Peeping, Probing and Porn
Theresa Smalec
Since opening in 2002, the Museum of Sex in Manhattan has met some paradoxical forms of reception. Not everyone knows what to make of an institution whose mission is "to preserve and present the history, evolution and cultural significance of human sexuality." A complaint frequently voiced by tourists who describe their visitor experiences on websites such as Citysearch.com is that MoSex exhibits are too graphic and familiar: "I thought this was going to be a museum of sex, but it was more of a collection of porn" (03/07/2006). Since porn is often defined as prurient ephemera having little artistic merit, it does not readily fit into established ideas of the "museum" as a space where objects of permanent value are kept.
Meanwhile, professional critics disparage the museum for the opposite reason. In his Salon.com article, "MoSex Opens Doors–Earth Doesn’t Move" (2002), Damien Cave subtly mocks the institution’s academic aspirations, linking these pedagogical aims to a boring sterilization of sex:
The place looks bleached. White paint, still smelling freshly applied, graces every wall, every ceiling, floor and corner. Even the speakers that offer audio commentary […] are the color of snow. Clearly, founder Daniel Gluck would like us to believe this is a museum that will make sex clean, fresh, sanitized–intelligent and academic […] Titillation is not the goal. New York’s lily-white Museum of Sex aims to inform–and its first exhibit has several Ph.D. advisors to prove it. (10/11/2002)
Apart from Cave’s belief that the museum’s décor drains its dildos and burlesque gowns of any erotic charge they might otherwise yield, his broader thesis is that its inaugural exhibit lacks the careful design to merit the scholarly status it seeks: "’NYC Sex’ feels rushed, overeager in its seriousness and just plain haphazard. The curators have unearthed a handful of interesting artifacts […] but they don’t hold together as a coherent, focused exhibit." For him, the institution’s early modes of display are neither sexy nor interesting.
Four years later, with the launch of "Peeping, Probing and Porn: Four Centuries of Graphic Sex in Japan," the Museum of Sex deftly combines the seemingly contradictory expectations outlined above. Regardless of whether you come seeking famous artworks and educational value, or hoping to get hot and bothered before slipping into something more comfortable, this tripartite presentation of Japanese shunga, manga and anime is sure to satiate your visceral and intellectual appetites.
Elizabeth Semmelhack and Karen Eckhaus (the show’s Curator and Assistant Curator) begin with a provocative study of the visual vocabulary of porn forged during the Edo period (1603-1868). This era marked an explosion of commercial sex in Japan’s urban centers, particularly in Edo, now known as Tokyo. In 1603, that humble fishing village became Japan’s new seat of political power; Edo’s transformation resulted in an unprecedented influx of men, earning its nickname, "City of Bachelors." In 1617, sex work was contained to a 20 acre quarter of swampland. The brothel district, or Yoshiwara, soon became a site of inspiration to printmakers, who began illustrating the sexual pleasures awaiting paying customers in graphic detail.
"Peeping, Probing and Porn" invites today’s viewers to put themselves in the place of those ancient voyeurs who consumed shunga, the period’s most explicit art form. The space is darkly sumptuous; it takes a moment to adjust one’s eyes to the narrow slits lining the walls, through which one peruses the secrets behind the frames. The opening set of images requires spectators to crouch low in order to see them. In doing so, I am immediately shocked by the image of a massive penis resting deep within an engorged vagina, the entry to which seeps with milky fluid. As I linger at the foot of this "happy ending," an audio recording explains the classic features of Edo porn, such as the upright male penetrating the passive and horizontal female.
Those who prefer visual modes of knowledge acquisition may read the concise texts accompanying many scenarios. In common with today’s pornography, Edo period shunga was never simply about sex. On the contrary, these woodcut prints were a central means by which Japan’s lower classes fulfilled their sexual and socio-economic fantasies. Only the wealthiest men could afford carnal liaisons with oiran, the Yoshiwara’s highest class of sex workers. However, a single sheet of shunga cost roughly the same as a bowl of noodles. Based on kimono aesthetics and hairstyles, savvy connoisseurs could discern whether the women on display were urchins, daughters, geishas, servants, wives or oiran. Men who purchased sex were equally identifiable by age, occupation and economic status, factors likewise encoded on the body. Many images feature oversized mirrors that supply double-views of these "secret" acts of intimacy. They also present actual voyeurs who hide in the background, subtly directing our gaze towards signs of arousal, such as women’s curled toes and faint smiles.
After providing a complex overview of the social divisions underlying the sexual transactions depicted in shunga, the exhibit turns to manga, a form of pornography that became popular in 20th Century Japan. Tezuka Osamu (1928-1989) is hailed as the father of manga, and his art reveals its staple elements. Cinematic vistas, child-like characters, gender-bending, and sci-fi all find expression in manga. Whereas shunga is famous for its histrionic depiction of male penises, manga exaggerates female breast size. Whereas shunga encourages voyeuristic distance, manga’s movie-like style invites audiences to experience the action head-on.
Semmelhack and Eckhaus design this section with an eye towards the grotesque. We witness the rape of a doe-eyed teen by an elderly man and his grandson. The figures perpetrating this lurid act are unseen, welcoming us to take their place in our fantasies. We also view several scenes of interspecies sex. In one frame, a mole mounts a delicate fairy, performing cunnilingus with his whiskered nose. In another, a wolf viciously takes a girl from behind, giving "doggy-style" a new meaning. As humorous as it is unsettling, this part of the show reveals a site of tension: American anxieties about children as sex objects collide with Japanese aesthetics that fuse pubescent purity, and erotic profanity. Whereas Edo era shunga depicts rape as a brutal act perpetrated by vulgar foreigners and masked devils, manga seems to revel in the despoiling of innocence.
The exhibit’s final section deals with anime, the Japanese term for animation. Here, the hallmarks of manga find mobile "life" on television screens, though mostly in repetitive loops. However, one anime offers an extended narrative about an unethical businessman. Perversity and poignancy unite as the cartoon’s muscular hero rescues a trembling youth from the sadomasochistic clutches of the older executive who’s been inserting cornhusks into his anus. The grateful youth embarks on a tender tryst with his liberator. While most sections of "Peeping, Probing and Porn" seem too risqué to view alongside strangers, this homoerotic anime fosters communal spectatorship. I stood in an improvised circle, savoring this wacky love story as both a tension breaker, and as an eye-opening glimpse into the queer risks that Japanese animation is willing to take.
At once carefully researched and deliciously randy, this informative exhibit of Japanese porn is not to be missed. Viewers will uncover erotic archetypes at once deeply familiar, and ineffably strange.
