THE FACE OF EROS

Here are some writings that I resonate deeply with that clarify and inform why I am shooting these Nude/Erotic portraits the way I am:

—Dian Hanson, Shedding Some Light from the foreword to The New Εrotic Photography Forward Volume 1
“By now everyone is familiar with pοrn publisher Gloria Leonard's quote that "the difference between pοrnοgraphy and еrοtica is lighting." As far as quotes go it's a great one: glib, concise and memorable. But is it true? People kept asking how I tell the еrοtic photography from the pοrn, and invariably the lighting question would come up. At first, I just said I go by my gut-but after looking at thousands of purported erοtic photos I've got some better answers, and they have very little to do with lights.

I began to see how lighting, composition and creative vision could add up to a more іntimate photograph, enhancing the viewer's connection to the model and increasing the sеxual impact.

This debate about what distinguishes artistic nudіty from base pοrnοgraphy is as old as the first nudе photograph, meaning nearly as old as photography itself. To the puritan, all nudеs are filth; to the libertine all are defensible. Most people fall somewhere in between, but there is so much in between that there's seldom agreement.

I also have been asked, if a photo could, or should, be called erοtic if it doesn't аrοuse Ⅰust. A widely held point of view among photographers is that Ⅰust is unimportant because erοtic photography is about beauty, or sensualіty or psychological stimulation, and that аrοusing the viewer was just an occasional unplanned side effect. Curious, since the definition of erοtic is "of or pertaining to the sеxual pаssiοn'' (The Oxford Universal Dictionary), or "аrοusing, or designed to аrοuse, feelings of sеxual dеsіrе" (Microsoft Word Dictionary).

Would photographers be so at odds with the dictionaries if crass, uninspired sеxual imagery were less culturally ubiquitous? Of course they want to distinguish themselves from the glut of generic pοrn, but if the point of separation is the viewer's zipper the genre becomes a contradiction in terms. So how does еrοtic photography maintain its dignity while staying true to its sеxual roots? Perhaps by embracing its potential to be more аrοusing than pοrnοgraphy.

Eros was, after all, not just the God of love, but of sеxual love, the most sublime form. Ρassionate love is such a dizzying, transcendent union of heart, mind, body and soul, that erοtic photographers should be over-supplied with inspiration and, by extension, fans. Pοrnοgraphy's supposed appeal of sеx reduced to its physical mechanics, divorced from emotional commitment, seems faint by comparison. I say "supposed," however, because my years editing a variety of magazines taught me that men do weave fantasies of love around models in even the crudest pοrnοgraphy. I've read hundreds of tender, heartfelt letters sent to women known only to the writers from their photographs in magazines, enough to convince me that the male ability to separate sеx and love is way overrated. If anything, men are particularly vulnerable to falling for women who fulfill their sеxual fantasies. Consider how often you hear of a man leaving his wife for a new woman because she makes more money. So, if men can fall in love with pοrn models, you'd think the models often found in еrοtic photography would reduce them to jelly. And they do, when the women are allowed to show their faces.

Why do so many photographers think the way to invest a nudе with artistic integrity is to cut her head off? Oh, they'll tell you they love and respect women and find pοrnοgraphy hateful and degrading, but I can't be the only one who sees a headless woman as more of an object than a complete woman with her legs spread. Some photographers even describe their work as "bodyscapes," because they've made the poor models look like boulders or sand dunes instead of human beings. I've heard the explanations that these headless bodies maintain mystery or modesty, but I still feel cheated. The photographer, after all, got to see everything. He enjoyed his model's blush as she undressed for the camera the first time. He saw her anxiety as she searched his face for approval and watched her confidence grow when she found it. If he was lucky he also caught the glow when she discovered her exhibitionistic streak. Then he, or she, keeps all that for themself and gives us a bodyscape? This is why romantic men are buying pοrn instead of еrοtic photography. The camera work may be uninspired, but at least there are faces to search for a spark of pаssiοn, for some hint of genuine sеxual response.

