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 - 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

PICTURE THAT:



blurred

backlit

unbothered

black lingerie

under a hitel robe

she is not out of focus

she is just our of reach


an envelope / Elina
room #714

— private for your fingers only

Muse: you used me
Photographer: no. I needed you
using someone doesn’t hurt this much

Photographer: you know this version of you only exists in my lens, right?
Muse: then keep shooting
I’d rather exist there than anywhere else

PICTURE THAT:



naked on heels

one hand in her hair

the other gripping the tv

the news keeps talking

she is the real broadcast


PICTURE THAT:



naked

lit by city lights

one hand across her chest

the other pulling her forward

she’s not running

she’s performing


an envelope / Katya
room #071

not everything inside will make sense

Muse: do you see me?
Photographer: only in pieces
that’s how I build what I need

Photographer: you’re no the muse anymore
Muse: good
I want to be the thing that fucks you up long after the art’s over

PICTURE THAT:



nude in heels

back arched

hand on the door

he face erased by flash

body frozen mid-reveal

she is not entering

she is arriving


an envelope / Natalia
room #50

— may cause desire memory or regret

Muse: am I real to you?
Photographer: only when I close my eyes.

Photographer: you always arrive just before I forget what I’m missing
Muse: and leave just before you remember

PICTURE THAT:



blonde bob

black lingerie

she’s not looking at you

but her reflection is

decide

who’s in control


an envelope / Kris
room #5013

read me like you mean it

Muse: what do you hear when I am silent?
Photographer: my own obsession answering back

Photographer: you vanish between frames
Muse: that’s where I live

an envelope / Caisa
room #202

one secret per envelope

Muse: which version of me did you fall for?
Photographer: the one I couldn’t name

Muse: you said I was free.
Photographer: no
I said you looked free
that’s not the same

viewer monologue

after the studio visit

I don’t know how to explain what I saw.
It wasn’t a book. Not yet.
It was something growing. Something breathing.
And it was surrounded by its ecosystem — your space, your books, your past selves pinned to the walls.

It felt like walking into someone’s head.
Not a workspace. A world.

Your home isn’t just where you live — it’s where your language lives.
The way things are placed, half-stacked, half-sacred.
The books aren’t decor. They’re memory.
The prints, the contact sheets, the notes on the wall — they aren’t showing off.
They’re listening.

I touched the pages of the book like I wasn’t sure I had permission.
Some of them were loose, misaligned, out of order —
and still, somehow, it made sense.
Like the meaning wasn’t in the polish, but in the presence.

You’re not building something linear.
You’re building a labyrinth.
And the viewer — me — isn’t supposed to “understand.”
We’re supposed to get lost.
Supposed to feel something shift.
Even if we can’t name it yet.

It made me think about what it means to look.
To consume.
To be given an image.

It’s so easy now — to scroll, to like, to call ourselves creators.
But this… this wasn’t content.
It was closer to ritual.
Private, raw, a little dangerous.
It asked something from me. Not just attention — presence.

For a moment, I didn’t know if I was the viewer or the viewed.
And I think that’s the point.
You blur that line on purpose.
Because you know — deep down — we’re all performing.
Even when we think we’re just watching.

I didn’t leave with clarity.
I left with questions.
And not the trendy, hashtag-deep kind.
Real ones. The kind that follow you home.

There’s something brave in that.
To show unfinished work in an unfinished world.
To let the mess be beautiful.
To let the book become a conversation — not a product.

Whatever this becomes, when it’s done —
I hope it stays this alive.

a letter from the photographer

— rue lauriston studio, paris

may 25

I never meant to make a book.
At least, not like this.
What I really wanted was a place to feel my way forward—
through desire, through beauty,
through all the quiet questions I didn’t know how to ask out loud.
I followed the instinct,
the tension, the small sparks.

Sometimes it felt like seduction.
Sometimes it felt like surrender.
But always, it was a process of listening—
to what wasn’t yet formed,
to what wanted to be revealed.

