Eroticism is widely defined as a quality – often visual – that causes sexual feelings or desire, and also concerns the aesthetic contemplation of sensuality, and even romantic love. Within erotic art, this can extend to any aesthetic quality which may incite arousal, include nudity, or be suggestive of sexual activity. As I have widely considered in the case of context, explicit material and public audience, erotic art is often censored or causes friction when it is displayed or available to view on social media. My work with pornographic imagery, would, by the above definition, sometimes fall into the category of erotic art, however – so far – I have not been accused of sharing inappropriate imagery, other than Instagram removing a re-posted image from Playboy’s own account (Ironically, their original post was not censored by this same monitoring algorithm). As discussed in previous posts, I believe much of this recontextualisation is due to the colourful and stylised way in which I present these ‘explicit’ images and poses, however, recently I have been considering the effect of the cropping technique I use in my works and how the removal of certain parts of the figure often completely change the perspective on certain imagery.
In pondering this, I have begun to really consider the way in which modern society has been conditioned to eroticise certain parts of the body. Citing Facebook’s censorship rules on images including the nipple – which, as you know I love to reference constantly – shows us a flagrant example of the way in which one particular body part, or one specific gender is considered to be sexual, while the male nipple is under no censorship guideline. The exact community standard on ‘Adult Nudity and Sexual Activity’ reads as follows:
“Our nudity policies have become more nuanced over time … while we restrict some images of female breasts that include the nipple, we allow other images, including those depicting acts of protest, women actively engaged in breast-feeding, and photos of post-mastectomy scarring. We also allow photographs of paintings, sculptures, and other art that depicts nude figures.”
It is particularly interesting to see their statement regarding the allowance of artworks depicting nudity, especially given the censorship of artists like Elly Smallwood and Martine Emdur. As discussed in the Royal Academy’s Gatekeepers of Censorship talk, the struggle of artistic censorship is epitomised; “In an age of successful digital media platforms and the prolific production of transgressive artworks, new methods of censorship have become a controversial and impeding issue for contemporary artists.” (2019: https://www.royalacademy.org.uk/event/gatekeepers-of-censorship-contemporary-erotic-art-in-a-digital-age ) Despite the obvious relevance of medium in terms of the context of nudity, I am particularly intrigued by the way in which certain body parts are deemed erotic, and also the disparity in gender eroticism – as we see above in the censorship of only female nipples.
Beth A. Eck states that “the nude image resides comfortably in three familiar and bounded frames: art, pornography and information. These frames clearly provide the reader with cues that aid his/her interpretation of the nude as well as his/her evaluation of the nude.” (2001: 603). These ‘frames’ are precisely what I hope to challenge with my paintings, by removing the context, I remove the aided interpretation and evaluation of the nude figure. But, I also feel that these frames address the notion of compartmentalisation, as by – literally – framing an image differently (ie. Cropping a pornographic nude to only show the hands), we are also reframing its context, intention and use. As a new viewer will have no visual cue to signify that the original image is of a pornographic source or nature, they will simply see hands, and most likely interpret the image and categorise it under the ‘frame’ of art or information. So, then, are these hands pornographic? Erotic? Explicit? Does this new image created by focusing on one body part hold the same characteristics of the original?
It would appear not.
As such, we can assume that at some point, the inclusion of certain body parts creates the notion of eroticism in an image. From Facebook’s policies, we can see that they deem this to be any female nipple, genitals of any gender, or the depiction of a sexual act. For individuals, this line of ‘inappropriateness’ may be higher, lower, or just a little more blurry. But we all, either consciously or subconsciously, have a line in our mind of parts of the body/figurative imagery that we would deem to be sexual. We need only think of Georgia O’Keefe’s work, to know that the majority of society find imagery of – or in this case imagery which is reminiscent of – the vagina/vulva sexual.
Interestingly, in the case of painting, there is often a wider acceptance and willingness to view ‘sexual’ parts of the body and even ‘erotic’ depictions publicly, because of their medium. Just as social media platforms allow paintings of nudity, because of their ‘frame’, it would seem that society as a whole is more comfortable with an erect penis or female masturbation, simply because it is presented in oils or acrylic, rather than as a photograph. Edwin Mullins describes just such phenomenon in The Painted Witch: Female Body: Male Art (1985), stating that “Art turns people into objects… Paint – defines a woman’s breasts as describes the bowl of oranges on the table beside her. No tactile reference can distinguish between the two, only what the mind of the spectator brings to what he sees.” (1985: 85), which explores not only the recontextualisation of a subject through the unifying nature of becoming painting, but also explores the objectification of the painted body, through the act of painting itself. As with a systematically ingrained patriarchy, the painter (historically male) is taking ownership of and objectifying a subject (historically female) through painting them. In doing so she becomes his property and a malleable subject and the painter/subject relationship asserts a dominance to the painter. Either conscisouly or otherwise, the viewer then assumes a submissive or controlled character upon the subject, because of the objectification imposed by gaze and the painter/subject relationship, but also through the reclassification as object, through the medium of paint.
Of course, as with any art, there is a subjectivity as to what is deemed erotic, pornographic, or sexual. However, we can clearly see that there is a delineation in the collective societal consciousness of these attributes. Using social media policies or the TV watershed as quantifiable examples, we all encounter these rules of what is appropriate or not on a daily basis, but where does this come from? When did we decide that a photograph of a nude bum is not appropriate for public consumption, but putting a strip on fabric on it makes it okay? When did painting the same bum make it suitable for public viewership? Evidently, gaze and ingrained patriarchal standards play a large part in this, but also the sexualisation of specific body parts because of patriarchal standards. The free the nipple movement argues that the female nipple is no more sexual than the male nipple, and scientifically speaking, we must agree. Yet, throughout history, female nipples and breasts have been deemed sexual/erotic, by a widely male demographic. Just as I discussed in my last post, could this be down to an ingrained power dynamic? If women were free to be topless in public – as men are – would this attack the ingrained misogyny of policing the female body?
Put simply; yes.
Throughout this blog, I have included images of various body parts. Some of which are cropped from ‘pornographic’ or ‘erotic’ imagery. Some are from generic social media imagery. I wonder if you can tell which are which, and I wonder if eventually the nipple will become as normal and accepted as the ankle…