When I was researching Νаkеd as a Jaybird, my book on 1960s hippie nudist magazines, I interviewed a photographer in his late 80s who had worked for nudist, girlie and art photo magazines back in the 1950s. One company in Chicago owned all the tіtles and issued a separate set of photographer's guidelines for each. For the nudist magazines the model was to be completely nаkеd, with one leg angled to hide her pubіc region, smiling at the viewer to show her healthy innocence. For the girlie magazines the model was partially dressed, to add sеxual tension, with provocative eye contact to make the viewer feel dеsіrеd. And for the figure art magazines the model was to be completely nudе but subsequently airbrushed, with her head turned away from the viewer. “So she would look like a statue," said the old photographer, "and that's what made it art." 50 years later and photographers are still using this tired old formula for art nudеs. Isn't it time for a change?

Here, then, is my gut's guide to telling еrοtic photography from pοrnοgraphy. First, toss out all the bodyscapes. Take what remains and study the model's figure. Is it frozen in a pose that serves no useful purpose in everyday life? Are the fingers of one hand formed in a V and used to separate the labia for no apparent reason? These may be the subtle signs of pοrn. Now the really important part: Examine the face. Does the overall expression suggest smoldering pаssiοn, while the eyes say nobody's home? Regardless of the lighting, I'd say you've got some pοrnοgraphy here.

Εrotic photography, on the other hand, should show the body in believable positions and more important, it must capture some genuine emotion on the model's face. Ideally, we'll see her pleasure at sharing herself with the viewer, but I will accept embarrassment, uncertainty, even anger, as long as there's something looking back at me to say a living, breathing woman was part of the photographic process.

Εrotic photography at its best should reveal the small imperfections that make a woman unique and memorable, and provide the hook to grab your heart. Only when these elements are in place is it time to check out the lighting.

If it sounds like I think еrοtic photography is as much about the model as the photographer, I've made myself clear. When I look at a sеxy photograph I don't want to see technical tricks. I want to be sucked in by the woman in the picture and fooled into feeling a part of her sеxual agenda. Making that trick work takes much more talent than just moving lights.

Face it: Very few professional nudе models can be honest in front of a camera. They quickly learn to hit their poses and cover their vulnerability with a simulacrum of pаssiοn that makes real еrοticism impossible. A great photographer has to recognize the woman who can truly share herself with the camera, then he or she must be able to tease out that feeling and catch it on film, a skill not taught in photo school. In my experience this requires an іntimate connection with the model, not necessarily physical intimacy, but an emotional bond to fuel the creative relationship. One of the best photographers I know tells me he's drained after a session because he projects his own feelings and energy onto his models to propel the shoot forward. That's far more personal investment than shouting, ''Now arch your back! Yeah, make me want it, baby! '' while running your model through glamour poses one through ten. But maybe how much self you're willing to sacrifice is, in the end, the real separation between еrοtica and pοrn.

I hope you construct elaborate fantasies about the women in these photos and feel that if you two ever met, the chemistry would be instant, mutual, and all-consuming. And that will lead towards dispelling the myth that all it takes to raise Eros is the right light.”

Forward from The New Erotic Photography Volume 2
“First, let us remind ourselves calmly that eroticism is not an aesthetic value. The quality of space, of the graphic line, and of light are all aesthetic values, but sexuality is not. The touch, the desire, and the warmth of the body are sexual values, not aesthetic ones. Yet these two fields, although radically separate in the world of the mind, are intimately linked in reality, a paradox that is evident in every "nude" in history. Beauty and desire combine in a sensuality that belongs to both, even though for obvious reasons it should not. The very word "aesthetic" denotes something that we feel, but precisely because we have placed the experience at a distance, as a subject for disinterested contemplation, a confrontation with a reality that is alien to us. Erotic feeling, on the other hand, is possession, a confusion of bodies that breaks down the distances established by social custom. Both have a profound relationship with the absolute - some would say with God - but each in its own way, and for that very reason, the two are both irreconcilable and inextricably linked. This extreme tension is always in evidence. Yet because of our habitual prejudices and failure to look attentively, we normally ignore it.

With regard to the nude paintings of the past, let us not be naive; at the time they had an erotic charge that no longer affects us, but which did affect viewers then. It is impossible to tell how much of their success in those days was owed to their plastic qualities, and how much to other factors. With the passage of time their eroticism has evaporated, and all that remains is our judgment of them as art.

At their extremes, form as such and physical need can suddenly overlap with one another. Behind many photographic interpretations of the nude lies the haunting memory of ancient marble statues, which themselves were just official copies of lost Greek models, with their profound vibrations. In the worst cases, the sham nobility of the academic nude can be a hypocritical cover for mere pοrnοgraphy. Here, one can easily turn into the other. At the opposite extreme, violent sensuality can give rise to new techniques in light and shade and distortions of the flesh that count as great art.

