On a quest to understand intimacy, I rediscovered fire. No words, just fire. Like the one that gives birth to stars and new moons; like the one that makes astral bodies rapturously spin around each other for an -undefined- period of time. This alluring, ecstatic dance that electrifies the bodies and stops my breath. 

I pursue it – blindly, not being afraid to encounter demons, as I now acknowledge that this is part of intimacy’s very own game; that my conscious isolation was an unconscious longing for it.

I let it burn – deliberately, not being afraid to lose myself in this eerie bosom. I can easily afford to break my heart, as I long for a broader one; one that generates impassioned anthems and attracts the real lovers of this world.

I lustfully immolate my heart just to fuel the fire. There’s nothing new in this encounter - paradoxically, but my alchemical reaction to it. I know this burn since the beginning of time; always fearlessly commanded; always seductively shaped. The only affirmation is the present moment. A smell, a laugh, the heat that reach eternity. Tangled palms that hold the heavens; incanted words that burst into hymns.

Countless times I wondered if intimacy is a region of Utopia; if I am looking for things that can never be found in this realm. I came to realize that this kind of intimacy is one out of countless permutations - just the hardest and scarcest one. Thorny roads are abandoned by the weak and rare things aren’t revealed to the small-hearted. Intimacy is not meant for cowards and fools who are afraid of fire. Utopia is that ferocious, burning force that tenderly invites me to keep on seeking it; the homeland of that breed of dreamers, who know how to surrender to intimacy and how to belong to fire. The path to it glowed imposingly the moment I allowed this fire to devour me.

So, now I know that this kind of intimacy lives somewhere within this world and is what makes Utopia seem so tangible. Once truly fathomed is then the only one obtained nearly effortlessly; undeniably magnificently. Like if the night had put a fierce, everlasting spell on it: “Fire! Fire.”


Fire

A generation, which seemingly has all types of freedom, is still struggling with the freedom of identity. One can be themselves as long as this complies with the societal norms and the commonly agreed acceptable. Several pieces of one's self are consequently lost or never explored.

In a project where the photos would be perceived as opposites from the vast majority, I am highlighting naturalness and the beauty of uniqueness.

Naturalness

Orgasm is a form of art, especially when it derives from the divine union of 2 souls connected by something real; real passion, lustfulness, admiration, eroticism, love, or all of them combined. As if one was part of the alluring chaos which forms galaxies or as if your spirit briefly but contently floated within the beauty of the cosmos. 

Gabriel García Márquez wrote: “Don’t let yourself die without knowing the wonder of fucking with love” and these 2 pictures are a visual representation of this phrase to me. 

The pictures are taken at the exact same place with a short time deviation and while the flowing water was constantly making love with its surroundings in that last warm summer evening in Belrin.

Female & Male Orgasm

From a very raw perspective, earth is anything but paradise for the vast majority of the humanity. It is a place of suffering for millions living in poverty and terror, an illusionary bubble for those few unduly wealthy, and a place of despair for the rest of us seeing our only home getting destroyed by reckless and divisive decision makers. In order to justify those unspeakable means on earth, the concept of the after-life, aeon paradise comes into play, which is presented as the only salvation from all this suffering. I profoundly felt that something is wrong with this conception and I wondered if we were missing the point all along. If we are so sure that heaven exists, why don’t we go there today?

 Reas more here: https://www.mariatsormpatzoglou.org/another-day-in-paradise

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Maria Tsormpatzoglou