61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Nerve's videogame blog: Street Fighter. The movie. A new one. With that chick from that Superman show. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about!
The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Mad Men's January Jones struts her stuff in Vanity Fair. Plus: Damages returns, the latest Gossip Girl guest star and Donna Martin capitulates.
We didn't have any money, but my mom instilled in us a desire for self-education,
and a love of
books. So, of course, when I hit puberty I used the library as my own personal
porn-hunting collection. G-spot? Clitoris? Mysteries of the female anatomy,
explained and charted. I felt like I had
discovered a long-forgotten map to pirate treasure.
Then, I found a photo book called White Women. It was my first glimpse
of Helmut
Newton.
But it wasn't the nudity that intrigued me about this book. I'd already seen
everything
in
the secondhand porn
collections my friends and I shared — back then, a discarded Oui discovered
behind some dumpster was considered gold. This book wasn't as naked, but it
was naughty. And it
was beautiful. And rich, very rich.
I felt like I was some poor servant boy sneaking quietly into a manor. Barely
breathing, smelling the decadence, the money. Peering silently through a gilded
keyhole, watching the lady of the house have her way with the chauffeur. This
was not a world I
knew. Fucking weird rich people! I loved it!
It wasn't just me and the girls in the trailer park that were kinky freaks. Rich
people were just as bad - maybe worse! Brilliant! Suddenly I had a connection
to that life. A ticket. A passport. Just get
a camera, oh my God, and some day, I'd be able to go wherever and ask
whoever
to do
whatever.
A few years later, after I’d become a painter, I saw two photographs at about
the same time. They made me want to abandon painting and become a photographer.
One was Susie Smoking by
Nick Knight. The other was Green Room Murder by Helmut Newton, photographed much
earlier. They were both genius, beautiful, decadent. But Helmut’s was naughtier and darker. Even
though it was staged a million miles from where I’d come from, it felt like home.
I bought a camera that day. Helmut gave me my ticket.
