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The room is dim, the air heavy with anticipation. A soft, sultry voice begins to read, "In America, photography is not regarded as a fine art... but as a democratic craft." As the words flow, so does her hand, caressing her body, her breath quickening. She's a study in contrast, her voice educated, her actions primal. She reads of photographs capturing "the truth of a person" as she bares herself, her touch becoming more urgent, more insistent. The room fills with the sounds of her pleasure, her voice rising with her climax, a dark, beautiful symphony to Sontag's words.