Fflow
Goodbye
- Joined
- Nov 5, 2001
- Posts
- 12,315
Here's a fantasy:
I'm an artist, a well known painter and sculptor. We meet at a sidewalk cafe and, after exchanging a few brief words I look into your eyes and say, "I need for you to pose for me. Please say 'yes'."
I can see your emotions play across your face. You think of my hands, my eyes, tracing every curve, knowing every hidden secret. You want to, but you shouldn't, but you want to... "My studio is right around the corner," I say, "and the light is perfect right now." I step back, ever so slightly, invitingly. You follow, one step, then another. Soon I'm slipping my key into the lock and the heavy door swings open into a surprsingly large space. Windows line one wall, casting soft light on canvases, hunks of stone, paint cans, and jars of soaking brushes.
I lead you in, tossing my jacket on a chair and gesturing casually toward an ancient Japanese screen. "You can undress back there," I say, almost bored. I turn, fussing with sketch pads, sorting through pencils, and wiping damp brushes onto a cloth stained with a myriad of colors.
I hear the rustle of clothes, the soft whir of zippers, and see your head pop out from behind the screen. "Where do you want me?" you ask. I gesture to the brass bed.
You know you're beautiful but, for some reason you feel more vulnerable, more naked, in front of an artist, someone trained to look with a critical eye. You step out, and walk to the bed. Standing there, the cool white sheets unkempt, you imagine a pose and blush. "Just lay down and relax," I say, "and I'll start with a few quick sketches."
You lay back, trying to be languid, then lay on your side facing me. My hands begin to move with great rapidity, the graphite whispering across the paper. I flip to a fresh sheet and begin again, this time moving closer. You can sense my attention on you, my eyes beginning to focus on smaller and smaller details. The curve of your heel, the slight indentation on your calf, the childhood scar, the dimple, the ear lobe. My hands fly across the page, one and then another, each a study in beauty, each a part of a larger whole.
We know ourselves with such a critical eye. We know every flaw, every weakness, every mistake. With trepidation, you take the pad from me when I offer it, and begin to look at the sketches. You see yourself, but not the 'you' you know. On the pages, a woman of deep and profound beauty lives. Her curves, her strength, her fragility, her hopes, revealed with just a few thin lines. Emotions well up, and tears follow, as you turn the pages to see yourself as I see you: Perfect in your human form.
I sit near you, watching as you wonder at each sketch. Somehow, our physical closeness mixes with the intimacy of my studies, and you take my hand in yours. It feels unkempt, almost rough, but you know the gentle delicacy it's capable of. You bring it closer, to your heart, and I feel it beating. The room feels like it fades away and, somehow, our lips touch. Almost reverently, we kiss, scared that this fragile, sacred moment will break with any misstep.
