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“Reach out and touch faith,” Depeche Mode implored in “Personal Jesus.” In Myriam Boulos’s photographs, I could’ve sworn I heard her subjects whisper, “Reach out and touch me.”
Faith is touch; touch is sacred. And the body is its own god.
Against a purple sky, two naked men tenderly embrace; one is, indeed, whispering, not to us—the welcome voyeurs—but into the ear of his beloved. Juxtapose the delicacy of that moment—men stripped of the—