Sex
Robert Mapplethorpe
The artist's early self-portraits weren't just raunchy and masturbatory -- they presaged his beautiful and notorious future.
Robert Mapplethorpe, more than many other artists, managed to find a way to exploit his pleasures for fun, art and profit. He wasn’t the first to do so — artists throughout history have created images of things and comely persons they adored. But he was clearly the first to be able to do this in the milieu of the queer sexual underground. His vision, as it comes through in his indelible photographs of gay male sexuality and perversely well-endowed flowers, may have been a bit on the ominous side and limned with sadomasochism-tinged Catholic guilt, but the subtext is always about getting off on sex and unexpected forms of beauty.
Somehow, it’s nice to learn that his work was always that way. His first photographs, black-and-white Polaroids taken in the early 1970s, have recently been collected in a slim volume called “Robert Mapplethorpe: Autoportrait.” These little-seen formative images reveal the artist, alone in his studio/bedroom, confronting the creative act, his body and sexual fulfillment.
Not surprisingly, they’re self-portraits with an erotic edge. Mapplethorpe is seen in various states of (fetish) dress and undress, arousal and repose. Quite a few are elegantly composed images of raunchy masturbation. Many of the images seem like test runs for the more famous photographs he took in the late 1970s, in which he had models (often his friends or lovers) posing in a more polymorphous range of sexual activities. These include many of the pictures that made up the notorious National Endowment for the Arts-razzing X and Y Portfolios, which are compiled in the rather explicit “Robert Mapplethorpe: Pictures,” another Arena publication.
The self-portraits may not be Mapplethorpe’s most memorable pictures, but in many ways they serve as a template for everything he did subsequently. They offer a unique insight into his artistic development as they trace the parallel tracks of his artistic and sexual histories. He consistently applied formalist composition to his photographic subjects, bracketing them snugly against solid backdrops, much like flesh cinched tightly in a leather fetish ensemble. Adventurous sexual practices are often equated with wild abandon — the antithesis of elegance — yet the crisp black lines of a leather lace being tightly wrapped around testicles, as Mapplethorpe is seen doing, add a nice bracing contrast to an image.
What gives Mapplethorpe’s work its power is just this tension between the act and its presentation. The artist, who died of AIDS in 1989, had a refined eye and defined physical tastes. In the book’s short, contextual essay, scholar Richard Marshall writes that Mapplethorpe “wanted to infuse art with personal reference, subjective expression, and allusion to real time and emotion.” Marshall also points to the genre of body art — staged physical acts performed for the camera, like Bruce Nauman’s famous work in which he becomes a human fountain by spitting a mouthful of water into the air. Mapplethorpe’s actions, however, seem to be fairly accurate reflections of his sexual proclivities. One presumes he did the same salacious things without the presence of the camera.
In these early works, Mapplethorpe comes closest to creating private porn using the sex-friendly instant-imaging technology of the Polaroid camera. (The unmistakable angle of arms holding the camera above the head is apparent here.) Yet the artful layer of composition always sets them way apart from what you might see today on an amateur porn site. He was an artist, after all, and he positions his tongue, penis or whole body in the frame with a honed sense of symmetry.
For example, in an almost narrative sequence of pictures (Pages 39-42), he uses an unadorned mattress, and its striped ticking and white buttons, to provide a framework of geometric abstraction. First he shows the mattress alone, a worn and slightly faded surface upon which sexual activity unfolds. It’s essentially a backdrop for a theater of solo sex play. In the next image, his hand and forearm extend from the left holding a white piece of fabric, perhaps a sheet, perhaps something to bind. Formally, it adds a sense of physicality and movement to the vertical stripes. In the next image, we see Mapplethorpe dressed in skimpy but severe black leather — an ominous hood with a zippered mouth, a studded collar around his neck, gloves and a swooping U-shaped garment that cradles his crotch while thin straps of leather lie taut over his shoulders. (In other photographs, this same garment resembles something the burlier guys from Kiss might wear if they were kinky rather than cartoony.)
It’s a leather scene to be sure, yet one presented in a highly composed manner. The photographer’s pale flesh is smooth like polished marble, and the black fetish garments provide areas of contrasting black. There’s a stillness to the image that suggests that the mattress may not be resting on the floor, but leaning against the wall, playroom style.
In a less artful group of pictures that precedes the mattress shots, Mapplethorpe unzips his pouch to reveal his formidable penis sheathed in metal rings. The elaborate bangles also happen to be connected to nipple clamps that, via a harness ring, appear to be attached to his penis-wear. The picture is a bit too much about the hardware to be a truly effective work of art. But one must bear in mind that these pictures were taken circa 1972, when such things were still very much rooted in the sexual subculture, not the costume department of a rock video production company. One of Mapplethorpe’s achievements was to give that subculture vision in the world at large, adding to an artistic dialogue on identity politics.
Some, like major Mapplethorpe detractor Jesse Helms, found this a dubious achievement indeed, but Mapplethorpe clearly transformed sexual culture by creating conscious visual records of and perhaps even lending dignity to formerly marginalized practices. You’d never have been able to find an image of fisting in a Barnes and Noble if he hadn’t come along.
For all the raunch that’s on display, there’s also a sense of sweetness in the auto-portraits. The youthful artist (seen long before the Mephistopheles guise of his famous late self-portrait) seems almost innocent in the images that close the book. They find Mapplethorpe reclining on his bed in positions that evoke a teenage girl on the phone to a crush — gabbing in the position that can and here does lead to dreamy self-pleasuring (nude, sans toys). But in these works, it’s pretty clear that the artist is not just playing with himself. He was on his way to making some of the most memorable sexual images of late-20th century art.
Glen Helfand writes about art and culture for the San Francisco Bay Guardian and other publications. More Glen Helfand.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
Continue Reading Close
Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
Continue Reading Close
Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
Continue Reading Close
Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
Continue Reading Close
Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Page 1 of 403 in Sex