The processes of creation are always those of an incarnation. The meaning of the flesh like the meaning of the earth in the Zarathustrian sense is a reality, the only one that brings art and eroticism together, and that is even more profound than they are.

I'm as susceptible as any human to bright, shiny, perfect things. But as an editor I'm noticing, and finding myself drawn at the same time to photographers who leave in a few imperfections: that fleshy crease at the waist when the model twists to brush the back of her thigh, or the damp particles of earth on the sole of her bare foot.

I love how Photoshop can change the whole mood of a photo by shifting yellow sunlight to softer, melancholic blue, but also how natural light shapes a buttock, describing its soft fleshy weight so perfectly you can feel it on your fingertips. And while I appreciate the skill of those who use Photoshop to increase the emotional impact of an image, in true pictorialist style, I'm appalled by how often it's over-applied, turning perfectly attractive models into two-dimensional cartoons.

For a photograph to have true erotic power - whether we define erotic as sexually arousing, or capable of inspiring love - there must be enough of the model - the living, breathing person – still present for the viewer to feel a human connection.

But the most important element is how well photographers capture the whole person, the face as well as the body. Because if we're really letting Eros be our guide, we must acknowledge that while a great body, beautifully lit and digitally perfected, can create lust, it takes a face to inspire love.”

Philip Larkin, The Pleasure Principle 1957
"It is sometimes useful to remind ourselves of the simpler aspects or things normally regarded as complicated. Take, for instance, the writing of a poem (this can be applied to the creation of any art - especially photography). It consists of three stages: the first is when a man becomes obsessed with an emotional concept to such a degree that he is compelled to do something about it. What he does is the second stage, namely, construct a verbal device that will reproduce this emotional concept in anyone who cares to read it, anywhere, any time. The third stage is the recurrent situation of people in different times and places setting off the device and re-creating in themselves what the poet felt when he wrote it. The stages are interdependent and all necessary. If there has been no preliminary feeling, the device has nothing to reproduce and the reader will experience nothing. If the second stage has not been well done, the device will not deliver the goods, or will deliver only a few goods to a few people, or will stop delivering them after an absurdly short while. And if there is no third stage, no successful reading, the poem can hardly be said to exist in a practical sense at all.

What a description of this basic tripartite structure shows is that poetry is emotional in nature and theatrical in operation, a skilled re-creation of emotion in other people, and that, conversely, a bad poem is one that never succeeds in doing this. All modes of critical derogation are no more than different ways of saying this, whatever literary, philosophical or moral terminology they employ, and it would not be necessary to point out anything so obvious if present-day poetry did not suggest that it had been forgotten. We seem to be producing a new kind of bad poetry, not the old kind that tries to move the reader and fails, but one that does not even try. Repeatedly he is confronted with pieces that cannot be understood without reference beyond their own limits or whose contented insipidity argues that their authors are merely reminding themselves of what they know already, rather than re-creating it for a third party. The reader, in fact, seems no longer present in the poet's mind as he used to be, as someone who must understand and enjoy the finished product if it is to be a success at all; the assumption now is that no one will read it, and wouldn't understand or enjoy it if they did.

Why should this be so? It is not sufficient to say that poetry has lost its audience, and so need no longer consider it: lots of people still read and even buy poetry. More accurately, poetry has lost its old audience, and gained a new one. This has been caused by the consequences of a cunning merger between poet, literary critic and academic critic (three classes now notoriously indistinguishable): it is hardly an exaggeration to say that the poet has gained the happy position wherein he can praise his own poetry in the press and explain it in the class-room, and the reader has been bullied into giving up the consumer's power to say "I don't like this, bring me something different. Let him now so much as breathe a word about not liking a poem, and he is in the dock. And the charge is a grave one: flabby sensibility, insufficient or inadequate critical tools, and inability to meet new verbal and emotional situations. Verdict: guilty, plus a few riders on the prisoner's mental upbringing, addiction to mass amusements, and enfeebled responses. It is time some of you playboys realized, says the judge, that reading a poem is hard work. Fourteen days in stir. Next case.

