She sits there on a stool wearing a cowboy hat,boots,shorts,barechested
A bit of a smile is on her face
Is it for the artist
Is it for me
Maybe it's like the Mona Lisa
Just a illusion
This beauty of mystery
Hanging on a wall in front of me
Does she hold the answer about herself
Then again it's just art
_________________
save my home
The Green Nude
-
Dave The Dov
- Posts: 2257
- Joined: September 3rd, 2004, 7:22 pm
- Location: Madison Wisconsin which is right here
- Contact:
The Green Nude
Last edited by Dave The Dov on March 20th, 2009, 6:48 pm, edited 1 time in total.
-
Dave The Dov
- Posts: 2257
- Joined: September 3rd, 2004, 7:22 pm
- Location: Madison Wisconsin which is right here
- Contact:
When it's stolen...
shocked
When it's censored...
rise up
When it's created...
inspired
_________________
Honda CB400
shocked
When it's censored...
rise up
When it's created...
inspired
_________________
Honda CB400
Last edited by Dave The Dov on March 20th, 2009, 6:48 pm, edited 1 time in total.
I spent several hours a week being exposed
in front of a classroom of sculptors
whose education and
whose training required them to
examine
every square inch
of my body with
excruciating detail.
I stood
in silence; they worked
in silence. In all honesty,
I have never been so uncomfortable in all my life—by the very nature of the situation,
I could not deny that who
I was and what
I was doing was intimately connected to who
I am as a sexual being.
The experience could not help but be sexual—
and yet it was not a sexually intimate
experience. By contrast, those hours of modeling have been some of the most
poignantly lonely moments of my life.
The experience could not help but be sexual—
yet there was no affirmation of whom I was
(or who the artists were)
as sexual beings.
In order to preserve
professionalism,
the artists were required to look upon me not as a sexual person, but as an abstract
model of human form.
By turning me into a thing,
my dignity was to be respected.
But how much dignity
does a mere thing have?
To my experience,
I was the only person who saw me
as a sexual being;
I have hardly
ever
been
so
lonely.
in front of a classroom of sculptors
whose education and
whose training required them to
examine
every square inch
of my body with
excruciating detail.
I stood
in silence; they worked
in silence. In all honesty,
I have never been so uncomfortable in all my life—by the very nature of the situation,
I could not deny that who
I was and what
I was doing was intimately connected to who
I am as a sexual being.
The experience could not help but be sexual—
and yet it was not a sexually intimate
experience. By contrast, those hours of modeling have been some of the most
poignantly lonely moments of my life.
The experience could not help but be sexual—
yet there was no affirmation of whom I was
(or who the artists were)
as sexual beings.
In order to preserve
professionalism,
the artists were required to look upon me not as a sexual person, but as an abstract
model of human form.
By turning me into a thing,
my dignity was to be respected.
But how much dignity
does a mere thing have?
To my experience,
I was the only person who saw me
as a sexual being;
I have hardly
ever
been
so
lonely.
"Every genuinely religious person is a heretic, and therefore a revolutionary" -- GBShaw
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