Chapter1
Last summer I happened to be on a business trip to the capital. I quickly took care of everything, there was still time before my train, and I decided to wander around the city. I’m walking along aimlessly when I see a poster inviting me to an exhibition of erotic photography by V. Shcherbanskyi. Hmm, why not? In any case it was better than trudging the streets under the scorching sun.
I paid a trifle for admission and found myself in a large, cool hall and, as it turned out, in a world previously unknown to me, with its own rules, relationships and peculiar morality.
There were few visitors, and I was glad, because who likes a crowd breathing down your neck and commenting on what it sees? Especially at an exhibition of erotic photographs!
The high standard of the work was obvious at first glance. The photographs, even the most explicit ones, were disturbing but not repellent; they were made with skill, taste and a sense of tact, and one of them simply stunned me.
“Beautiful! Incredible!” escaped me involuntarily, and I was overheard by a tall, lean, middle-aged man with a neat little beard, in a black T-shirt and ripped jeans.
“You like it?” he asked, coming closer.
“Very much!” I said, glad of the chance to share my impressions. “Now this is real erotica! It looks as if the woman is posing just for you and wants only you! What an eloquent look! What expression! It’s simply brilliant! Pity I know nothing about the subject, but on me this photo...”
“Come now,” the stranger objected. “Every man knows something about this subject!”
“Maybe,” I didn’t argue. “But just look, isn’t this photograph beautiful? Something incredible, don’t you think? And this one on the right isn’t bad either! A real marvel! I never expected to get such deep aesthetic pleasure from ordinary pictures, and not even in colour!”
“I’m glad,” said my companion with a satisfied smile.
“Glad?” I was surprised. “Why? Why are you glad?”
“Because I am the author of these photographs,” the stranger said proudly.
“Is that so? So you are the V. Shcherbanskyi?”
“Indeed. Vasyl Petrovych Shcherbanskyi, at your service.”
“Very nice to meet you! I’m Vadym.”
“Likewise,” the photographer smiled, then turned to me seriously: “Vadym, could you explain what you liked about this photo? What exactly attracts you? It shows a fully clothed woman, so hardly anyone pays attention to it: everyone is in a hurry to see something more explicit.”
“What attracts me?” I was at a loss. “Well... I don’t know... The look, probably. Yes, the look. And the pose. And the disorder of her clothes, too... yes, yes, a rather eloquent disorder. Or maybe all of it together... I’m afraid I can’t explain. And why would you need an amateur’s opinion anyway?”
“Believe me, Vadym, your opinion matters to me. Thousands of visitors have seen this photograph, but only a handful managed to see in it what I see. And you are one of those few.”
“Strange... But I really don’t know!.. Anyway, it’s all by chance. I ended up here by chance, by chance this picture caught my eye and stirred certain emotions. Maybe the photograph reminded me of something. Or maybe I was subconsciously ready to see every image as erotic, and if I had seen this photo in a magazine with the caption ‘pianist’ or ‘librarian’, I wouldn’t even have noticed it.”
“Interesting... Would you really not have noticed this photograph?”
I looked at the photo closely, and again I was gripped by a sense of intimate connection between me and the woman in the picture, so strong, so obvious and at the same time so elusive that words failed me.
“I would have noticed it,” I admitted, and sighed. “Yes, I would have. There is something about it... something very familiar... some kind of tension, or maybe... how should I put it...”
“And did you like the woman?”
I looked at the picture again, because I realised with surprise that I didn’t remember the woman at all! No, you could hardly call her beautiful... Ordinary. Even a little vulgar.
“Are you provoking me?” I dodged the question.
“No. So? Did you like her?” the photographer insisted.
“Well, let’s say she isn’t my type. I like a different kind of woman.”
“But this time you found her attractive,” Mr Vasyl remarked, and it was not a question but a statement of fact.
“Yes,” I didn’t argue.
“Am I boring you?” Vasyl Petrovych suddenly caught himself.
“Not at all! It’s not often you get to talk to the artist himself!”
“And what would you say if I showed you round the exhibition?”
“I’d be honoured,” I answered politely, trying to make my words sound convincing, because I was not at all sure I would enjoy such company. Perhaps none of the following works would appeal to me, and I would have to be insincere, because Vasyl Petrovych would want to hear my opinions and would be hoping for praise.
