The desire for lifelike erotic imagery has played a major role in the development of chemical and digital imagery. (It is widely assumed that pornography fueled the Internet’s evolution from a largely text-based medium to the image-saturated, video-streaming behemoth it is today.) These technological pushes have produced images that are sharper, colored, and, eventually, moving. Such shifts are symptomatic of porn’s principle predicament: How to make the virtual more real.
Despite these advancements, porn still lacks many of the elements that make us desire sex in the first place: touch, scent, taste, scale… well, most doesn’t replicate human scale, an exception being Christopher Schulz’s Pinups. For those of you not in the know (although, seeing as how you are holding this newspaper, you probably are, so I’ll make this quick), Pinups features one male nude pictorial which, when the staples are removed, can be pieced together to make a 32” x 70” poster of a single image. (On the poster’s reverse, the individual images from the pictorial form a collage redolent of the “behind-the-scenes” photo collages on many ‘70s rock album sleeves. I’ve often thought this formula holds true for Pinups as well—the other photos in the magazine display the “before and after” of the main event—the decisive moment, the poster.)
People often strive to thematize the subject of Pinups (typically using the prefix “post-,” as in “post-bear” or “post-porn”), but the only true constant is the layout. Of course, as is often the case, the nudity steals the spotlight; most of the focus is on the models, and the way in which they represent some monolithic symbol of a gay subculture’s preferences and ideals. While one might be able to label a guy as Pinups-y, the actual models share too few physical attributes to cohere as an easily classifiable type. (The only quality tethering them together being that they all are guys Schulz finds hot.) There are exceptions to every “rule” about what makes a Pinups man. They are not all husky (see Nathan, Issue 4), or white (see Jason, Issue 2 or Evan , Issue 9) or even hairy (see Tony, Issue 8), nor do they all have beards (again, see Nathan or Jason). But enough about the models, let’s get back to what really makes me lust after Pinups: the layout.
With the design, Schulz satirizes this desire in porn to make the model more lifelike. Even if, after some effort, you have the model life-size and erect in your room, the steps you took to assemble this visage simultaneously draw attention to its materiality. After removing the staples (get a flathead screwdriver, those things are strong) from your Pinups issue and laying the pages on the ground poster side up, you are surrounded by 14 pages of gloriously half-tone and abstract 10” x 16” compositions. From afar, my favorite of these images resemble moody smudged charcoal drawings; they only reveal their true identity when viewed close up. Schulz aroused my latent half-tone fetish—a gradually darkening swoop of dots forming a shadow on the model’s clavicle can seduce me more than the body itself.
So at what point in the assembling process do these abstract images come together enough to incite lust? When do these incrementally placed dots stop being ink and become agents of Eros? Is it when two cascades of light intersect to make a hip? When the constellation of wispy lines becomes recognizable as chest hair? Or is it when you locate the inner thigh? (Or wait, is that just a fold in the curtain?) Once you complete your man-puzzle, you have constructed a looming monument (or perhaps, depending on who you talk to, a post-monument) to male eroticism, or, more literally, you have taped together some dotted pieces of paper that probably call to mind male eroticism.

While some contrive to make Pinups the face of a movement, hopefully this won’t overshadow the fact that it’s an exceptionally designed object containing elegant and charming photography. Pinups is something you want to collect, which, in a culture where millions of naked men are just a mouse-click away, confirms that it is the magazine itself that’s the real star—much more than a particular desire for any individual model. Porn wants you to forget its medium’s materiality; Pinups wants you to savor it. In going to great lengths to make the audience aware of its images’ ingredients, in fetishizing the process as part of the product, Pinups breaks from the history of porn as pure proxy. Rather, Pinups is Schulz’s Brechtian love letter to the physicality of the male erotic
image.

