Antiques. Antique pornography. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have some kind of appreciation for what women looked like in erotica over the decades and centuries.
Of course I never realized it was specifically European women ( because they get all of the historic representation) when I was in middle school.
Later on I would discover Japanese erotic photographers and artists, but it all started with pinups.
Vargas, of course. Betty Page, an absolute icon. And then, even older photographs of women. From the 17th and 18th century. Large bush and soft bodies. So beautiful, I was enamored. Butts being paddled in muddied black and white. Rarely, but sometimes, a flirty look or even a smile.
There was something regal and classy about the photos. It felt like I shouldn’t be seeing them at all. These photos didn’t feel taken with an audience in mind.
It felt bad to look at them, like they belonged tucked away.
I can imagine young women going out to the forests with a charming man with a camera. I suppose that the same power comes from a willingness to participate in naughtiness and fun would have existed hundreds of years ago as it does now. A comfort with yourself and your own body. That’s the power of womanhood. That’s real divinity in my opinion.
The lighting always seemed natural. So bright. The settings were almost romantic. It wasn’t as rough and violent as pornography evolved to become in 2019. It contrasted sweetness against the modern disgust you can scour the internet to find these days when searching for pornography.
A mystical bush peaks from beneath a skirt, saying hello in the forest as she exchanges stories with a close friend. A cold naked bum sitting on the hood of one of the very first cars, smiling and looking brave. This is the kind of pornography I live for.