A German businessman documents his affair with his secretary: the art of anxiety.
The photographs and notes came from a suitcase that was purchased at an estate auction. The identity of those involved are unknown. All we know about the woman photographed was that her name was Margret, she was married and 24. The businessman was 39 and also married. This happened between 1969 and 1970.
The person who purchased the suitcase put together all of this material and created an art exhibit which was shown about a year ago.
The businessman made notes of their encounters, took many photographs of Margret (none of which are pornographic), and even saved a sample of her hair. I think it's fair to say that the businessman was quite smitten with her.
As for what she possibly thought of him, her expressions are revealing. Sometimes she seems annoyed, challenging, playful, formal, even bewildered as to why he was interested in taking her photograph. Sometimes she seems to be holding a pose simply because he told her to.
He took pictures of her dresses, before or after sex, hanging up unwrinkled, or on the bed in disarray. He focuses on sexual impressions and suggestions. Explicitness is for those uninterested in the imagination. He was fucking her mentally with these notes and photos. He was fucking her memory. Considering that this material has lasted until the present shows that he could not throw the affair away.
There is anxiety in collecting. Once you have one thing you want more, and then more, and then you worry that you'll miss something and you must make sure that doesn't happen. As he photographs and makes notes, he is clutching at Margret, collecting her and their time together. He is controlling it as best he can and saving it for the future, when he (possibly) knows he won't have her anymore. Their affair did last a year.
I get this. I really get this. Having been in this position, anxiety is built into the affair. Time together is precious and intense. The other person almost seems superhuman, a rock star or a demigod. The affair becomes pure joy when together, and when apart you feel a kind of emptiness that is torture and the worst kind of existential angst. You cannot have enough time together. And you cannot realize this relationship in something socially acceptable because, though you talk about leaving your spouses all the time, it will never happen. Because you prefer it this way. You prefer the anxiety, which is as addictive as orgasms.
I'm Lady Ristretto, writing under a pseudonym. My pseudonym has a pseudonym.