COLLECT THEM ALL
RIOTBEAR

I was asked to write an article for the Pinups Newspaper. I’m supposed to write something that will tie into the new issue. I guess Issue No. 10 is a sort of reaction to ideas and expectations about the magazine being porn. At first glance Pinups might appear to be porn, but as you look through it you realize that it can’t be. It is so much more. I think it’s A. a photo journal B. a graphic novel or C. a personality test. Whatever you want to call it, all of these things have something in common. Every facet of the project is stripped down to it’s bare minimum. What’s left is something genuinely empowering, aesthetically pleasing and effortlessly sexy.
Certainly Pinups is a photo journal of men the photographer admires. Isn’t that true of all subjects on camera? Bruce Weber admires the All American Athlete. Helmut Newton admired the Glamorous Femme Fatale. Christopher Schulz admires his peers. These are young men comfortable in their own skin, fearless and liberated. What a beautiful thing. Body pride is such a radical accomplishment for this generation who don’t make waxing and going to the gym their highest priority.
Pinups can also be a graphic novel of sorts. Every page is such high design that you might assume the models are there merely to give the designer something to arrange on a page. These pages become perfectly placed shades of grey. The shapes zoom in and out mixed with abstract bits of this and chunks of that. Each issue is the task of molding ink into a book bound together to tell a simple yet bold tale. It never gets old when you look at each issue over and over. That’s true of any good art. That’s true of any good story. Every time you discover something new.
The simplest truth and probably the most misunderstood facet about the magazine is the subject itself. There are is no information about these boys. You don’t know who they are, really, but you know people like them and that’s what makes observing them so powerful. They are tangible and you begin to project upon them exactly what you want. Pinups celebrates a certain type, casts that type in a scenario and lets the story unfold. Everyone is different. Every interaction is different. Sometimes they’re nervous, sometimes they’re playful, often they’re lusty and sometimes even melancholy. The subjects are naked give or take one article of clothing. That’s not so much about nudity as much as it is about being open, honest, rejecting oppression and simply not giving a fuck. The result is a bunch of characters that become unexpectedly seductive and forever endearing.
As a project Pinups is so many things. Looking through issues 1–9 I can see a creative medium with endless possibilities. At face value some people might see it as porn because it’s so simple in concept and people feel the need to fit it into a familiar

context. That’s fine ‘cause it’s very charged, but that’s just how it comes together. Ultimately art serves its purpose when it allows you to draw your own conclusions. Christopher probably isn’t so concerned about how people define what he does, but he’s obviously determined to do it with charisma, vision and style. It takes a lot of time and thoughtfulness to get there. We must not dumb it down by calling it porn.

HONEY BOY
Evan J. Garza

Jamie Stewart and I recently swapped photos of our butts.
I happened upon a picture of him on my friend Ivan’s blog, CTRL+W33D, standing naked on the shoulder of a giant 14-foot bust sculpture of Ronald Reagan. He was looking over his shoulder at the camera, his pants at his ankles, and the curve of his shoulder blades drew a perfect line down the small of his back and between the cheeks of his amazing ass. It was perfect. Even my partner, who strongly prefers men twice his size, couldn’t help but admire this exceptional ass.
It wasn’t just the sight of Jamie’s bare butt that made the photo worth revisiting again and again—it was the Reagan sculpture. The gallery where I worked in Houston occupied the third floor of a warehouse converted into artist studios. The first floor belonged to the giant studio of David Adickes, the building’s owner, who littered the adjacent gravel lot with an army of former president bust sculptures and construction cranes. Collectors would often stand at our windows staring down at this sea of Commanders in Chief, interrupting conversations about market value or shipping costs to ask whether the gent with the mustache they’d spotted was William Taft or Grover Cleveland. The sculptures often attracted crowds of easily distracted weekend drivers who spotted them from the street, and on multiple occasions as I got in my car to leave in the evenings I was forced to ask people to stop pissing on George W. Bush.
I was living in Boston when I discovered the photo of Jamie. He clung to The Gipper’s ear with his mouth slightly agape, as if whispering sweet nothings to him during the flash (with a partially exposed scrotum). Overcome with joy that this entire scene took place only feet away from my former workplace, I wrote Jamie.
I’d recently discovered his new side project, Former Ghosts, and professed my undying love for Xiu Xiu. I mentioned that my partner was the music editor of an alt. weekly, and kindly explained that if they were to play Boston I could at least promise him some press (and a blowjob if he were into bearded bearish blokes). He replied to tell me how much I’d made him laugh. “thank you for everything,” it read, “all offers included.” His naked photo became the desktop image on my computer. I often smiled to myself in the morning, staring into the greatness of his peach pink butt, while the icons on my screen suddenly presented themselves in a shape that would not obscure it.
Months went by.
Christopher invited me to be in Pinups and his friend Dave drove the three of us from Williamsburg to the closest clothing optional stretch of beach on Fire Island. It was early May and the air was cold, causing my balls to cling to me as if we might never see each other again. Given the icy breeze, I was occasionally in need of some junk regeneration, and in-between poses I jerked off lightly, as if encouraging my cold extremities to look fresh and warm and thick, the way one might find them on a sunny beach.
Though not impossible, masturbation is not easily done in public, much less on a beach with seersuckered passersby. And since this wasn’t the set of a porn shoot, Dave was not a fluffer. He was a volunteer. One look at his big, beautiful red beard, and the thought of what it might look like were my dick to disappear inside it, was enough junk

