jurij treskow

In my photography, women are my muse, my source of admiration and empowerment.

I seek to unveil and celebrate their beauty and radiance, magnifying their allure and strength.

The enigmatic allure, feminine grace, provocative sensuality, and raw energy they exude captivate me as an artist.

A woman, a femme fatale, embodies my favorite subject - strong, confident, and unapologetically daring.

jurij treskow

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treskoff@gmail.com

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introducing my new art book — sexperimental

Sexperimental began as a need to make something real—something physical. A personal form of storytelling. Each copy is unique, handcrafted, and shaped by the unpredictable rhythm of the creative process.


It started in hotel rooms. These in-between spaces—temporary, anonymous—turned into makeshift studios, cinematic backdrops, places to improvise. I wanted the book to carry that same energy, so I began weaving in hotel stationery, scribbled notes, and hidden elements tucked between pages.


There’s no single way to experience Sexperimental. It’s meant to be handled, interpreted, explored. The texture of the paper, the scent of ink, the weight of the materials—they’re all part of how the story unfolds. Each page is a scene, a fragment, a moment suspended.


Every reader becomes part of that process. Curating their own version. Like the moments behind the lens, no two copies are ever the same.



It began quietly. 19:00.
A slow drift into the bar at Laperouse — shadows flickering, music just low enough to let the tension breathe. Eyes adjusting, curiosity rising.

Then, the shift. Ten books. One salon.
Time softened. Pages opened like skin. You chose the pace.

Femme fatales dressed in Maison Close moved like secrets — brushing past, offering Volzhenka Caviar, teasing open a different kind of hunger.
Not performance. Presence. Not spectacle. Seduction.

Deeply Dstrbd, Ivan Dorn and Stas pulled the room into a slow, raw current —
a soundscape trembling with intimacy, somewhere between a heartbeat and a confession.

And somehow, we all slipped into it.
That oxygen feeling. Where eyes begin to shimmer, where you don’t know if it’s the art, the music, or them.
Where you’re falling — not for someone — but into something.

The night didn’t end. It simply unbuttoned itself. And lingered.

J.

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