The cash customers of poetry, therefore, who used to put down their money in the sure and certain hope of enjoyment as if at a theatre or concert hall, were quick to move elsewhere. Poetry was no longer a pleasure. They have been replaced by a humbler squad, whose aim is not pleasure but self-improvement, and who have uncritically accepted the contention that they cannot appreciate poetry without preliminary investment in the intellectual equipment which, by the merest chance, their tutor happens to have about him. In short, the modern poetic audience, when it is not taking in its own washing, is a student audience, pure and simple. At first sight this may not seem a bad thing. The poet has at last a moral ascendancy, and his new clientele not only pay for the poetry but pay to have it explained afterwards.

Again, if the poet has only himself to please, he is no longer handicapped by the limitations of his audience. And in any case nobody nowadays believes that a worthwhile artist can rely on anything but his own judgement: public taste is always twenty-five years behind, and picks up a style only when it is exploited by the second-rate. All this is true enough. But at bottom poetry, like all art, is inextricably bound up with giving pleasure, and if a poet loses his pleasure-seeking audience he has lost the only audience worth having. And the effect will be felt throughout his work. He will forget that even if he finds what he has to say interesting, others may not. He will concentrate on moral worth or semantic intricacy. Worst of all, his poems will no longer be born of the tension between what he non-verbally feels and what can be got over in common word-usage to someone who hasn't had his experience or education or travel grant, and once the other end of the rope is dropped what results will not be so much obscure or piffling (though it may be both) as an unrealized, "undramatized" slackness, because he will have lost the habit of testing what he writes by this particular standard. Hence, no pleasure. Hence, no poetry.

What can be done about this? Who wants anything done about it? Certainly not the poet, who is in the unprecedented position of peddling both his work and the standard by which it is judged. Certainly not the new reader, who, like a partner of some unconsummated marriage, has no idea of anything better. Certainly not the old reader, who has simply replaced one pleasure with another. Only the romantic loiterer who recalls the days when poetry was condemned as sinful might wish things different.

But if the medium is in fact to be rescued from among our duties and restored to our pleasures, I can only think that a large-scale revulsion has got to set in against present notions, and that it will have to start with poetry readers asking themselves more frequently whether they do in fact enjoy what they read, and, if not, what the point is of carrying on. And I use "enjoy" in the commonest of senses, the sense in which we leave a radio on or off. The following note by Samuel Butler may reawaken a furtive itch for freedom: "I should like to like Schumann's music better than I do; I dare say I could make myself like it better if I tried; but I do not like having to try to make myself like things; I like things that make me like them at once and no trying at all (Notebooks, 1919).

Midori. From Wild Side Sex: The Book Of Kink: Educational, Sensual, and Entertaining Essays
“Allure of Femme, She glides into a crowded room. The energy of the room seems to shift imperceptibly. A head turns here, a conversation stops there; the temperature seems to rise just a bit. You can’t help but notice her. There is something quietly commanding and alluring about her. We’ve all had experiences like this. You’ve just encountered that intangible effect called the Femme allure. There is a mysterious power to certain women — certain Femmes. They defy the law of physics as they raise or lower environmental temperature by their mere presence. They confound physiology by breaking and healing hearts with a single glance. They inspire super human acts in those touched by them. Poets call them muses and succubae. Some religions have damned them as witches or honored them as magical. Hollywood of old called them Femme Fatales. Some call them sexy, others call them wicked. So what is this Femme allure? You know her when you see her: Dietrich, Becall, Hepburn, Monroe, Madonna, Cleopatra, Mata Hari, Scheherazade, Lady Murasaki, Mary Magdalene, Madame DuBarry and so many more. The Femme is an icon, a fetishized idol, taking on powers beyond her flesh-and-blood self.”

Midori, Wild Side Sex: The Book Of Kink: Educational, Sensual, and Entertaining Essays
“The erotic photographer also has a profound effect on the person being photographed. Even the most sensually aware individual will not have a sense of his or her own beauty from another’s gaze. The invisible eyes of the photographer can substitute for the gaze of the lover and that of society. When acting as the desiring and approving eyes of the lover, the photos created gives the model a new visual language and self-awareness as a sensual being. Not only is she validated, but she may also discover her own visual sensual appeal that she was not previously aware of. Let’s celebrate and enjoy the art created by the sexual, fetish and erotic photographers. . . or perhaps to make some of our own.”

