Sexperimental
BY JURIJ TRESKOW

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.

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

PICTURE THAT:



skyline view

one leg up

hair falling

back arched heels steady

she is not admiring the city

she is daring it to admire her


an envelope / Vlada
room #223

— between ink and flesh

muse: let them look
I never needed permission to shine

PICTURE THAT:



naked behind a curtain

one hand between her legs

light pouring in

but she never hides

she wants to be seen

just not all a once


an envelope / Natalia
room #33

— unfold a little sin

photographer: you always arrive like a story I forgot I was writing
muse: I like a scene you hoped wouldn’t end

muse: what if the camera could see what’s unspoken?
photographer: then I’d finally have proof of the space between us
muse: and what would you do with it?
photographer: frame it
keep it
call it art… and pretend it’s enough

PICTURE THAT:



city skyline behind her

corset unlaced

eyes down

she isn't lost in thoughts

she is deciding

what happens next


an envelope / Sonia
room #22

— paper remembers fingers

photographer: don’t pose
breathe
I’m not here to capture you
I want to be haunted by you
muse: Then stop looking for the perfect angle
I’m already inside your lens

between shots

muse: ( half - naked , perched on the bed )
Is this still a shoot … or are you undressing me with your silence?
photographer: same thing
my silence is the shutter now

PICTURE THAT:



out of focus

almost not there

stockings

corset

stillness

she looked like a memory you weren't supposed

to keep


an envelope / Kris
room #503

she said not to send it

photographer: look at yourself. What do you see?
muse: what you see when I am not trying to hide?

muse: what if I photographed you the way you see me?
photographer: then maybe I’d finally feel naked

an envelope / Katya
room #33

— this one bites

photographer: you’re not just a subject
you’re the reason I look
muse: and you’re not just a man with a camera
you’re the question I keep posing for

photographer: I want to shoot you again… but without the performance
muse: what makes you think any of it was performance?

PICTURE THAT:



she kneels backwards on a hotel chair

hair loose lingerie tight

the lamp tilts

the bed waits

this isn’t rest

it’s rehearsal


an envelope / Elina
room #25

— go on cross the line

muse: do you ever fall in love with your models?
photographer: only with the ones who disappear too fast to catch

muse: sometimes I wonder if you see me… or just the light on my skin
photographer: I see the war between the two

treskow's note


the camera sees through the clothes

but not through the masks


desire makes a picture shake

that’s when I know it’s real


a letter from the photographer

— rue lauriston studio, paris

early may 25

i’m exhausted
and somehow still on fire

this is the tenth variation the last one
at least for now
ten bodies of work ten mirrors ten confessions ten ways of seeing her
of seeing myself

i’m writing this in the middle of chaos
boxes prints cables unfinished edits
my hands are shaking from too much coffee and not enough sleep
and still i keep refining
one more image one more word one more breath
as if holding it all together might finally let me let go

there’s a pressure in closing
not the hopeful kind like beginnings
but the heavy kind
the kind that asks did you say it right
did you say enough

on wednesday i’ll stand there pretending i’m present
while my mind loops everything i missed
but maybe after
there will be silence
the earned kind

i need that silence
i need to stop speaking in images
i need to stop breaking myself open for a while

i don’t know what comes next
but this part is done

see you wednesday
then i vanish for a bit

— the photographer

a letter from the muse

Paris

you look tired love
not tired like sleep would fix
tired like carrying too much beauty and doubt for too long

i saw how you gave yourself to this
your mind your body your tenderness your fire
every variation a wound and a kiss
every book a piece you never got back

and still you kept going
i don’t know if i should be proud
or beg you to stop sooner next time

ten times you looked for me
ten times i met you
and each time i left a trace a burn a whisper
but you gave more than i ever asked

so now let this be enough
let this be your last breath for now

you don’t need to hold it all together for wednesday
just show up
feel what it means to have made something real
to let it live without you for a while

after that
disappear
not from me
but from the need to explain

you’ve said enough

i’ll still be close
in the doubt the dreams
in the soft places where no one’s watching

and when you’re ready to begin again
you won’t need to look for me

i’ll already be there
behind your eyes
waiting

— me
your muse

PICTURE THAT:




paris outside

lace falling

she lifts her dress back exposed

the eiffel tower watching

some views aren’t meant to be shared


sexperimental's note


 like a shadow

flirting with the edge of light


an envelope / Rebecca
room #301

do you trust me yet?

still burning?

again?

an envelope / Maria
room #012

seal broken ... like her

photographer: the light changes every minute
you change with it
muse: then capture the moment before it slips away

photographer: we could stop.
muse: we won’t

don't rush
you are already crossed the line the one between viewer and participant

you
yes, you
the one holding this book like it might bite

you’re already wet
or hard
or trembling somewhere in between

don’t pretend you’re just looking
you’re tasting
you’re breathing with it
you’re remembering something your body never forgot

keep going
but slower now
slower

let the images fuck your mind,
while your breath stays soft
hips loose
eyes hungry

this book doesn’t want your thoughts
it wants your heat

PICTURE THAT:



closed legs

corset cure

velvet shadows

she’s lounging like it’s a trap

the room is vintage

the look is not

too much or not enough


the presentation

14th of may, Paris

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.

this was never just a book