(cont'd from previous post)

Firstly, it presents an isolated moment in time. We can conjecture as to what occurred in the time before the occurrance of the image, and what will come after, but the only time of significance is the present that exists in the image. There are no trifling banalities present within the image, and since the image lacks a past or future, there have been and will be no such blemishes.

Secondly, the image shows us a contrast in character. Normally, Louise carries herself around with a feisty and combative demeanor, yet in this image, we see her more vulnerable. She is unguarded, and in this special moment we can see the true dimensions of her personality shine in all their brilliance.

And lastly, there is the issue of aesthetic space to consider. When Heidegger wrote of the work of art, he noted that the work has a transportative quality. Art serves the same functions as did the temples of old: both serve to connect the interloper with something beyond himself. The temple transports the pilgrim into the realm of the divine, even though his body remains on earth. The work transports the viewer into the realm of art, even though he remains physically standing in front of it at the gallery. Because of this transportative quality, the image of Louise has an unreality about it that cannot merely be attributed to its nature as an abstracted work of ink and paint (or in this case, I suppose, ink and halftone).

>>44, you wrote about fantasy being the vehicle through which young teens, otaku, and fujoushi "vent their sexual frustration". Part of the reason, I think, that illustrations of men and women can instill the same reaction among educated adults as flesh-and-blood pop stars can among teens is that, through the transportative qualities of the illustration's power as a work of art, the illustration ushers the viewer into a more potent realm of fantasy than that possible in real life. Within the pure aesthetic space encompassed by the image, fantasy reigns supreme, unencumbered by those trifling banalities that I wrote of earlier. For the one abstract moment in time depicted in the work, the viewer leaves himself to visit that encapsulated aesthetic space wherein the true personality of the work's subject is revealed.

The work, this illustration, then, provides for a transcendent experience. (I wouldn't call it an out-of-body experience -- that phrase carries spiritualist connotations that do not apply to this particular situation.) That transcendency, by definition, offers an experience that cannot be replicated in real life. If we love the work for the experience that it provides, then it stands to reason that we cannot love anything flesh-and-blood in the same manner. A real person may be able to do many things for another, but can never transport that other into the pure aesthetic space of art. That remains the exclusive domain of the work, which is why we otaku do what we do.

At least, that's my theory of it.