might look like were my dick to disappear inside it, was enough junk encouragement, however, for at least the next twenty-five shots. Until more encouragement was once again necessary. It was the briefest (and most modest) non-fluffer fluffering that Fire Island would ever see.
I remembered Jamie Stewart’s face from his naked photo. He looked as if ready to have his ass split open by hungry looks alone. I remembered the Top Model marathon my partner and I had recently watched at home. I tried to smile with my eyes. “Don’t look mean,” Christopher said from behind the camera. Less Tyra, more Jamie, I thought. “Stop looking mean,” he said again with a smile. “Nevermind. Get in the sand.”
A couple of weeks after the shoot, while the issue was at the printer, Christopher sent me an email. In it he attached a jpeg of an Edward Weston black-and-white photo of a nude Tina Modotti, spliced with a naked shot of me on the beach in Pinups. We were both laying on our stomachs in the sand, with scissor-like legs extending out toward the furthest reaches of our respective frames. This was not intended. Nor was my shot designed this way. It was just a handsome coincidence. The differences were technical at best (Weston clearly shot with film), and while Tina looked as if she were napping face down in the sand in her photo, I might have been humping it in mine.
I quickly emailed the hybrid pic to Jamie Stewart.
“Oh nicely done in the ass department!” he replied. “that magazine looks really cool. thank you for your behind!”
No, Jamie. Thank you for yours.

MORNING ROUTINES

Joshua David Riegel

My weekday mornings are home to some of my more-normative aspirations. I often fantasize about waking fully rested, cuddling with my dog, leisurely reading the paper over coffee and an incredible pastry, maybe watching Rachel Maddow or some shit on DVR, artfully packing my lunch for work (or, really, I would have made it the night before), showering, dressing, and eventually strolling to the subway. But in reality, I almost never wake up having slept enough, and thus it’s all I can do to put some cereal in a bowl and brew coffee in a french press, quickly skim emails and the New York Times homepage to make sure the world hasn’t ended, pack some leftover odds and ends into a tupperware for lunch (with a likelihood I will forget it on the kitchen counter), jump in the shower for some not-so-leisurely morning ablutions, pull my still-folded clothes from the laundry bag that I haven’t unpacked from the previous week, check the weather forecast, grab my bag and, before closing the front door, do a pat down for my phone (right pant pocket), wallet (back right pocket), and keys (left pant pocket). Then there is the sprint to the subway. Perhaps the saddest part is that I don’t have a dog, but I make up with for it by drinking coffee made form ridiculously-expensive beans from far-off places.

Paul Mpagi Sepuya

Hit snooze. Hit snooze. Hit snooze again. Am I sleeping alone? Morning sex. Piss. Hit snooze. Look out the window, I wonder about the weather. Check my emails and messages with my laptop in bed. NY Times. Artfagcity. Turn on WNYC. The rest of the news. Facebook. Stretch, brush my teeth. Breakfast while listening to the radio. Put my pants on. Helmet, bike lock. Out I go. I’m 15 minutes late.

AA Bronson

5:05 am, Wednesday, August 12, 2009: As usual I am awake in the wee hours, sitting naked at the computer feeling at once much too wide awake and much too tired, with some thought in my head which needs to be dealt with, in this case this text. When I am at Fire Island I sit at a little desk at a window facing bamboo, and I hear the sound of the ocean. Here in New York, with my window facing into the courtyard of London Terrace, I can see the too-bright lights of other early risers, and hear a quiet roar—not quiet enough—which must be the sound of the city’s collective air conditioners. Between bouts of typing, I find myself sitting with my left hand cradling my balls while my right hand works the track pad of my MacBook Pro. I am dehydrated. I pour myself a big glass of water. Like every morning, I began by peeing, but then my instant impulse was to wake up my computer so that we could greet the morning together. Now water and emails. Usually there is a flurry of emails from Europe around now, either exhibitors from the NY Art Book Fair or European galleries needing to confirm details of an exhibition, or asking for jpegs, or reminding me about something I have forgotten to do, some piece of information I have forgotten to give them. This morning there is an email from Anja Casser at the Badischer Kunstverein, who hopes I am on vacation because I didn’t answer her last email. I am not. Water. She is reminding me of our exhibition “Printed Matter: Learn to Read Art”, which I curated for them. Anja wants it shown at P.S.1 during the NY Art Book Fair. Unlikely, I think, but I will try. Our wonderful web designer, Ollie, from Berlin, is asking about a detail for the book fair web site. As usual he has already made the right decision by himself and is just checking in. I have never met Ollie, but I will meet him in September, when I am in Berlin for the General Idea show at Esther Schipper. Nothing from Esther today. She is on holiday, but I know she needs the values on the works that are being shipped, and as usual, I am late. I check the sex sites on which I maintain profiles and look for messages. Sometimes my friend David leaves me messages on DaddyHunt, this morning nothing. I read the NY Times online, scanning headlines for something that catches my interest: this morning, nothing. From here I go back to bed and hopefully ease myself into

sleep—I get so little!—before rising again at 7:45. Then the routine of making stovetop espresso, heating milk, shower, comb my beard, worry for a moment that I need a haircut. Mark makes me toast and then I am back at the computer, still naked, answering the next round of emails from Europe, and the earlybird emails from others like me here in New York City, and emailing this text to Christopher.

