Sex
MOSEX opens doors — earth doesn’t move
Overserious, rushed and muddled, the Museum of Sex comes across like an awkward adolescent on a first date.
The first thing I noticed about the Museum of Sex during a visit last Sunday, a day after it opened, was the monochromatic color scheme. The place looks bleached. White paint, still smelling freshly applied, graces every wall, every ceiling, floor and corner. Even the speakers that offer audio commentary for the museum’s first exhibit, “NYC Sex: How New York City Transformed Sex in America,” are the color of snow.
Clearly, founder Daniel Gluck would like us to believe this is a museum that will make sex clean, fresh, sanitized — intelligent and academic. Ignore the frosted windows that keep passersby from seeing what’s inside. This is a cultural institution with a mission “to preserve and present the history, evolution, and cultural significance of human sexuality.” (Note: Salon has a marketing relationship with the Museum of Sex.)
Titillation is not the goal. Unlike the Sex Museum in Amsterdam, with its brothel-like red walls and lights, New York’s lily-white Museum of Sex aims to inform — and its first exhibit has several Ph.D. advisors to prove it.
Raising sex from the gutter is perhaps a noble and important goal. If the museum manages to inspire an intelligent debate about America’s ongoing struggle with sexuality and sexual policy, everyone with sexual instincts will probably be better off. But in its first iteration, the museum has overreached. “NYC Sex” feels rushed, overeager in its seriousness and just plain haphazard. The curators have unearthed a handful of extremely interesting aritifacts — antique tin condom containers from the ’30s, for example — but they don’t hold together as a coherent, focused exhibit. There’s potential here, lurking in the comprehensive collection of text, object, video and sound, but the exhibit feels not quite mature, like an adolescent who’s groping a lover for the first time.
Part of the problem comes from the topic itself. An exhibit on sex in New York is a bit like an exhibit on art in Paris — there’s just too much ground to cover. The show starts in the 1840s, with the murder of a prostitute in a downtown brothel, and moves progressively through the “terror sex” that followed Sept. 11. Between these two poles there lies Anthony Comstock (the vice crusader Congress empowered in 1873 to close down brothels and rid the country of pornography); Margaret Sanger and her birth control advocates; the rise of the Ziegfeld Follies, burlesque, then stripping in the ’30s and ’40s; stag parties and films; pictures of early butch/femme lesbian culture; Paul Cadmus’ male nude photographs; Christine Jorgensen, a male G.I. turned 1950s female media sensation; “the kink of Wonder Woman”; fetish wear and its move from the fringe into the mainstream, as seen in Catwoman’s black leather outfit.
This is sex in New York before the 1960s. By the time the show reaches the era of the sexual revolution, two and a half floors have been filled. Only one room is dedicated to the ’60s through the present, which is a shame, because it relegates AIDS to a single panel filled mainly with letters from city officials to bathhouse owners, who rebelled against being shut down. Pornography, and the rise and fall of its critics, garners only a few feet of display space as well. “Deep Throat” is mentioned as a turning point in America’s relationship with porn, but was New York a hotbed of appreciation or criticism? And where did the critics go — did porn change or have feminist values changed instead?
These inquiries are left unanswered. Other unanswered questions also came to mind as I traipsed through the museum. The most basic was simply, where am I supposed to go next? The exhibit was organized in rows that followed a chronology (I think) but there was no directional guidance. At one point, I found myself reading about how “the Minskys” were closed down before I discovered that they were four brothers who cornered the stripping market in the late ’20s; at another point, my audio guide was telling me about brothels while I stood in front of a skull that was ravaged by syphilis.
Much of the disorganization can probably be chalked up to opening-exhibit jitters. A sign near the entrance asks viewers to excuse the museum’s appearance because it’s still a work in progress — a point I was glad to have seen while exiting, if only to explain the empty display cases that I kept wondering about.
It should also be noted that curating an exhibit on sex in New York is nothing like curating an exhibit on Picasso, where the works can be easily found and borrowed with the right connections. Finding a way to display references to an act most often done in private — in a city that often erases its past to make room for the future — is no easy task, particularly if you work for the only museum dedicated to this kind of thing.
From this perspective, the show looks like an achievement. After all, there are several fascinating items and tidbits of information. The small array of Paul Cadmus photographs, for example, look crisp and beautiful, both intimate and artful. The information tying butch culture to the jazz singers of the ’20s, particularly Ma Rainey, also came (to me at least) as an interesting surprise. And most visually impressive of all was the sexual apparel: the early S/M leather, the royal blue satin Playboy bunny outfit, and my personal favorite, an antique burlesque gown studded with gold cosmetic jewels and diamond-shaped mirrors. I also couldn’t stop staring at an intriguing black-and-white photograph from the ’70s that showed a group of preppy men and women drinking and smoking while watching a naked woman masturbate on a sheetless waterbed. (Talk about capturing the sexual revolution on film!)
But what’s frustrating about “NYC Sex” is that these significant informative gems end up buried. The show’s overambitious breadth, lack of organization and the noise (every single display case seems to come with a blaring speaker) drown out the items that have something to teach, even as the pristine white walls and humorless curating let nearly everything recede quickly into oblivion. Viewers would have been better served by a focused exhibit on, say, sexual clothing — the coverups we’ve considered a turn-on from the 19th century on.
I hope at some point the Museum of Sex will tackle this kind of narrow, visual subject. But in the meantime, visitors are treated to a sprawling survey of sex that’s wide in scope and occasionally interesting, but ultimately shallow. The potential for brash color, coy sensual genius and yes, academic inquiry is all there. But for now, the white walls dominate.
Damien Cave is an associate editor at Rolling Stone and a contributing writer at Salon. More Damien Cave.
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.”
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
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