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The Edge of Night
by Jean Van Cleemput
Bad fetish photography, of which there is plenty, feels embarrassing. We see our own fantasies on paper, and are offended by their clumsiness. We instinctively inhabit the naked skin, and feel exposed — not to the judgment of others, but to our own aesthetic displeasure. Our forbidden thoughts turn out to be tacky clichés. Our sweet and dirty little secrets seem monstrous when brought awkwardly to life.
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