Sex
Art as turn-on
A new book, coauthored by John Waters, is like looking behind the scenes at a perverted gallery opening.
It takes a special someone to find contemporary art sexy. It’s not difficult to find someone who gets a little frisson of pleasure from a photo of the naked and nubile, or the unflinching documentation of a subversive act of penetration. But there’s something rarer and more perverse about being turned on, both physically and mentally, by complex, perhaps obtuse works at the Museum of Modern Art or those crazy galleries in Chelsea.
That is one of the premises of the brain- and sometimes groin-titillating new volume by filmmaker-artist John Waters and critic-curator Bruce Hainley. In “Art: A Sex Book” the kind of contemporary artworks that usually lead unseasoned viewers to simply scratch their heads and dismiss the whole arena of hoity-toity galleries are sprayed with an alluring conceptual scent of musk. The authors give a new and often sexy spin to images that don’t initially scream with sensuality, and they offer more serious consideration to images with uncloaked porno roots — for example, Claude Wampler’s indelible photograph titled “Scrotum Yarmulke,” a wacky image of a guy pulling his balls over the head of his lapdog.
Like beauty, the notion of sexiness is in the eye of the beholder, and here the eyes belong to a pair of art world denizens with well-articulated, somewhat exclusive tastes that careen from high to low and back again. It’s fairly common knowledge that John Waters has a thing for the perverse as well as contemporary art — passions that came together in his 1998 film “Pecker,” wherein he satirizes both the making and the consumption of contemporary art. Besides making films, he’s a noted collector and has some fun with gallery-world conventions by making his own photo pieces and clever sculptures (which will be the subject of an exhibition at New York’s New Museum in February).
L.A.-based Bruce Hainley, who spearheaded this publishing project and invited Waters to collaborate, is one of the most interesting and opinionated voices in contemporary art criticism. His writing for Artforum offers a particularly queer eye for art and culture. (In his 2003 top 10 list in the current issue of the mag, he cites the So Cal soap “The O.C.” as “Douglas Sirk on Ecstasy,” a notion that deeply resonates in certain circles.)
“Art: A Sex Book” is a collaboratively organized group exhibition — one with a perversely carnal theme — in book form. The idea that the author-curators are creating a “sexual space” is made evident by titling the book’s chapters “rooms.” Each contains thematically or visually connected artworks that enhance an erotic reading. These spaces are simply numbered, and behind each “door” are provocative visual morsels that reveal the pleasure in curating, in pointing to unexpected connections between unlikely images. Given Waters’ involvement, it’s not surprising that the tone of the project is queer, as in peculiar.
How else can one term the inclusion of inherently unsexy works like a reproduction of a one-hour-photo receipt by “Kids”-meister Larry Clark or a deadpan color image of a generic airport tarmac by the Swiss art duo known as Fischli & Weiss? You’ll have to read the transcripts of the often entertaining, sometimes pretentious conversation between the two authors to get the context, which is intermittently convincing. These interview-style texts, however, also point to the erotic allure of a good dialogue, one that meanders from the hipster sacred to the profane.
Waters and Hainley introduce the volume revealing their stance as collectors and critics:
“JW: Contemporary art is sex. The artists, the cute kids working in the galleries, the paperwork from the galleries, the crating and shipping, all the young ‘hangers on’ crashing the openings — it’s all about sex.
“BH: Sex is a prime motivator for making contemporary work, even when the art doesn’t seem to have anything to do with sex or nudity. Making art — especially if it’s interesting art — is a sexy occupation.”
But they’re not above getting irreverent about things. Here they are discussing a thick, oozing 1992 painting:
“BH: What do you imagine the drips and stains in Carl Ostendarp’s Pillow Talk to be?
“JW: Well, they’re brown. So I always think it’s what they used to call a ‘log jam.’ However, someone I know said ‘cum.’ I don’t think anyone would ever say ‘Jello.’ Maybe it’s ‘skid marks.’”
Of course, there are more graphic iterations of flesh and curious practices here. There are a few pop artifacts like the cover of the gay-for-pay Old Reliable video catalog, with its selection of naked, cigar-chomping str8 dudes brandishing hard-ons, and a good selection of male stripper snapshots by the infamous fan with an Instamatic, Gary Boas (who also offers a fantastic 1975 picture of thespian goddess Geraldine Page with truly scary hair).
But more often the carnality is filtered through more artistic eyes. Jeff Burton, who has created an interesting body of work by photographing from the sidelines of gay porn shoots, is represented here with more explicit imagery than he’s published before. The pictures, most dated 1999 and scattered through the book, are shots that while graphic aren’t necessarily erotic. One pinkish-hued photo shows two dicks docking (that is, one tucked into the other’s foreskin); another depicts a side view of a formidable but limp penis dangling disembodied in a dark glory hole. The curved dick contrasts with a grid of chain that dominates the composition. In the parlance of contemporary art history, the picture evokes Eva Hesse’s merging rigid modernist structure with the pliable uncertainty of genitalia.
A queer heterosexual viewpoint is represented by pervy images of women by Richard Kern, who contributes a memorable image of a voluptuous mother-daughter duo who fondle their large breasts and genitals on a couch. Waters aptly comments that it’s difficult to tell which woman is which. Another of Kern’s images, of a woman whose rope-bound breasts are reddening balls, is paired with a more enigmatic formalist sculpture by Vincent Fecteau — an artist that Hainley fervently champions and Waters collects — a piece that features two small wooden spheres set within a vaguely architectural space. This kind of unexpected juxtaposition is Waters and Hainley’s more usual trope in this volume, and quite often it leads us in fascinating, eye-opening directions.
That said, this Sex Book doesn’t always transcend the chilliness of its art-world-insider position, even if the art-speak is peppered with references to funky things like camel toes and trade. But the authors aren’t necessarily aiming for mass appeal. Waters has described his playful interest in equating a gallery’s back room, that place with the secret stash of goodies that dealers reserve for special customers, with the similarly named grope chamber in a smoky gay bar. If those two locations have meaning for you, “Art: A Sex Book” will feel just like home.
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.”
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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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