Eros and Nature seems to be a psychological artifact, a photo-document of the residue of men’s passion. An afterward glance of what was left behind once the deed was done. I see no regard for Nature, men merely dropped their latex vessels and moved on, not thinking of the hundred years of litter left behind. The photographs seem to be a document of sex. Not sex that is seen, but sex that is secondary like Plato’s shadow in the cave.

The photographs are not primary first-hand images of people engaging in sex and pleasure, but instead artifacts that mark what had been done and litter the landscape. It’s like finding reminiscence of another era or time, but not the experience of it. Perhaps it is similar to vicarious thrills, or eavesdropping on confessions, or  titillating thoughts about sex. After all, Puritan ancestors have poisoned the land and the psyche of succeeding generations, making them ashamed of sex, thinking that it is something forbidden, repressed and controlled, when in reality sex is a part of Nature.

--A. Ravarour