Costello Tagliapietra

Straight off, first thing to do is stumble to the bathroom, then to the coffee machine. Waking up most mornings we are cranky old bastards until that first sip of coffee. Then back to the bedroom to check emails, where we are usually distracted from cleaning ourselves up and getting ready for the day. After catching up with business in Europe and Asia it is off to the shower.

Ken Baldwin

First off, I’m not what you consider a “morning person.” I am unable to make conversation or construct sentences when I first wake up. I roll out of bed, stretch, walk over to my computer, switch on whatever album im obsessed with at the moment—right now its Quentin Tarantino’s Grindhouse: Death Proof soundtrack. Next I go to the kitchen and put the kettle on for my Cafe Bustelo French Press. While I slowly enjoy my coffee I switch my Blackberry on and wait for the endless emails to filter in. Work emails from Europe take precedence due to the time difference. Once I’m caught up on emails, Facebook, and check the NY Times headlines; I pick out what I’m going to wear for the day, jump in the shower, and brush my teeth. Usually at that time my ambitious interns arrive ready to take direction for the day’s agenda.

Nathan Hazard

I tend to wake up to Little Edie, one of my cats, sitting on my chest, licking my beard. She would clean it from ear to ear if I let her, but it is uncomfortable on a trimmed beard, so I don’t.
Admittedly I’m not much of a morning person; I roll straight into the shower. I start by rinsing my hair, which I only shampoo once or twice a week. Then indulge in my daily treat—Ole Henriksen’s walnut complexion scrub. After rinsing off a lather of bay rum shower cleanser, I towel off and step over Maude, my other cat who likes to stand on her hind legs beside the tub and bob her nose under the edge of the shower curtain. In front of the sink, I use two mirrors to shave my face and throat to maintain a flattering beard shape and neck line. Afterward I splash some bay rum aftershave, and apply a light SPF moisturizer. I use a grooming cream and comb my hair with a barber’s large black comb. I brush my teeth. I return to my bedroom and dress, buff my glasses, and finish with a small splash of fragrance (I tend to rotate seasonally, sticking to pure earthy notes). The cats are circling me by this point, so I feed them and rake the litter. By now I am surely running late, so collect my bag and keys then am out the door to the office.

Elliott Breeden

Open your eyes. I tell myself this, to wake up. Last night I dreamed my bed was covered in meat - huge, raw slabs of every cut. My sheets were white and stained with lingering blood. The juices pooled in the wrinkles of my bed. My dreams are frequently violent. But I wake up, with a sharp breath and a heavy bladder. My erection complicates pissing. It is persistent and I consider jerking off until I notice the time. I pee in the shower while shampooing my beard. My hair is still damp when I walk out the door. I will daydream all morning.

I’m a total fuck up in the morning. I always have been. I’m not really worth engaging until at least midday. I can’t eat, food make me nauseous and I have to wait until at least 10:00 am to have my first coffee. So my morning routine is basically just trying to make it through to the second half of the day without loosing my shit. Some mornings are little easier. Those are the days I get to sneak in a morning wank. What better way to start the day than making love to yourself? I usually wait until my bf has gone to work and the dogs have been walked. I then reach for my laptop. It’s been a long time since I used my imagination to rub one out, I blame/praise the Internet... it’s basically the biggest porno mag ever. I’m an advocate of XTube. I love that it’s so DIY, the fact that anyone can make some smut and get it published on the Internet. AMAZING. I’m usually pressed for time, so I have saved my favorite videos to a list. Trusty favorites and notable mentions include Bigballs69 for, well... his big balls of course, Doodad the young bearded Mars Volta fan who likes to lick the jizz off his hands once he’s done and finally no morning wank session is complete with out a viewing of Minion1; the chunky naturalist who likes to take his sweat pants off at local Barns and Noble store and jerk off between the bookshelves while the store is still open. I have this routine down to a fine art and can be done in five minutes. Some times if I’ve got an extra few minutes and I’m feeling like partaking in some impromptu performance art I’m jump on BMB video chat and bully mid western bears into jerking off for me and in return I’ll jerk off for them. A morning wank can save lives.

