(This analysis concerns yesterday's story.)
I'm an amateur musician myself, and I've always adored the way music disciplines the body. For me, it's the piano that forms the central hotness of this photo, and distinguishes it as a picture that cries out for narrative elaboration.
Because music has a kind of discipline at its core, the figure of the conductor always strikes me as a model for a wonderful sort of dominant: those who can really conduct seem to put no effort it into it all, and yet utterly to enforce their will, for their pleasure, for the pleasure of their musicians, and for the pleasure of their audiences, upon all of them and also upon the music itself. Think of Bernstein, or of Karajan, or of Toscanini: the experience of listening to their performances of the greatest works of art, for my money, ever created--the Ring cycle, Mahler, Beethoven--, is for me a submission to their will that provides a sublimated eroticism so intense it can leave me shaking the same way an orgasm can.
If only I could be Muse to a conductor who truly knew how to enjoy a Muse. . .