Transient Sexual Desire: Sartre’s Philosophy on Lust by Nick Holt
“Sexual desire is widely recognized as a physiological response to a human instinct ostensibly referred to as one’s ‘sex drive’, or ‘libido’. While it is self-evident that sexual desire may organically lead to sexual activity, the motivations behind this project are not as widely understood or discussed in philosophical terms as the apparent biological motivations. For Jean-Paul Sartre, sexuality holds great existential significance and is primarily driven by one’s own relational significance to other human beings. Sexual desire for Sartre cultivates a unique state of consciousness in which a human being may simultaneously become both the subject and the object. The movement from sexual desire to sexual activity disrupts this unique state of consciousness and for Sartre the disruption leads to a combination of sadistic and masochistic tendencies that become unequivocally essential to any normal sexual activity.

In order to conceive of sexual desire as an existentially motivated project rather than a biological one it is important to understand the ontological argument put forth by Jean-Paul Sartre. Sartre distinguishes two fundamental categories of human being: the ‘Being-for-itself’ and the ‘Being-in-itself’ (Sartre, 1956, p 120). These categories approximate to transcendence and immanence, or a self-reflective being and a non-reflective being. Sartre argues that the Being-in-itself presents to the world as a passive object with an inability to transcend what it represents. Typically this category is reserved for physical objects such as a rock that does not consciously analyse its potential to present itself to Man as something other than a rock. The Being-in-itself simply is what it is and is never anything but what it is (Martin, 1996). Sartre argues that if a human represents this category of being he fails to acknowledge that consciousness is ‘no thing’ or ‘Nothingness’ and hence he is acting in bad faith (Sartre, 1956, pp 47-67). For Sartre, the Being-for-itself is the negation of the Being-in-itself. An example of this might be one’s attempt at refusing to transcend his job title, i.e. a lawyer presenting himself to the world as nothing beyond the intrinsic and given qualities of a lawyer. The reason this example is problematic is that, while lawyer may go to great lengths to present himself to other human phenomenon as an object, he is aware that he is also a human subject.

Unlike the Being-in-itself, the Being-for-itself reflects on its role as an object and is consciously aware of its freedom to transcend the object it represents. Thus, it is responsible for creating its own meaning and value in the world. An example of this might be a woman who is employed by day as an accountant, but when she arrives home from her job as an accountant she makes a choice to work on a painting she’s been crafting. She is aware of her freedom and the perpetual possibilities bestowed upon. While she paints, the woman conceives no thoughts of herself as an object, i.e., she does not wonder if her paintings are good enough, or think of the argument she had earlier in the day with her mother; she concentrates on the each brushstroke and simply paints. For the woman, consciousness is ‘Nothingness’; she has transcended it. The man, however, jostles between transcendence and imminence, and the result is angst; for of course, the notion of transcendence and imminence existing simultaneously is an impossibility.

The Being-for-others is introduced by Sartre as a third and supplementary category of being, representing one’s awareness of its objectness in the world for other human beings. The manifestation of this category occurs when another human being appears in one’s world. In essence one becomes a human object – a special kind of the Being-in-itself. The Being-for-itself creates tension between the fundamental modes of being, and one’s reduction to an object status for another human being evokes a presumed loss of control in how one is represented in the world. Take the following example as a realisation of this mode of being. A man is approaching a woman in a hotel hallway. The woman is wearing an open blouse; once she becomes aware of human phenomenon she buttons up her blouse in an effort to mitigate any angst or shame she may feel. She has become aware that she is an object to this Other and this causes angst. Of course, it could be argued that under different circumstances the woman may not have felt any angst or shame, and therefore may have left her blouse as it were. Her and the man may have found themselves sexually attracted to each other. They may have flirted, swapped their contact details and arranged to meet up after. In this instance, the ostensible trust gained through sexual desire would make it seem like the man and woman have avoided the aforementioned angst. For Sartre, the reciprocity of the seductive gaze the man and woman have just conferred upon each is a representation of human conflict. Jean-Paul Sartre argues that this conflict causes natural sadomasochistic tendencies and it is through the movement of, and interaction with, the three modes of being that one inevitably stumbles upon his sexuality and arguably misinterprets the aim of sexuality (Sartre, 1956, p 383).

