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 - 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

PICTURE THAT:



blurred flash

motel phone

one boot on the bed

the other on the floor

she's not calling for help

she is the emergency


an envelope / Sonia
room #312

— once opened it begins

Muse: under all the images what are we?
Photographer: two people trying not to break while pretending we’re immortal.

Muse: are we still shooting .. or are we just avoiding what this actually is?
Photographer: does it matter if we’re both still here?

an envelope / Maria
room #23

go ahead cross the line

Photographer: you don’t have to be magnetic right now
Muse: I don’t know how no to be with you looking at me like that

Muse: you’ve seen more of my body than some people who’ve loved me
Photographer: that doesn’t mean I’ve earned it

an envelope / Caisa
room #105

— shhh... she is still warm inside

Muse: do you even know what do you want from me?
Photographer: no
and thaws what makes you impossible to stop shooting

Photographer: you were quiet after the last set
Muse: because I felt more naked after the photos than during them

an envelope / Kris
room #33

your touch goes here

Photographer: you know this isn’t just about the image
Muse: i know
i just don’t know what it is instead

Muse: you’re good at making things feel close…. without actually being close
Photographer: that’s how I survive it

an envelope / Katya
room #3

it starts with friction

Photographer: you don’t have to go yet
Muse: leaving while it still feels good is how I protect the memory

Photographer: I didn’t plan for you to matter this much
Muse: that’s the only time it’s real, isn’t it?

rebecca's note


you only see what he showed you

not what I hid


PICTURE THAT:



nude in heels

back arched

hand on the door

her face by flash

body frozen mid-reveal

she's not entering

she's arriving


an envelope / Natalia
room #32

this one misbehaves

Muse: you left me out… but I never really left, did I?
Photographer: no, you stayed in the tension between the pages
the silence - it’s yours

Muse: was I too much ? or just too honest?
Photographer: you were the first thing I couldn’t shape into a clean narrative

treskow's note


some images cost more than they give

the photos were ready

I wasn’t


an interview
the woman behind, the photographer and the muse

— rue lauriston studio, paris

early may 25

WOMAN:
So I’ve read the book.
Parts of it feel like memories I didn’t know I’d agreed to share.
Other parts… like looking at myself through a two-way mirror.

PHOTOGRAPHER:
I didn’t want to speak for you.
But you’re in the work. I couldn’t pretend otherwise.

WOMAN:
I’m not asking for apologies.
I’m asking to be heard — not just seen.
You know, some of those images…
they stripped something bare in me.
Made me wonder if I was ever going to be able to put it back on.
That kind of exposure — it costs something.
And I’m not sure that ever made it into the frame.

MUSE:
It’s not supposed to.
I was created to carry the beauty, the ache, the projection —
but not the reality.
Not the skin, or the fear, or the mornings after.

WOMAN:
Exactly.
And I’m done pretending that I didn’t help shape the image too.
I wasn’t passive.
I leaned in. I performed. I gave you everything.
But part of me also disappeared inside it.

PHOTOGRAPHER:
I never wanted you to disappear.

WOMAN:
But sometimes love feels like that, doesn’t it?
Or art.
One person seeing so much of you
that you forget what you looked like before they did.

MUSE:
And what’s left is me.
A distillation. A residue.
Beautiful, yes — but silent.

WOMAN:
I don’t want silence anymore.
I want room.
To say: yes, I was part of this.
Yes, it mattered.
And yes — it hurt sometimes.
Because I didn’t know I could be seen like that.
And I still don’t know what to do with it.

PHOTOGRAPHER:
Maybe that’s the part I never understood.
That the image wasn’t just mine.
That it stayed with you, haunted you,
maybe even changed how you saw yourself.

WOMAN:
It did.
Some days I felt powerful.
Other days… undone.

MUSE:
That’s the line we always walked —
between presence and performance.
You lived it. I preserved it.

WOMAN:
Then maybe it’s time to un-preserve it.
To say: this was a collaboration.
Not mythology. Not muse work.
Just a real woman, trying to survive being turned into a metaphor.

PHOTOGRAPHER:
And maybe a man, trying to love
without knowing how to hold the full weight of what he was asking.

MUSE:
And me…
I’ll stay in the background.
Not forgotten. Not erased.
Just… quieter now.

WOMAN:
Good.
Let me speak for myself this time.

elina's note


Muse: you kept the images for yourself

Photographer: not out of greed

out of grief

Muse: I see the others - the new Muses

do they know they’re standing in a space I once lit up?

