basic human needs
07:51 | 18-08-2012 | Art, Literature, Sex | 2 Comments
а вот публичные чтения — со слов автора книги:
Photographer Clayton Cubitt has begun a video series called “Hysterical Literature” in which he films women reading from a book while something happens out of sight beneath the table at which they’re seated. For the first installment, the divine Stoya chose to read an excerpt from Necrophilia Variations while she was being masturbated by a conspicuously effective Hitachi vibrator.
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Of course, I don’t really expect anyone to climax while reading one of my texts. I don’t see a face in orgasm when I imagine an “ideal reader,” yet Stoya’s performance visualizes a deep truth about writing: it is fundamentally a desire to give pleasure.
In a post providing some background on Cubitt’s experiment, Stoya indicates that the pleasure she expects from Necrophilia Variations is one not of orgasm but of understanding. She was motivated to choose the book, she writes, by an “oddly non-morbid obsession” about the way “orgasm affects brain chemistry,” the appropriateness of the French slang la petite mort, and “why my mind goes completely blank when I’m at the height of a sexual experience.” The book can’t answer these questions the way a researcher in an MRI lab might. However, when I think of Necrophilia Variations, I do see it as a sort of brain scan. If you write with sufficient intensity, you attain a state that is the exact opposite of a blank mind: it is a plenitude or even overgrowth of mind that blanks out the body and the world. You become the cogito of Descartes or a brain suspended in a lukewarm liquid like in a sci-fi film. It can be deranging, like a delusion. If the blank mind of orgasm is a “little death,” this is more along the lines of a “little life,” an act of creating something from nothing. Fiat ars.
видео можно посмотреть здесь, и оно в самом деле прекрасное. кроме того, вот, что рассказала сама Стоя:
My underwear lays on the floor out of frame. As I start reading, my disbelief is suspended. I forget what is about to happen. The first touch on my thigh sends all available blood to my vulva. I continue to enunciate properly, focusing on the text. I’ve broken a sweat. If this goes on for much longer my hair will be plastered to my head with perspiration as though I’ve been working out or engaging in acrobatic man/woman penetrative fucking. I stumble over a word, my concentration breaks as I go back to pronounce it correctly. Neither the Hitachi or the woman wielding it will be denied, but in the interests of art (and because this feels so beautifully filthy I don’t want it to stop yet) I hold out as long as I can. This section of the world that I’m inhabiting slows down, zooms in. Like a stretched rubber band it suddenly contracts, and I am lovingly punched with an orgasm.
по-моему, это настоящее чудо. а она — очень, очень хорошая:
What do you think about when you’re having an orgasm?
Nothing.
Maybe you’re thinking, but I know I’m not thinking. My mind is clear. My mouth goes on autopilot, the sounds coming out of it may occasionally be words but they have no intellectual thought behind them. The “oh god”s and “fuck”s are almost a mantra. I am a blank puddle of nerve endings, completely open to sensation. I have no control over my rapidly contracting lower abdomen or my flailing limbs. My back arches, dragging my shoulders over the now damp sheets, pushing my hips down into the mattress. Warm inner forearm skin pressing into my hip bone and leg hair gently crunching against the back of my thigh.
What’s going on here is pure haptic sensation. Touch.Touch is a basic human need.
именно.
слишком большие цитаты, я понимаю. но — серьезно — прочтите ее и его записи целиком. они действительно того стоят.
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