Perhaps quite appropriately, I type this to The Modern Lover’s Pablo Picasso.
It’s not that I’m a prude. It’s not that I’m averse to the human body. It’s not that I’m narrow minded. It’s not a thousand and one things. But it is something.
It’s that I am in fundamental opposition, both intellectually and instinctively, to pornography.
And what else is a woman, partly clothed in garments considered to be titillating, typically awkwardly placed in a bedroom or by a window and photographed solely* for the male gaze? What else but soft porn?
Art? Don’t give me that. If someone thinks that’s art, they’ve never been to a fecking art gallery and actually looked.
Don’t believe me? Pick a device to examine it by – say, a grammatical metaphor. What’s the subject of this visual sentence? I would suggest the viewer. Not the woman – that’s the object. Everything is acting upon her.
How about looking at it in terms of narrative? What’s the story here? What’s the plot? What’s unfolding? Anything plausible? Perhaps her window sash jammed when opening it to let some cool air waft in, so as to stir her hair while she was getting changed, and now she needs a handy man (any man handy will do) to come round and fix it, with his hard tool. Happens all the time…
* as in, there’s nothing else, despite any commentary to the contrary, going on