the grace of a divinity. It must be the way she holds her gaze, the way she is supremely aware of her body's capacity to bend to her will, her modulated look, the eyes themselves art forms.

 

[softbird]

Here recorded is my love affair with the oversized shirt, white preferably. I think its the way it only insinuates the form while drowning it, the way it hangs, soft, restful, like light gossamer, so that it hugs the shoulders and them hangs languorously down over the form which is only implied, but never made overt.

A garment that exudes nonchalance, but it all the while oozing...

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[softbird]

She is a closed shell, cloistered reverence to the temple of her soul.


She transacts with dead souls, whose words are etched on paper wings flutering in the palm of her open hands. Rarely, if ever, she looks at you with any sign of desire, so keen is she in the art of retreat.




Her mind, ah! her mind is a box of bees, ricocheting against the wooden encasing, thud-thudding in calamitous frenzy.

But only say to her, you are free, come, be what you have been and what you will be, then, and only then, she smiles.