Dear Supervert (30 Dec 2012)

I have no recollection of how I found pervscan.com. I do remember being impressed by how legitimately perverted the content was. It was at times highly disturbing. It was always fascinating. When you stopped publishing on February 14th, I assumed the selection of that date was purposeful, but was it ironic? Hopeful? Done without any further meaning than the desire to make people wonder about the significance? Quite possibly it was actually random or coincidental.

There are plenty of deeper, intellectually challenging layers in your work, but man is the gross-out factor high at first glance. It’s unsettling in a way that forces the provocation of thought. The intricacy of it is mesmerizing. Alien sex hobbyists kidnapping young girls to act out their fantasies on, people having sex with corpses or preying on the emotional turmoil of others at funerals. I’ve read Perversity Think Tank a number of times and I’m positive I still don’t truly understand that one. The cover reminds me of Soulages. When I first touched it, I pictured slightly hairy hands, protruding from the sleeves of a blue button down shirt and brown tweed blazer, artfully glopping the paint on each jacket. Then I pictured a woman in a men’s undershirt, her bare just-got-back-from-vacation-tan ass seated in a leather chair, doing the glopping under your direction. Then I wondered whether you were a man or a woman, even though the text of Perversity Think Tank indicated you are male.

See, at some point I developed something that could be defined as a fanaticism for the true bizarreness of your writing. When I ran out of books and website content, I read other people’s thoughts on your work. I found a handful of interviews. The absence of personal information was astonishing. At a time when it seems like nearly everyone puts the details of their life on the internet and there are people who actually do post pictures of every single meal they consume, you were nearly impossible to find any background on. About two pages away from the end of Google’s search results on “Supervert” I started to feel a bit obsessed. It’s one thing to consume all of a person’s work and do a bit of research. It’s another thing to go to the ends of the internet and build imaginary caricatures of them in your head. I went ahead and finished reading the last few search results.

What I perceived as your meticulous control of your brand’s image became beautiful to me. I began to value your personal anonymity for both its rarity and for the stark frame it provided your work. I developed an additional zeal, solely for this absence of information. Earlier this year I gave a professional acquaintance the cold shoulder for weeks because he emailed me a link to an article which confirmed you are male and mentioned your name.

A few weeks ago, I was setting up my aerial rigging at an event. A woman whose photography was being exhibited at the same event introduced herself (or maybe I introduced myself) and said that she’d seen the Hysterical Literature video. She knew you, and told me that you might be attending. I loudly blurted out that I didn’t want to know ANYTHING. I then attempted to explain why and eventually gave up because every sentence felt crazier than the last.

It’s chilly where I am sitting right now. 49 degrees to be precise. I’m wearing a silk robe with panties and mens athletic socks. There are rivulets of sweat sliding down my ribcage from my armpits, just from remembering that moment. I do think I might be able to explain now:

Supervert is a thing… a brand… an entity that stands completely independent of the person who has created it. You’re like the Wizard of Depravity, and what lies behind the curtain could shake my blind devotion or add another exquisite note. I want to revel in my awe of the giant talking head a little bit longer before I look.

x

Stoya

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