“What the hell?!” I got angry with myself. “I’m not going to pretend, I didn’t ask for this! If I don’t like a photo, I’ll say so!”
I set off along the planned route, trying to find a photo I could criticise. For a while we walked in silence, no opportunity for criticism arose, and Vasyl Petrovych behaved impeccably, trying to stay unobtrusive. I relaxed and enjoyed every picture. I liked everything! And what could be more beautiful than a naked female body?
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Vasyl Petrovych closely watching my reactions, anxious as a student before an examiner, but it didn’t bother me in the least.
At last, almost at the very end of the exhibition, we found ourselves in front of a stand with photographs of women’s faces, and again I felt a strange excitement growing in me. I peered into each photo and realised that they had something in common, something very familiar, but what?
Suddenly it dawned on me!
“Vasyl Petrovych! Admit it: these women were photographed at the moment of orgasm, weren’t they?”
“Exactly!” he said, delighted. “You guessed! Was it hard to work out?”
“No, not hard. Although it didn’t come to me straight away.”
“Are you perhaps a sexologist? Or a sex therapist?”
“No!” I laughed. “Rather the opposite!”
“What do you mean, ‘the opposite’?”
“My work has to do with the exact sciences,” I answered evasively.
“Then you are very observant,” said Vasyl Petrovych. “Few people guess what happened a moment before the shutter clicked. The photographs on this stand interest almost no one; I’m even afraid visitors see nothing erotic in them and wonder why they are here.”
“I can’t believe it! To me they are among the best! Along with the one where we met... And it isn’t the only one like that. Hmm... I think... I think I’ve figured it out. Those first photographs were taken ‘before’? And these ‘at the moment’, right?”
“Right.”
“Then one can assume that the ones in between are, so to speak, ‘during’?”
“Yes,” Vasyl Petrovych agreed.
“It follows that you took these pictures...” I began confidently, but caught myself in time and fell silent, realising I had almost crossed the line of decency.
I think Vasyl Petrovych understood what I had meant to say, but he said nothing; only something in his face changed, and I turned and walked on, scolding myself for my inappropriate chatter. What right did I have to poke my nose where it didn’t belong?
Only a few photographs remained that I hadn’t seen. The exhibition ended with images of happy women brimming over with joy; these pictures seemed to radiate light, and they were the last piece of the talented photographer’s puzzle that I had solved. I no longer had any doubt.
“Vasyl Petrovych,” I addressed the author solemnly. “You are a very talented artist! I have seen many erotic photographs, but yours are beyond all praise! It’s as if I had watched a film about love that begins with a prelude and ends... ahem... with a climax that in turn becomes a source of joy! Allow me to thank you and express my sincere admiration!”
Vasyl Petrovych was beaming.
“And I thank you, Vadym. An artist can only dream of admirers like you! You understood everything I wanted to convey to the public, you understood why the photographs are arranged in this order, and you even guessed how some of them were taken.”
In effect it was a confession, and it made me blush. What did that mean — had Vasyl Petrovych read my mind?!
“You don’t think that I... that I dared... that I thought you...” I began to justify myself clumsily, but Vasyl Petrovych didn’t let me finish.
“You know what, Vadym? Would you like to see my best photographs?”
“What? And these? Didn’t you choose your best for the exhibition? Then which are the best? Yes, of course I want to!”
“Later you’ll understand why I didn’t exhibit the photographs I’ve decided to show you. No, not for reasons of censorship. It’s just that... I never exhibit them. And I never show them to anyone; you will be the first. It’s not far, shall we go?”
I hesitated, because to be honest I didn’t trust such unexpected and inexplicable goodwill from a stranger. For a moment it even seemed like some kind of trap! After all, it is well known that among creative people the share of those with a non-traditional orientation is, for some unknown reason, higher than average! What if this Shcherbanskyi was one of them? I am tolerant of gay people, but what if this photographer had taken a liking to me and started pestering me with proposals I couldn’t accept?
Yet the photographs in the exhibition clearly testified to his heterosexuality! I was lost in guesses and a little afraid, but it was too late to refuse.
To be continued…