He saw her

August 18, 2019

He saw her
walk on the grass,
saw her hips swaying,
heard her sing
some song,
but she unaware
that he was there,
hidden behind a tree,
without knowing
that he could see.

He saw her bathing,
saw her lying
stretched out
in cool water
like a nymph;
took note
of her nudity
before his eyes,
but she unaware
that he could see,
lay freely there.

Seeing her there
pretty naked,
he moaned inside,
his desire bubbled
like a boiling stew,
but still spied on,
for nothing to solve
his pain and lust,
nothing else
would do.

Terry Collet

The night, the sex, the wandering…and the need to photograph it all, not so much the perceived act but more like a simple exposure to common and even extreme experiences…It is an inseparable part of photographic practice, in a certain sense, to grasp at existence or risk, desire, the unconsciousness and chance, all of which continue to be essential elements. No moral posturing, no judgement, simply the principle of affirmation, necessary to explore certain universes, to go deep inside, without any care. A ride into photography to the vanishing point of orgasm and death.

I try to establish a state of nomadic worlds, partial and personal, systematic and instinctual, of physical spaces and emotions where I am fully an actor. I avoid defining beforehand, what I am about to photograph. The shots are taken randomly, according to chance meetings and circumstances. The choices made, considering all the possibilities, are subconscious. But the obsessions remain constant: the streets, fear, obscurity, and the sexual act…Not to mention perhaps, in the end, the simple desire to exist.

Beyond the subject, the lost souls and the nocturnal drifting, the scenes of fellatio and of bodies in utter abandon, I seek to reveal some kind of break up through the mixture of bodies and feelings, to reveal fragments of society that escape from any analysis and instant visualization of the event, but nonetheless, are its principal elements.

The brutality of the form, the intensity of the vision obligates us, still more than images that pretend to document, to involve ourselves with the reality of what we are seeing. The spectator can exist then, no longer finding himself in the position of voyeur or consumer but as sharing an extreme experience, wondering about the state of the world and of himself.

The sense of losing sight of the subject may seem like a paradox in a documentary genre where I try to impose my subjective point of view, in an autobiography born from travels and from wandering. But the emotional strip tease, which lets me enter into the pages of this intimate, photographic diary seems to carry me inevitably towards this vanishing point.

A photograph is nothing but a lie. The space is cut off, the time, manipulated. They are two uncontrollably false appearances of an image condemned to choose between hypocrisy – and good conscience – and being fake. The language used is often one of class: dominator but alienated, unaware of the actual matter at hand: appearance, ambiguity, the imaginary. In my photographs, in my every day practice of the lie, I cannot pretend to describe anything but my situation itself – my normal states of being, my kinky intimacies…I can only comment on the mere insignificance of the photographic moment.

Assigned to the anthology of a reduced knowledge, of castrated experiences, the photographer appropriates himself the gestures, diverts the acts and regurgitates signals that “indicate” our relationship with the images and determine our perception of a reality that has become hypothetical. And so, the world limits itself to icons, an altar in direct opposition to the rituals the photographer practices. But if the liturgy, the prayer and the sermon are still instruments of a vigorous cult, then for photographers, truth and freedom are found only in the realm of confession.

I try to distance myself from a certain type of documentary photography that often avails itself of symbols that are too easy to read and assimilate in order to present a complex reality in a balance that is endlessly discussed over and over between photography as an instrument of documentation and photography as being completely subjective. It isn’t the eye that photography poses on the world that interests me but its most intimate rapport with that world.

The only photographs that truly exist are the “innocent” images. We find them in the family photo albums or in the police archives. Beyond serving as a simple documentation of reality or of a certain aesthetic sense, they attest to the role of the photographer, of his implication, of the authenticity of his position in that moment. The compositions of light, narrative, are no longer, for me, fundamental problems but superfluous lies. What interests me today in an image? The perspective that has justified the act of photography, the interference of the experience, of the ongoing scene, the texture, the material, the meaning of the self-portrait, of the individual, the incoherence of the unfolding sequence, the maniacal reconstruction of the random experience – the photographs, like words, are meaningless when isolated…

To criticize in a coherent manner, the dominant image actually demands from a photo that it is lucid in the midst of its messy situation, from the experience between a glance and a good, hard look, the camera and the unconscious, in its fundamentally tainted rapport with reality and fiction. This approach cannot conceive that within multiplicity, associating technique and practice, sometimes opposite each other in their use of the photographic language, I seek to reveal the inherent contradictions to the “use” of documentary photography, that should supposedly transcribe tangible reality while at the same time, do nothing more than report a myriad of experiences.

I can then make use of the world for my own ends and in a basically solitary experience, remodel it, and transform it at will, almost as if without images, the world no longer exists.

Antoine D’Agata
Until the World No Longer Exists

Sinning on Sunday

November 18, 2018

The girls are really trying to harsh my groove. They cuddle and kiss while I watch from across the room. Both of them are naked; both turned on by the other. But deliberately teasing me with their display of mutual lust and affection. Giving me a hard on that feels like a gargantuan pine-knot in my trousers, and which they totally ignore. This Sunday morning is just for them –

erotic device

August 6, 2017

Writing is an erotic device. The imaginary gaze of the gentle reader has no function other than to give the word a new and strange consistency. The reader is not an end; he is a means, an instrument that doubles the pleasure, in short a voyeur despite himself.

Jean Paul Sartre
Introduction to Jean Genet’s Our Lady of the Flowers

Voyeur

July 23, 2017

Little lost souls

April 15, 2017

Diary 15th April

Mild bondage games with friends last night. Good Friday made more good. Laughter rather than gasps of pain. Huge fun all round.

Highlight of the evening?

E H queening Peedeel on the sitting room floor. She rather prim to begin, wearing a pair of big white sensible knickers. But after five minutes of smothering, the knickers were removed and she continued face sitting sans vêtements until her moment of crisis. Her Orgasme incontrôlé was spectacular to observe, and Peedeel almost fainting away with lack of air, was suddenly drowned – dans les jus naturels!

#

Tonight I M will join the girls for drinks and snacks. She has expressed curiosity about certain Sapphic practices (delights?). The girls have invited her to watch them both; to become a voyeur for an hour or two, or participate if the urge should occur. No rules. Just do what you feel you want to do, when you want. Discretion, as always, is assured.

a-mastur

Voyeur

August 7, 2015

Diana3

I saw Diana bathe
in the still water
wearing that shined sheet
of wet like a coming-out
gift from her father,
hair atangle and every
curve drawing centrifugal
tongues of wanting, deep
into crease and cleft –
enough to die for
and for mortals, that’s something;
her opalescent view, afire
spelled me into bodies
of repetitive stags, staggering
through history, drunk
of her pool and sighted
by the hunter’s smile, dead
upon running, running still,
into the myth
of the dogs,
their cold eyes.

Al Rocheleau

(Al Rocheleau is a poet and educator whose work has appeared in more than forty magazines / journals across the US, Canada, France, Austria, Poland, and, of course, the UK.

Mr Rocheleau’s “teaching articles” have been archived in the resource databases of numerous colleges and schools. In 2004 he was awarded the Thomas Burnett Swann Award by the Gwendolyn Brooks Writers Association of Florida.

He has published three collections of poetry. And as something of a “Poetry Guru”, Mr Rocheleau’s latest book, “On Writing Poetry: For Poets Made as Well as Born”, has proven to be very popular indeed.

He lives in Orlando, Florida.)