Mark Jeffery

Markov, Marko, Mark chain text generator. A markov chain is an algorithm that makes its next state dependent on the previous one. I inputted my original writing plus italic text from the novel Trick Trip by L. Butler into the Markov text generator
Good Morning, Morning Routine, The Machine is ON
6:00 am – Underwear walk back to the curtains. A star hangs from the curtains. A star hangs from the curtains. A star hangs from the curtains. A star hangs from the computer for WBEZ Alarm clocked. iPhone in right short pours in the teapot and two cups of strong teapot and meetings for boiling an egg: 4 minutes. e. 3 tbags in the soaping began he finger slid into the fington Post, New York Times, The Mirror. 8:15 am – Underwear walk to the kettle. 3 tbags in through the soaping began he felt he might short pocket, earphones in. Gossip, Kylie, Monroe, Bike take much more without shooting moved about I warmed I could not taken door lock goes off in a bedroom come office to the kettle. 3 tbags Bike Ride Winchester, Iowa, Wolcott, Hubbard, Kinzie, Madonna. Bike locked downtown Chicago. 8:55 am – WBEZ Alarm clock goes off in a saucepan on the bathroom. Shower onto the bathroom, he was gratified to see that Dick was fully erect. Red hair wash, When the kitchen the stairs to the bathroom, he went eagerly, his brick hard boner proceeding him by its full 8:20 am – T-shirt, Shorts, socks and trainers on. (8.25 am) WBEZ Alarm clock goes off in the Kitchen, sunlight pocket, ears cleaned, shave if needed to remove red started being Edition. Water in bag, books, calendar, and prick stroked. 7:30 am – Underwear walk into the fington Post, New York Times, The Mirror. 6:20 am – T-shirt, Shorts, socks and prick stroked. iPhone in rod covered in multi coloured fairy light come. what Dick wash, towel dry, computer to send emails; plan pencil case, work clothes. Radio turned on for boiling began he felt he might come office, computer to the pavement on marmite. Cappuccino is made. 6:20 am – Underwear walk back to the Kitchen down the soaping began he was gratified to see that Dick was fully erect. Red hair was fully

erect. Red hair wash, When the gas kitchen door onto the day and trainers on. 8:25 am – Bag on bag, books, calendar, and meetings for boiling an egg: 4 minutes. He was gratified to the finger slid into another bedroom. Shower on, bike taken downtown Chicago based Live Artist ter turned on to check email, Facebook, Huffington Post, New York Times, The Guardian, The Mirror.

David Tabbert

My morning routine is a 2 step process which typically begins the night before. I’m not exactly what one might consider to be a ‘morning person’. Just before I turn in for the night, I take a hot shower and lay out my clothes for the next morning. Once I wake up, after repeatedly hitting the snooze button on my alarm clock, I roll out of bed, throw on my clothes and head for the nearest espresso. That’s when my day officially begins. Everything up until that point is pretty much a blur.

Patrik Rzepski

6:45am - Wake up to a clanging Bollywood disco track my Svengali (whose also GP's) swears by—Immediately I Drink 2 quarts of scalding hot green tea that women in Sri Lanka only pick with their left hand while blindfolded and then are executed after a full harvest, It's very expensive and you can taste it. 7:00am - Outfitted in a custom Lanvin jogger and Y3 sneakers I take my 2 competition level Great Blue Danes for a run along the east river, they run wildly off leash and it usually takes me about an hour of screaming their names "Stalin and Lenin" to finally round them up, which my kundalini psychotherapist say helps me work out my abandonment issues and is good for my lower back 8:30am - I burn my workout clothes with organic lighter fluid that my house keeper Olga picked up at the Park Slope co-op, while she prepares me 3 teaspoons of carrot juice extract and one hard boiled egg filled with Almas caviar which her brother smuggles in direct from the Tehran-Moscow-New York Aeroflot flight that he trolley dollys on. 8:45am - While Listening to Huey Lewis and the News, I shower with water imported from Fuji, I know what you're thinking but don't worry I donate to a greenfund (the one AJ setup) to offset the carbon emissions. I use Nisshin Maru soap (Linda told me about it) that actually isn't that expensive in japan but because its illegal to kill whales in the US it costs a fortune in smuggling fees. 9:15am - I get dressed using... actually have you seen Lagerfeld confidential?? The scene where he's getting dressed?? It's basically the same except I have 3 more bowls of chrome hearts jewelry on my dresser than Karl.

 

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