Art Makes Me Horny

You get engrossed in browsing through photographs, drawings and paintings to find yourself some short time later with a raging erection. Sure, the style is always figurative. Sure, the reason for your engrossment in the first place is a primal attraction to the subject matter and the suggestive nature of the work. And of course, there is a running theme of nudity, sexuality and youth. Yet I wonder is this a common reaction to walking through an exhibition or flipping through the work of say Hockney? 

I would love to say that it is the aesthetics of the work that I admire but I would be lying, which is precisely what I want to avoid doing here. I am turned on plain and simple. Its visual qualities however, make the seduction more potent. They enable me to become infatuated with the piece. I want to retreat to a private corner and relieve myself. I want to reach out and touch the work. Touch the subject of the work. Be in it. Be its creator. I want to appropriate the depicted moment and think of it as my own memory. I then think of the artist and imagine them living it. This makes me both frustrated and more erect.

The Room Tarzana, 1967