Seated Female Nude, c. 1916


I have never considered her to be or to have been, only drawn. Painted by an Italian living in France.


She was my first, the eye-opener. Viewed behind glass in my mother’s bedroom. Her frame in a frame. Eyes closed. Exposed to a boy who was too soon from the womb to understand but still sat and waited upon her hourglass figure for a time when he would.


Her undemanding beauty, preserved by the paintbrush of an overworked alcoholic, mattered not. Irrelevant to a boy captivated by the glorious expanse of flesh. One who was without the benefit of an explanation from salivating hormones yet still felt something.


Something which confused, yet excited. Intimidated, yet invited.


12


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