sexperimental

introducing my new art book


It began quietly. 19:00.
A slow drift into the bar at Laperouse — shadows flickering, music just low enough to let the tension breathe. Eyes adjusting, curiosity rising.

Then, the shift. Ten books. One salon.
Time softened. Pages opened like skin. You chose the pace.

Femme fatales dressed in Maison Close moved like secrets — brushing past, offering Volzhenka Caviar, teasing open a different kind of hunger.
Not performance. Presence. Not spectacle. Seduction.

Deeply Dstrbd, Ivan Dorn and Stas pulled the room into a slow, raw current —
a soundscape trembling with intimacy, somewhere between a heartbeat and a confession.

And somehow, we all slipped into it.
That oxygen feeling. Where eyes begin to shimmer, where you don’t know if it’s the art, the music, or them.
Where you’re falling — not for someone — but into something.

The night didn’t end. It simply unbuttoned itself. And lingered.

J.
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
images through the eyes of our guests
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treskow's note


Sexperimental began as a need to make something real—something physical. A personal form of storytelling. Each copy is unique, handcrafted, and shaped by the unpredictable rhythm of the creative process.

It started in hotel rooms. These in-between spaces—temporary, anonymous—turned into makeshift studios, cinematic backdrops, places to improvise. I wanted the book to carry that same energy, so I began weaving in hotel stationery, scribbled notes, and hidden elements tucked between pages.

There’s no single way to experience Sexperimental. It’s meant to be handled, interpreted, explored. The texture of the paper, the scent of ink, the weight of the materials—they’re all part of how the story unfolds. Each page is a scene, a fragment, a moment suspended.


Every reader becomes part of that process. Curating their own version. Like the moments behind the lens, no two copies are ever the same


and this is just the beginning

VARIATION - ONE
The Invitation
it began with a quiet yes
not a concept
not a plan
just a pull — to see
to feel
to follow

a woman searching for something she never fully lost
a photographer chasing the beauty he couldn’t control
they meet in a city that lies with elegance —
Paris, 2025

this variation is the beginning
not of a book, but of a world
one stitched from glances, shadows, silence, and skin
where every page might be a confession
or a trap

you weren’t meant to understand it
you were meant to enter it

not as a viewer
as a participant

welcome in
let the first tension begin
VARIATION - TWO
she arrived like a memory he’d never lived
moved like the room already belonged to her

he didn’t direct — she didn’t ask
something electric sparked between control and surrender

this was the beginning of illusion:
where the muse became myth
where the photographer believed he was needed

but the lens was already shifting
and neither of them knew —
who was capturing whom
VARIATION - THREE
she moves like memory
he watches like a man trying not to fall
but this time, there’s another gaze in the room

the muse plays with instinct
the curator names the pattern
the photographer walks the line between them

this isn’t about control anymore.
it’s about what remains when no one agrees on the truth

and the frame —
it’s starting to bend
VARIATION - FOUR
it begins like always —
light, breath, intention
but this time, something slips

the photographer isn’t in control
the muse isn’t playing a part
and the curator — watching
noting —
begins to question the game itself

this isn’t about posing anymore
it’s about presence
about what you can’t edit out
about the weight of touch
and the silence after the shutter clicks

the archive stirs
the letters linger
and somewhere between repetition and rupture —
the story rewrites you
VARIATION - FIVE
this isn’t about mystery anymore
not about the allure of the unseen
this is the moment the muse stops whispering and starts writing

she no longer waits to be interpreted
she asks to be heard — as an author
not an echo

the photographer
once protected by distance
is drawn closer to the fire

and the curator — ever watchful — names the pattern behind the passion

what began as a vision becomes a confrontation
of authorship
of power
of what’s been hidden behind beauty

the game changes
and this time
she’s not in the frame
she’s rewriting it
VARIATION - SEEX
this is the version that looks back —
not to dwell
but to finally see what was always there

the photographer is no longer directing
he’s the wanderer
questioning what he’s really been chasing

the muse
once a mirror
speaks for herself
not to be seen — but to be known
to move before the frame is ready

the curator watches
naming the patterns they both tried to outrun

this variation doesn’t resolve
but it begins to ask the right questions
not in the pose —
but in what happens when it breaks
VARIATION - SEVEN
this variation holds what couldn’t be said until now
it’s not about the photographs that made it into the book —
but the ones that didn’t

because behind every image is a moment
and some moments break more than they reveal

here
the muse stops performing
the woman steps forward
the photographer stops hiding

what remains is not mythology —
but memory
fractured
tender
still unfinished

not everything can be framed
some stories resist the lens
and this time
we let them
VARIATION - EIGHT
this one hums differently

it’s not just about the image
it’s about who held the gaze — and who held the power
where the frame ended — and what slipped just outside it

she wasn’t posed
she arrived
and with her came a charge: the room changed
so did he

these pages don’t ask for distance
they lean in
closer than comfort
slower than seduction

you’ll find no clean authorship here
only tension
the kind that lingers in the air after the shutter —
when the body is still
but something underneath is still unfolding

this variation isn’t asking to be understood
it’s asking to be felt
to be entered
and maybe — to be met
VARIATION - NINE
this one doesn’t flirt
it admits

admits the games
the masks
the moments of brilliance that were also acts of avoidance
it peels back the performance — and asks what’s left when the myth collapses

here, the photographer stops hiding behind the frame
the muse stops performing
and a third voice — the one behind both of them — steps forward

not to apologize
but to take responsibility

this variation isn’t polished
it’s personal
less about beauty — more about truth, earned the hard way

not an ending
but a reckoning
for both
VARIATION - TEN
this is the tenth
the final one — for now

ten variations shown
ten ways of looking
of undressing memory
intimacy
performance
muse and photographer — no longer just roles
but mirrors
questions
contradictions

these pages hold what the others only hinted at:
the heat after the frame
the silence after the last word
the truth when no one’s posing

another variation may come
but for now — this is a milestone
a closing
a burn mark
a breath
curious? obsessed with texture?
seduced by the unfinished?
want more?
get on the list
not for everyone — just the ones paying attention