Grand opening. The Museum of Modern Art has once again proven its sure instinct for what will bring the hordes of the City's fine people. The Human in Erotic Art – A Sensual Travel Through Centuries. Or, one might figure, the shrewd museum management has realized that also the posh crowd yearns for good ol' porn. Regardless of which, even this exclusive, invitation-only advance showing has gathered a scrum; the crème de la crème of art critics, the cultural elite, corporate managers and high-ranked politicians as well as a number of odd fellows, who, like me, do not really know the reason for the invitation but out of vanity have donated fortunes to the museum.
Enters. The glimmer and heavy make-up of the classy crowd quickly fades as my senses are overwhelmed by the powerful impact of the masterpieces in front of me. The first impression has nothing to do with the scenes per se but a pandemonium of colours, lines, shadows and the tangible feeling of centuries of painters' hard work and inspiration around me.
The scenes. Beauty through the eyes of genius. Centuries of lust. Women, mostly, but also men pictured from every angle, literally as well as figuratively. Pleasure versus pain. To tell from the silence of the visitors a transcendental, near-religious experience has stunned us all. Scratching feet and rustling clothes are the only sounds that disturb the soft back-ground music and occasional moans and other sounds of lust that provide frames to certain works of art.
The masters. Ancient fertility goddesses tenderly crafted by long forgotten artists. Salacious pottery and frescos from the earliest cultures. Babylonian lust, Hellenistic playfulness, tantric illustrations, Roman perversion providing a delicious blend of depravation and naivety. Art, literature, music. Leonardo da Vinci. Boccaccio. Marquis de Sade. Rodin. Degas and Manet. Toulouse-Lautrec. Picasso. Classic masters accompanying contemporary artists I have never heard of but whose works radiate energy that runs like electricity through my veins. They are all here and their devotion to capturing the essence of lust communicates freely with all my instincts.
This is true; this is right. I am human – my physical reaction is good and sound. Is it my imagination or has the air become scented by musk? Or are the autonomous nervous systems of my fellow visitors and me divulging their appreciation of the exhibition by a generous triggering of endocrine glands?
Today's special feature. An hour (or is it more?) has passed. Lights are softened throughout the museum with the exception of the grand hall where a curtained podium in its centre attracts attention of several spotlights. Curtains are drawn, rolled up against the ceiling and a rotating circular catwalk is revealed. Three gigantic wide-screens above the podium display the sculpture that has now become the centre of everybody's attention.
Sculpture? No it is not a sculpture but a live human being. A woman lies on the catwalk. I walk closer; still watching the screen since I do not want to shoulder my way through the pack in front of me (has the stir become a bit more aggressive?). The naked woman is lying face up; her torso arced over her limbs, which seems to be brutally tied together behind her back. Hogtied. The ties are a work of art themselves. Calves are glued to her thighs by black leather belts buckled around them making her heels press against her behind. Leather cuffs chain her wrists under the small of her back. I elbow my way closer to the stand. The impression of the frail creature before me intensifies. The ties appear even tighter when my vision is not filtered by the television screens but I can see them, almost feel them, at close range. Her head is swung back towards the floor; completing the arc of her torso. Leather thongs secure a red ball in her mouth; a drop of saliva in the corner of her mouth is glistening in the strong lights. Her dark brown hair is spread over the floor beneath her. Even though she is blindfolded, a trick of my mind gives me the distinct feeling that she can look right through me; recognize my arousal, sense my heat.
The artist. Only now do I notice the sign by the podium:
