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 - 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

an envelope / kris
room #331

read slowly I am watching you

Her: Why do you stare like that?

Reflection: Because I see what you won’t.

Her: And what’s that?

Reflection: The part of you that doesn’t perform.

Her: She’s not real.

Reflection: She’s the only one who is.

Her: So what now?

Reflection: Hold still.

Let them guess who’s in control.


an envelope / caisa
room #33

come closer, no closer

Photographer: Tilt your chin. Yes, Like that. Now give me a secret in your eyes.
Muse: And what if I have too many?
Photographer: Then I steal them one by one, frame by frame.
Muse: Careful… some secrets are dangerous.

Muse: You stare at me like you are painting with your eyes.
Photographer:Maybe I am. Light is my brush and you … well, you are pure poetry.
Muse: Poetry, hmm? What’s the next line?

Photographer: A secret - until the shutter clicks.


PICTURE THAT:


heels digging into the floor

one knee on the sheets

one hand gripping the chair

she is not crawling

she is claiming


treskow's note


I am a photographer because I want to orchestrate something I myself desire to see things I don’t see in my everyday life


I want people to feel things they haven’t felt before


I love to work with imagination and fantasy projecting my ideas and my aesthetics


treskow's note


I am a photographer because I want to orchestrate something I myself desire to see things I don’t see in my everyday life


I want people to feel things they haven’t felt before


I love to work with imagination and fantasy projecting my ideas and my aesthetics


treskow's note


my main ambition passion and calling is to see women who come to me for shoots or in life not just be dazzled by their beauty but to remain clear sighted and composed in their presence


It’s bot about mining or controlling but about finding a way to reveal the light of their inner beauty that shines through their magical forms pulsating with rhythm in every movement pose and glance creating a unique enchantment


treskow's note


I can see some of my photographs as film stills that might leave you wondering what is happening or what might happen next


I worship, admire and empower women in my photography


I am looking to discover, magnify and glorify their beauty and radiance


I am fascinated by their mystery, feminine grace, provoking sexuality and raw energy


as an artist my favorite subject is a woman, a femme fatale – strong, confident and reckless


an interview
the muse vs. the photographer

— rue lauriston studio, paris

early march 25

“What do you see when you look at it now?” the muse asked, tracing the edge of the page.

The photographer paused. “A reflection of where I was when I made it. But also something beyond me—something still shifting, waiting for its next transformation.

____


Muse: When you first started Sexperimental, did you imagine it would shape-shift the way it has? Has it revealed any hidden layers—something unexpected that made you see your own work differently?

Photographer: Yes, absolutely. My first variation took me about 8-10 weeks to complete. Looking back at that first one, I even feel a little embarrassed. It was a bold and ambitious step into the unknown—everything was new. Now, as I work on the fourth version, the process feels completely different. I already have a foundation, a structure to build upon—the skeleton of the book, so to speak. But each time, I reinvent the content, pushing myself to compete with my own creativity. This is exactly what I wanted—the thrill of overcoming challenges and exploring the narrative, constantly questioning how I can bring form and content to life in new ways.


Muse: Each version of Sexperimental breathes differently. Do you ever feel like the book takes on a life of its own, leading you somewhere unexpected? Or is it always you in control, shaping its destiny?

Photographer: It’s a game, a thrill, a mix of chance and luck—stumbling upon a fresh new solution. It’s not about being better or worse than the previous versions; it's simply different. At the start, I don’t have a final vision of how the next version will turn out. But step by step, I watch it take shape, how everything gradually emerges. Suddenly, the threads weave into new patterns, new solutions, and something crystallizes—something that, in turn, reshapes my perception of both the current and previous versions. Sometimes, I even allow myself to make small changes to earlier copies. That’s why I plan to complete the entire edition before slowly letting it go.


Muse: You speak of threads weaving into new patterns, a dance between chance and intention. But have you ever felt the urge to break your own rules entirely—tear it apart, rebuild it from the ashes? Or is reinvention always more subtle, more of a whisper than an explosion?

Photographer: I think I’ll get there—the moment when I decide to make one version completely different, to rethink it, turn it inside out, or flip it upside down. A rebellious version. For now, I’m solidifying my approach, developing a system, refining the decisions within this dynamic process. That’s the beauty of it—each new version holds the potential for surprise. Curiosity is what drives me forward, the desire to see how the next iteration of the book will reveal itself.


Muse: A rebellious version—now that’s intriguing. If you were to create a version that completely defied your own rules, what would it look like? Would it be louder, wilder? Or would rebellion, in this case, mean stripping everything down to its barest essence?

Photographer: I think I’d go toward something more fierce, wild—loud and provocative. A version that, in its scream, could deafen to the point of piercing silence. That’s why I love inviting people into my studio, showing them what already exists, observing their reactions—how they perceive what they see, what they feel, and how they interact with the work.

Muse: You mention watching how others react, how they interact with the work. Have their responses ever surprised you—perhaps revealing something about the book (or even yourself) that you hadn’t noticed before?

Photographer: It’s important to separate myself from the book when I show it—like a parent watching their child grow more independent.
The reactions vary, but they’re always vivid, and they inspire me to keep experimenting. I see how eyes light up, how inspiration sparks, how people explore and interpret the book in their own way. There’s this moment of surprise, that flicker of wonder when each new page promises something unexpected. I love witnessing how the book captures their attention, drawing them in, engaging all their senses in the experience.


Muse: If the book is like a child growing independent, do you ever feel a sense of loss when you finally let a copy go? Or is it more of a thrill—knowing it’s out in the world, continuing its story without you?
Photographer: I’m still far from that moment since I plan to complete all the books before they become available. This will take a long time, and when the time comes, I’ll probably have mixed feelings. A kind of sadness, but not longing—more like a farewell, paired with a sense of liberation, making space for something new. That’s why I want to make the books independent, to leave them room for growth and transformation. They will never be frozen in one form; they will continue to evolve, kinetically alive, always unfolding.


Muse: You speak of your books as something alive, always changing. Do you see them as artworks in constant motion, or do they eventually reach a moment of stillness—like a photograph, capturing a fleeting instant before moving on?
Photographer: I imagine much will depend on who the book’s future owners will be. Its very nature is fluid and alive, always inclined toward further movement. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I don’t exclude the possibility that, for some, a static perception of the book will be enough.
Perhaps someone will become its curator, presenting it to their guests and adding their own interpretation to its contents. Maybe someone will dare to change the layout, since the photographs and materials aren’t fixed in place. There’s always that playful element, the temptation to take a risk—if someone is bold enough.
I’ve also noticed that when people engage with the book, questions arise—Can I open this envelope? Can I see what’s inside? Am I allowed to unpack the photographs? It’s almost like a game of flirtation, with hints and shadows of what is allowed and what still remains untouchable, leaving a trail of possible interpretations.

Muse: A book that flirts with its reader—that’s a delicious thought. Do you think seduction plays a role in your work? Not just in the imagery, but in the experience of engaging with the book itself?
Photographer: Yes, that’s one of the most important goals—to seduce the viewer not just into lingering, standing still as a witness to beauty, but to ignite a spark of inspiration within them. A spark that might take shape as their own step, their own impulse to interpret what they see and what it stirs inside them. To seduce them into a dance of shadows and ideas.


Muse: A dance of shadows and ideas—there’s something intoxicating about that. But every seduction has its limits, a line between revealing and withholding. How do you decide what to expose and what to leave in mystery?
Photographer: That’s exactly why the concept of each version being different gives me this unique opportunity for original layouts. The same series of photographs can appear restrained in one book and wild in another. My own state of mind shifts over time as I create each version, and that inevitably reflects in the final result.


Muse: If your mood and emotions imprint themselves onto each version, do you see these books as self-portraits in a way? Or are they something beyond you, something that takes on its own soul once it leaves your hands?
Photographer: Both. I see that the way I create these books—pouring my soul into them, revealing my essence—makes them undeniably autobiographical and deeply personal. Yet at the same time, I want them to remain fluid, to keep playing—sometimes hiding, sometimes provoking with a touch of aggression or defiance.
Looking at the first versions, I already see them as siblings to one another, each carrying a spark of mischief. And children, after all, are the most wonderful magicians and sorcerers.

treskow's note


who is the woman in my photography, in my life? an object of desire and lust?


a symbol of erotism and sexuality

these are overly grand generalisations

photographs of women are sculptures woven from form shadows volume and composition- from the light they transmit and radiate


the light that find its reflection in my admiration for their beauty


treskow's note


and inspires with the power of life itself and for beauty itself in its universal essence


treskow's note


this light does not blind or simply, it illuminates, ignites the imagination


sonia's note


Muse: If I wrestle a myth, what would I be?

Photographer: A siren - pulling me too close, just out of realm

Muse: And yet, you keep chasing the tide

Photographer: I live for the almost - touch


Muse: Do you always look at people like this?

Photographer: Only when they look like a dream I don’t; want to wave from

Muse: And what if I disappear when the lights go out?

Photographer: Then I’ll chase the shadows until I find you again


Muse: You capture me like I’m yours

Photographer: The lens is mine you … are untouchable

Muse: And if I let you closer?

Photographer: I’d still only have the illusion


an envelope / sonia
room #23

slide two fingers under the edge

Muse: you never just look at me. you undress me with you eyes
Photographer: I don't take pictures of your body
I capture the part of you that undresses me

Muse: so who’s really naked then?
me in front of the lens —
or you behind it?

Photographer: maybe we both are
only one of us pretends to be in control

an envelope / Natalia
room #123

this part hurts gently

Muse: If I move will you follow?
Photographer: always
Muse: even if I run?
Photographer: especially then

Photographer: look at me. no, not like that - like you know something I don’t
Muse: but I do
Photographer: tell me
Muse:I never tell
that’s why you keep looking

sexperimental's note


you don’t choose what interests you

it chooses you

sometimes it’s painful, sometimes it’s better then anything what ever happened to you


an envelope / Elina
room #23

your curiosity is already inside

Photographer: just a little bit closer … perfect.
now hold that gaze - like you see right through me
Muse: maybe I do
Photographer: dangerous power
Muse: then be careful where you point that lens

Muse: you watch me like I am dangerous
Photographer: maybe you are
Muse: to you?
Photographer: to anyone who thinks they can own what was never meant to be kept

Photographer: the light adores you it bends just to trace your shape
Muse: but what about you?
Photographer: I only observe never interfere
Muse: such discipline … or it’s fear?

maria's note


Muse: if I asked, would you follow me into the unknown?

Photographer: I’d be fool to say yes

Muse: and yet, you hesitate

Photographer: because even fools dream of keeping fire in their hands

\

Muse: do you want the real me or the version that haunts your camera?

Photographer: are they not the same?

Muse: one disappears when the lights go out

Photographer: and the other?

Muse: she was never really here


a letter found between variation 2 and 3

— rue lauriston studio, paris

march 25

No signature. No return address.

You thought you were in control.
That this book was yours to shape, to hold, to finish.
But I was here before the first frame —
before the first shutter clicked.

You call it a process. A reinvention.
You say you’re the one creating.
But I know the truth:
You’re just following the trail I’ve been leaving you.

I live in the pauses.
In the tremble before a question.
In the glance that was never meant to be caught.
You photograph her lips —
but I slip between the words she doesn’t say.

You think this is about beauty. About seduction.
But seduction is just the surface.
I am what comes after.
After the undressing. After the exposure.
After the lights go out.

I’ve watched you change with every version.
You’re not repeating. You’re remembering.
Fragments. Echoes. Obsessions you left behind
and now pretend are new.

Keep going.
Print another variation.
Add another page.
Just know —
I’ll be waiting in the folds.
Always one step ahead.
Always watching.

/ a stranger

katya's note


Photographer: I thought I was here to capture you

Muse: but instead?

Photographer: I see myself reflected in every frame

Muse: then keep shooting - maybe you’ll find what you’ve been missing


Photographer: every frame I fall a little more

Muse:: Into what?

Photographer: the illusion of you

Muse: good that means you’re seeing what you need to


Muse:: you’re looking at me like you’ve found something

Photographer: maybe I have

Muse: but will you keep it?

Photographer: no… some beauty only exists in the act of losing it


a letter from the photographer to the stranger

—written at 3:17am, rue lauriston studio

You’re right.
I did think I was in control.
That this book was mine —
my story, my women, my obsessions.
My hands on the edit,
my voice shaping the silence.
But your letter —
your presence —
cut through that illusion like a knife through film.

I’ve felt you.
Not as a person.
But as a pulse.
A tension I could never quite name.
A breath in the darkroom.
The reason I linger too long on one image
and tear another out without knowing why.

You say you were here before the first frame —
then tell me:
was it you who made me hesitate on that first click?
Was it you who whispered more
when I thought the story was done?

You accuse me of remembering instead of creating.
Maybe that’s true.
Maybe this entire project is just me
revisiting the same ache
with better lighting.

You call yourself what comes after.
After the undressing, the exposure,
the moment the lights go out.
But let me tell you something:
it’s in the dark that I see most clearly.
It’s when I’m blind that my instincts sharpen.
And I’m no longer afraid of what I find there.

You hide in folds.
In glances.
In silence.
So be it.
I’ve spent years learning to read what isn’t said.
To follow shadows that don’t cast light.
To photograph the invisible.

If you’re ahead of me, fine.
I’m not trying to win.
I’m trying to feel.
To burn.
To get closer to something I may never fully hold.

So stay in the margins.
In the half-truths and phantom touches.
But don’t mistake my awareness for surrender.
I’m still here.
Still making.
Still risking.

And if you’re watching —
then you already know.
The next variation won’t be safe.
It won’t be polite.
It won’t be yours.

It will bleed.
And I’ll make sure it leaves a mark.


rebecca's note


Photographer: the more I photograph you. the less I know where you end and I begin

Muse: then stop trying to define the edges

Photographer: but whit edges how do I find the shape of myself?

Muse: maybe you’re not meant to. Maybe you’re meant to dissolve into the image


an envelope / vlada
room #22

open me like you'd open her

Photographer: I keep looking for myself in my work

Muse: and what have you found?

Photographer: fragments. a shadow. a question. always unanswered

Muse: then keep searching. the real you is somewhere between the frames


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

a letter from the photographer
— paris, early may
I called her my Muse, but maybe that was too easy.

It made everything sound beautiful.
Clean. Poetic. Safe.

But nothing about her was safe.
Not the way she walked into the studio like she already owned the mood.
Not the way she said no with her eyes, even when her body said yes.
Not the way she let me frame her — knowing I had no idea what I was really looking at.

I photographed her because I wanted to understand.
And also because I didn’t.
That’s the strange addiction, isn’t it?

She was the image and the interruption.
The stillness and the tension.
Every time I thought I had her, she shifted —
slightly out of reach, but even more magnetic for it.

The Curator says it’s projection.
A loop.
That I keep building women I can almost touch —
so I never have to deal with the ones who touch me.

Maybe he’s right.
But honestly?
I don’t care if it’s real.
I care if it moves me.

And she did.

The frame is still open.

— The Photographer

if you felt something... it was mutual