SEX ACCORDING TO MAÏA
MAÏA MAZAURETTE
Western civilization loves to attach numbers to everything, including artistic disciplines. We have the seven official arts, from painting to cinema, along with comic books, video games and a good dozen or so aspiring disciplines: gastronomy, fashion, perfumery, floral design, watchmaking or modeling; even origami has its defenders. You know what's missing from this catalog? Sex. I can't even fold a paper crane, but still. If paper cranes enter the pantheon of muses before the Kama Sutra, I'll have an ulcer.
So here we are, in France – the country of love, courtesy, Les Liaisons Dangereuses, Sade, libertinism, cabarets – facing a major omission. We do not exhibit, subsidize or reward sex. The Musée de l'érotisme in Paris closed in 2016 and its collection was sold off. Our heroines of touch are at best labeled as prostitutes, at worst as sex addicts. Our great masters of sensitivity are mocked: Are they just womanizers or outright perverts?
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