Each variation changes me.
Each version is a different rhythm,
a different state of mind.

This isn’t a final statement—it never was.
It’s a process. A dance. A living thing.

You might hold it gently.
Or turn the pages with hunger.
You might feel tempted to peek behind the sealed envelopes,
or to leave them untouched.
Both are allowed.

That is part of the seduction too—
the not-knowing.

What you see here is only one reflection.
There will be others.
But for now, this one is yours.

Juris Treskow
Paris

treskow's note


I make people feel seen

then I disappear

sometimes I don’t direct

I provoke


what I shoot isn’t who they are

it’s who they almost were


an envelope / Rebecca
room #202

one secret per envelope

Photographer: every time I try to capture you, you change
Muse: because you’re not meant to keep me
just to follow

Muse: What are you willing to give for the image?
Photographer: my sleep
my sanity
my skin
what do you want?
Muse: your silence

a dialogue between
the collector and the muse

Paris

COLLECTOR
You came here alone.

MUSE
Always do.

COLLECTOR
Even when he photographed you?

MUSE
Especially then.

COLLECTOR
That’s not how it looks in the images.

MUSE
Images lie better than people.

COLLECTOR
I’ve seen you in other shoots. With other photographers.
You’re different there. Less… open.

MUSE
He made space for something.
Not control. Not exactly.
But presence.

COLLECTOR
So you gave him more?

MUSE
No. I gave myself more. He just caught it.

COLLECTOR
But it’s his name on the cover.

MUSE
Doesn’t mean it’s his story.

(Pause)

COLLECTOR
Do you regret any of it?

MUSE
No.
But I regret how much I needed it.

COLLECTOR
You speak about him like he’s already gone.
Is he?

MUSE
He never stayed. He captured.

COLLECTOR
Is that not the same?

MUSE
No.
Capturing is about fear.
Staying is about risk.



COLLECTOR
You think your image is yours?
Even now?

MUSE
No.
But the moment was.
And I still remember how it felt before the shutter.



COLLECTOR
I wonder if he ever looks at these after they’re printed.
Or if they’re just trophies.

MUSE
Not trophies. Traces.
And not of me — of himself, when he thought he was in control.

PICTURE THAT:



red soles

black lace

hair down

back arched

chair gripped

she’s not waiting for permission

she’s daring you to look longer


an envelope / Maria
room #88

did you feel that?

Muse: you’ll destroy yourself trying to understand me
Photographer: then I’ll be the first thing you truly touched

Muse: you’re lost in me.
Photographer: no
I am building the maze as I walk it

an envelope / Sonia
room #332

some pages want revenge

Muse: when do I stop being your subject?
Photographer: when I start being afraid you’ll see me

Muse: I don’t want to be your idea anymore
Photographer: then who are you without it?
Muse: scared
and real

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:



face masked

legs crossed

gloves up to the elbows

room soft

her stare sharp

obedience isn’t requested - it’s expected


a letter from the photographer

— rue lauriston studio, paris

may 25

She was never just a model.
She was the atmosphere.

I said it was about light. About form.
But it was about her.
Not her body. Not even her gaze.
Her effect.
The way the room changed when she entered it.
The way I changed.

I don’t think she ever fully belonged in the frame.
She was always slightly outside it —
messing with the edge, breaking the rhythm,
pulling something out of me I didn’t plan to give.

I can’t say I understood her.
But I didn’t need to.
I just needed to feel her —
in that place where admiration and hunger start to blur.

It wasn’t about control.
Not really.
It was about attention.
Intensity.
The slow, electric game between two people who both know they’re being watched —
and who both enjoy it.

Those photos…
They’re not neutral.
They’re loaded.
And they should be.
Because nothing real ever happens without tension.

So no, I won’t pretend I was objective.
I was involved.
Maybe more than I should’ve been.
But I don’t regret it.

Some muses aren’t there to inspire.
They’re there to provoke.

She did.

— The Photographer

was it enough?