Sexual desire for Sartre is the impetus for discovering one’s sexuality and is driven not by a biological motivation but by the ‘look’ or gaze imposed upon one by the Other. Sexual desire fosters a unique state of consciousness in which one seeks to retain its security in the world as an object. Sartre writes, ‘My original attempt to get hold of the Other’s free subjectivity through his objectivity-for-me is sexual desire’ (Sartre, 1956, p 382). By seducing the Other one must assert oneself as the subject but also acknowledge oneself as an object and a target of desire himself. Sartre refers to this relationship as a ‘double reciprocal incarnation’ (Sartre, 1956, p 391). It is the mutual awareness of subjectness and objectness shared by him and the Other. Sartre writes ‘I make myself flesh in the presence of the Other in order to appropriate the Other’s flesh’ (Sartre, 1956, p 389). Take for example the following scenario as a realisation of this mutual awareness. One is at a nightclub and notices the Other’s seductive gaze; the Other does the same and a mutual interpretation of sexual desire is formed. Both become aware of their role as a desired object for the Other and it is through this conscious acknowledgement that self-subjectification is sequentially separate. Sexual desire is an ideal state that has no necessary connection with some goal, aim, or end in view and is the solution to fundamental conflict between ourselves and Others (Oaklander, 194-199).

Sartre argues that the double reciprocal incarnation achieved during sexual desire is one of a temporary status and is ultimately ruptured by sexual activity (Sartre, pp 419-20). Consummation breaks down this duality and once again dichotomises one’s positional significance as either a subject or object. Through sexual activity one fractures the ideal state attained during desire and acts on the perceived necessity to assign physical pleasure as the quintessential objective of sexuality. Sartre writes ‘…we have added pleasure as desire’s normal satisfaction-for reasons external to the essence of desire (e.g., procreation, the sacred character of maternity, the exceptional strength of the pleasure provoked by ejaculation, the symbolic value attached to the sexual act). Thus the average man through mental sluggishness and desire to conform can conceive of no other goal for his desire than ejaculation’ (Sartre, p 384). If sexual desire is considered the ideal state of being then it must be accepted from Sartre’s point of view that sexual activity is the denouement of the intentional project; it is the destruction of sexual desire and symbolises its failure. The causal effect for the disruption lies in the intentionality of one’s advancement from sexual desire to sexual activity. The destruction may be accomplished by intentional pleasure or intentional appropriation of the Other (Oaklander, 194-199).

Simply put, this equates to masochism and sadism. Sadism for Sartre is the choice one makes to ignore one’s own incarnation and objetness; to seize the Other’s transcendence. The result is the retention of control. As Sartre writes, ‘Sadism is a refusal to be incarnated and a flight from all facticity’ (Sartre, 1956, p 399). Conversely if one chooses to relinquish that control and become absorbed in the pleasure that the Other is providing he is engaging in masochistic sexual activity. Drowned by the intoxication of immanence, the masochist denies his transcendence and therefore his freedom. Sexually, the masochist derives pleasure from his immanence; the trade off is a dramatic reduction in his freedom. Sexual activity gives rise to the two fundamental modes of being and contained in them is the sadist and the masochist. For Sartre, this sadomasochistic tendency is irremovable from normal sexual activity, as he writes: ‘Thus sadism and masochism are the two reefs on which desire may flounder – whether I transcend my troubled disturbance toward an appropriation of the Other’s flesh or, intoxicated with my own disturbance, pay attention only to my flesh and ask nothing of the other except that he should be the look which aids me in realising my flesh. It is because of this inconstancy on the part of desire and its perpetual oscillation between these two perils that ‘normal’ sexual activity is commonly designated as sadomasochistic’ (Sartre, 1956, p 404).

Sartre’s ontological framework allows for a world in which human conflict may give rise to one’s own sexuality. The constant movement from immanence to transcendence amidst a world of other human phenomena creates indisputable aguish, and for Sartre, the exclusive method of elusion is sexual desire. Through sexual desire one may accept the delusion that immanence and transcendence form a unique symbiotic state that has some representation of the human condition, and while is it accepted that this state can be cultivated, its effect is temporary due to the rupture caused by the movement from sexual desire to sexual activity. It is this movement that differentiates sexual desire from sexual activity. Sartre argues that this movement produces a defined polarity in sexual intentionality that is represented by sadism and masochism, and it is these tendencies that inevitably form the essential components of human sexual activity. While it is perhaps more facile to distinguish sexuality as a biological project that is motivated by a physiological need, Sartre’s argument for the existential significance of sexuality is paramount in a philosophical context.”