The face and body of British glamour model Kate-Anne Cooper arouse a queer kind of nostalgia for a lost world of vintage porn, wherein women weren't shaved, pierced, tattooed, cosmetically-enhanced, or airbrushed into digital perfection; when they looked softer, hairier, uglier, and their cunts, although more threatening, were nonetheless full of life and the promise of a blissful return to nature.
Probably she knows this: for her hair and make-up suggest a deliberate retro styling designed to trigger this wistful erotic longing not just for the girls of the late sixties and seventies, but for the period itself in all of its popular cultural manifestations.
Probably she knows this: for her hair and make-up suggest a deliberate retro styling designed to trigger this wistful erotic longing not just for the girls of the late sixties and seventies, but for the period itself in all of its popular cultural manifestations.
Time, which is often cruel, is kind in this regard; it adds charm and a certain element of pathos to days and things gone by. It allows us to remember our own past fondly and to sentimentally gloss hardcore events and the grim material facts that historians and social theorists often choose to emphasise.
In doing this, we sacrifice critical complexity. But we gain pleasure. And that's not something we should have to apologise for; least of all to those who would eliminate all forms of fun from life and tie intellectual language exclusively to an endless series of moralizing imperatives.