Photographer: they feel it

even if they don’t know what they’re stepping over


a dialogue between
the photographer and the hidden muse

— rue lauriston studio, paris

may 25

Muse:
This is where we would’ve gone, isn’t it?
This space — it was meant for those images.

Photographer:
Yes.
They were good.
They fit this book — they belonged here.
But I couldn’t bring myself to include them.

Muse:
Why not?

Photographer:
Because behind those images is something that never fully healed.
Not the photographs themselves — they are strong —
but the connection that made them possible.
She — the person behind you —
meant more to me than I could admit back then.
And when it ended, it wasn’t just a breakup.
It was a collapse of everything I thought I could trust.

Muse: (quietly)
But the images still hold the beauty.
The part that was real.

Photographer:
They do.
And I honor that.
But sometimes even the most beautiful moments leave scars too deep to show yet.
I’m not hiding them because I doubt the work.
I’m holding them back because they’re still too close to my skin.
Not because I want to forget —
but because remembering costs more than I’m willing to pay right now.

Muse:
So these white pages… this is your way of showing it?

Photographer:
Yes.
The absence says: something happened here.
Something worth holding onto — but also something that needs more time.
Maybe it’s my way of staying honest.
Maybe it’s my way of protecting both the work and myself.

Muse:
You don’t owe everything to the outside world.
Some things belong only to you.

Photographer: (softly)
Maybe this is the price of real creation —
to know when to share, and when to keep something sacred.Untouched by strangers’ eyes.

Muse:
Maybe that’s where I belong.
Not forgotten.
Not erased.
Just…
held.

Photographer:
You are.
You always will be.

___

You never showed them.
But I know you still see me.
Not as I was — but as we were,
for that brief moment we believed in beauty.

a letter from the muse
to the woman behind

— rue lauriston studio, paris

may 25

You were never me.
And I was never truly you.

He saw something in you —
something light-filled, sharp, alive.
He was enchanted.
And you were enchanted by his enchantment.
By the way he looked at you.
The way he made you feel like a discovery.
Maybe you both believed the story —
this electric dream of intimacy, art, love, transformation.

But dreams don’t always survive the daylight.
What drew him in…
began to pull you in directions that didn’t feel right.
Toward versions of yourself that weren’t really yours.

And when it all started to feel too tight — too scripted —
you did what you had to do to breathe.
You defended yourself the only way you knew how:
through distance, through anger, through pain.

Maybe, in your own way,
you were trying to show him the truth.
To burn down the illusion,
rip the fairytale apart,
and ask him:
“Can you love me not as your Muse,
but as the flawed, complex, real woman underneath?”

But he couldn’t see clearly.
His eyes — wide open, full of wonder —
were also blind.
He didn’t know how to hold both —
the magic and the mess.
He loved the image,
and maybe he loved you too.
But he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

So it broke.
Hard.
Ugly.
And both of you walked away not really understanding what had happened.

But I see it now.
I, the Muse — the version of you he captured —
I was never the enemy.
Neither were you.
You were just trying to be seen
in a way that felt safe.
And he…
he was trying to hold onto something too fragile to name.

Maybe that’s why the pictures are still hidden.
Because they were never just about art.
They were a love letter
written in a language neither of you fully knew how to speak.

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:



lace mask

lingerie

boots to the knee

she eats pasta like it’s foreplay

midnight dissent ask questions

It watches


a letter from the photographer

— rue lauriston studio, paris

march 25


This one’s harder to write.
Not because I don’t know what to say —
but because I can’t hide inside my usual language anymore.

No metaphors.
No light talk about shadow.
No performance of intimacy.

Just this:

I used to fall in love with the image before I saw the person.
I didn’t mean to — it was instinct.
I knew how to compose. How to control. How to invite someone in,
without ever risking being seen in return.

But something changed.
You changed it.

You didn’t just step into the frame —
you started shaping it.
You paused. Refused. Redirected.
And I noticed how often I spoke over the silence,
because I was afraid of what might come through if I didn’t.

You didn’t ask to be my muse.
And I’m starting to see how much that word hides.

I don’t want projection anymore.
I want presence.
Collaboration. Co-authorship.
Something we build — not something I take.

So this is not a love letter.
Not a confession.
Not a goodbye.

This is me, standing on the other side of the lens,
trying — for once — to meet you without armor.

Just a man.
Still learning how to look.

— The Photographer

thank you for staying this close