The Dartmouth Review

Touring the Museu de l'Erotica

By Alston B. Ramsay | Sunday, April 11, 2004

I cowered before the seven-foot dildo. It loomed like a beast straight from Sigmund Freud's worst nightmare—some deviant image crafted by an overactive subconscious. "Rollo," I asked, "Does this look like a Thai 'amulet,' because that's what the placard calls it?"

Rollo was transfixed; he heard nothing. Minutes later he realized that his jaw was slightly agape, and that there was a small stream of drool slowly dripping down his chin.

"Woooowwwww," he cooed in a low, monotone voice. Finally he averted his gaze and wiped his sleeve on his chin. With a dawning sense of reality, he glanced around Barcelona's Erotic Museum boldly searching for the next prurient oddity.

How we stumbled upon this gem is still a mystery. The Erotic Museum, or the "Museu de l' Eròtica" as it's known overseas, is directly off Las Ramblas, Barcelona's main tourist drag. Throughout the day, tourists meander between numerous street performers dressed in all sorts of bizarre garb—from ogres and elves to Satan and Jesus—while at night the strip fills with nightclubbers in search of the next drink. Nestled in a non-descript building with coated windows and a blaring red sign, the Erotic Museum is a treasure amidst the rough-and-tumble Barcelona streets.

Lured by the promise of student discounts, Rollo, my brother Burke, and I swaggered through the front doors, paid our admission, and made our way upstairs where we were confronted a mission statement: The museum, apparently, is "a center of didactic information, both interesting and ludic, based on a monographic theme, a classic of humanity's history and culture: erotica." Indeed, ours was "the first museum of erotic art and culture where the visitor can contemplate the development of eroticism through the various artistic and cultural facets of the human being (anthropology, archeology, literature, plastic arts, history, antiques...)."

The first room we entered contained a movie projector showing what was billed as one of the first pornographic films ever made, which was apparently a private commission for a king or prince somewhere in Europe. Honestly, I didn't pay much attention, save enough to realize that 'attractiveness' was not a necessity for the actors back in those days. My brother Burke, tender soul that he is, quickly exited, and Rollo and I followed his sensible cue.

After passing through a room or two filled with sundry paintings, pastels, and sketches, I encountered another form of erotic art—this time in the form of photography. Adorning the walls were the works of fetish photographer To Hammar. I have to admit I had not heard of him and was forced to read the prompters to learn more. After running through a brief bio which need not be repeated in these pages, To's more recent activities were lauded: "Today, To Hammar still does a bit of classic girl photo, and a lot of sophisticated fetish photography." Sophisticated fetish? This apparent contradiction in terms ran through my head as I slowly turned to examine his pictures, already with a sense of impending horror. What confronted me should not have been shocking, given the rest of the decor, but even I am at times caught off guard.

The first picture was of a girl on all fours, clad in black leather, gleefully wearing a gas mask, and clothed in a menagerie of rubber. I would soon realize that all photos were a variation on this theme: A female (or two) wore a skimpy latex/rubber/leather/pleather outfit with varying amounts of nudity, and posed in some sexual position with gas masks and/or other rubber apparati whose purposes I could not discern. After a term studying Renaissance Art in Florence, I felt ill-equipped to comprehend these new visuals.

People always tell me I'm not open to new ideas; I guess that's true in this case. But whether I am or am not, Erotic Museums are a burgeoning industry quickly reaching new constituents the world over. Recent years have seen museums sprout up in cities like Berlin, Amsterdam,and New York, while the newest addition to the club is in America's own Hollywood. If the Barcelona version is indicative of the rest, they're probably not worth your time, but I shall continue my narration in the hopes that others do not fall prey to the temptation as we did.

As my thoughts strayed, I eventually forced myself away from To's opus to women (and gas masks), and I entered "The Dungeon." What erotic museum would be complete without one? Behind a glassed-in display case stood the dungeon proper, with one female mannequin cuffed to an elevated bench. Behind her stood a man clad in typical dungeon garb: leather mask, shirt, and pants, long flowing cape, and a pointy black hat. Oh...and goggles—large, red-tinted monstrosities. In his raised hand he held a cato-nine-tails whip, whose metal studs glittered as the strobe light rhythmically flashed. Another wall held implements of pain—the dungeonmaster's tools—like needles of fire and heretic forks. The final wall had, of course, an original engraving of Marquis de Sade's Misfortunes of Virtue. Enough, I thoguht to myself.

As I entered the next room, a sign announced "Erotic Telephones." The blistering red phones came in a variety of languages: English, Spanish, Italian, and French. Having only a rudimentary understanding of Spanish and Italian, I opted for the English phone first, which I quickly dropped back in its cradle. Perhaps it was the idea of the erotic phone, and not the actual words, that had drawn me in the first place. I decided to persevere, and next I chose French, knowing full well I wouldn't understand a single word. As I picked up the receiver, the sultry inflections of woman's voice lapped at my ear. I had no clue what she said, but I could use my imagination, which was far preferable to the raw, guttural utterances from the English phone. As my new friend verbally caressed my ear, I drifted into a state of semi-consciousness— only to be rudely interrupted by an excited Rollo.

"Dude, you have to see this," he said as he turned on a dime and disappeared around the corner. I reluctantly followed, only to be confronted by the "pleasure chair," which was a woman recli—No, I better not even describe this one. Suffice to say, the coin slot that used to operate it had graciously been filled with molten lead.

A few rooms later—including one with the seven-foot Thai 'amulet' —we found the stairs again, which we quickly used to exit the building.

As we emerged into the harsh afternoon light, images of To Hammar and Marquis de Sade danced through my head. For a few moments I pondered the ineffable, before giving up and trying to block out the desultory tones and images. Later, I read that Michael Williams, a recent visitor to Hollywood's erotic museum, told the Associated Press, "Sex is part of life. It's what we do to propagate humans, and this museum [Hollywood] reflects life." If this is true, I have not yet lived. And for this, I am thankful.