THIS IMAGE IS WORTH 1,000 WORDS

by Bruce Buschel

You are reading these thousand words because of the image. We understand. That’s why the image is here. That’s what this piece is about: the image. And your gaze upon it.

Go ahead, take another gander. Or two.

To your average surfer, it may not appear much different or more provocative than a slew of other images tossed in your face every night and every day, willy nilly, popping up, scrawling down, flashing, even as you innocently shop for a t-shirt or search for the etymology of scatology, but, rest assured, this image is different. Less is more. Way more. It’s not just the lead-off hitter of a leather-loving cop’s wet dream line-up, but the perfect visualization of a woman you don’t know in a pose you never imagined whose next move is anyone’s guess.

You have plenty of guesses. That’s the power of the picture.

Sneak another peek. It’s all right. Lingering is allowed. We’ve been sneaking elongated peeks for quite a while now, making this relationship more durable than most others, be they flesh-and-bone or pixilated. We will not pretend the interactions have always been chaste.

Though writers cringe at the cruel idea, a picture is, or can be, worth a thousand words, or ten thousand sexdecillion words — a googol. In this insta-snap-drop-twit world, the value of one good image has increased exponentially. Or decreased dramatically. Still working on the algorithm. Data is not our strong suit.

Exotica we know.

Just enough skin in just the right places. A stunningly naked ear, a confident jutting jaw, a taut muscular throat, a deliciously hairy nape, flawless skin, mouth ajar, unfluttering eyelashes, dreamy eyes that don’t dream of you, a fist pump fist. And that ass, that big bright ass enhanced by shadows and straps. The posture says she’s loose and yet tense, in a precise pose and impromptu, just like her perfectly messy jet black tresses, descending to her breasts, having just been shifted to the far side, the way they do in certain films to allow full view of a face performing whatever act comes next.

What comes next? You answer that for you. For me? A three-word cavil about American pornography. Women get naked. Too fast. Not like Italian porn, where women are fully or partially clothed from beginning to climactic finish. What good is having a nun or a bride or a cheerleader or a soldier out of uniform? And the men rarely remove a single article of clothing. Why bother? More is less.

Bouncing bodies and clothing malfunctions and happy cuckolds set out to seduce you on the web. Surf for best surfing spots in Indochina and you wind up with the Ten Sexiest Athletes from Down Under. Search for Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and you find Yoga Pants That Leave Nothing to the Imagination. Imagination? Who needs it? The newest Kardashian kid is frozen on a red carpet with a black dude draped over her arm and a see-through designer garment draped over curves formerly known as private. Imagination? What’s that? Click here and see your favorite screen saver starring in a homemade sex tape. (No, I didn’t mean click here…sorry.)

The above image lubricates the imagination, triggers a thousand questions and answers quite few. What is her right hand about to do? Why? Is she Japanese or Eurasian or the girl next door? How did she end up in this pose? Or is it not a pose but a single frame in mid-action? Is she slightly embarrassed or elegantly arrogant? What is she wearing? When was the last time she ate a three course meal? Would Trump bar her from crossing our border or adopt her as soon as possible? Is her apparent pleasure genuine or feigned? Wait: Is that an expression of yearning or satisfaction? How did her pants get to and stop at that exact spot? Are they traveling up or down? Are her eyes closing or opening? Or forever doe? Is she thinking about you thinking about her? What did her left hand just do? And where is it going next? There is nothing underneath that leather jacket, is there, other than sweet-and-salty sweat? Is she wearing anything below the belt? Why am I thinking Middle Ages? Sir Lancelot? Is she looking at something tangible or just middle space? Is she about to sit down? On a toilet? On a face? Can you hear Chuck Berry at the top of the hill?

The photographer is Jurij Treskow. He was born in Belarus in 1984 and raised in Brest, which seems an unironic irony at this juncture. Breasts do not interest Jurij Treskow. Colors do not interest. Blacks and whites do. Starkness. Forego the foreplay. Jump right in. You are undistracted by light sources or narratives, no bed posts or flowers or wallpaper. No mise en scene. Just her. And not even all of her.

What kind of footwear is out of view? Any tattoos?

Images by Jurij Treskow have appeared in Russia and U.K. and the EuroZone, magazines called TUSH, Numero, WAS, Grazia, Treats; in GQ and Esquire in the States. We share many kinks, Jurij and me, inclinations, peccadilloes, male kinships. I’d like to go drinking with Jurij Treskow. I’d like to watch him work. I’d like to know how he makes his sausages.

No quotidian pork products here, however, no Kate Upskirt, no li’l Miley swinging naked on a big United Nation pendulum wrecking ball. What do you know about the woman in this picture? (Go ahead, take another look.) Not her name, her history, her mother tongue. Can we call her Tabula Rasa? Less is more. Your vast ignorance frees your jittery mind to wander hither and yon, and start anew with each digital rendezvous. This here image is unfinished business, bub —until you do the finishing.

Like this: “And your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.”

That was Walt Whitman.

This is Kataryna Synogub.

I am Bruce Buschel.

You are welcome.

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