I was a painter really—a portraitist mostly of real life, its sensuality. It didn’t matter if the subject was male or female, as long as it was alluring to me—and both could be alluring to me.I was compared—or at least I compared myself when asked—to Whistler or Renoir in my use of rich colors and lush settings to set off the sensuality of the human body. But I wasn’t confined by the Victorian conventions that, I believe, had limited these artists’ works. Often when I looked at a Whistler or Renoir portrait—of perhaps a woman in a brightly painted kimono resting on a daybed—I looked into her face and divined that the artist had painted her right after he’d fucked her, his cum still floating in her eyes and her mouth puckered in the recent memory of the shape and movement of his cock.I endeavored to capture this mood earlier in multiple art forms—while she—or he, if the mood struck me—was still being fucked. I once had painted a male in the same vein as a Renoir “in a kimono, resting. It was as neat and tidy as she had been raised to keep it. Her bed was made, her clothes were hung. The drawers of her bureau were closed. On her walls were a few pictures. A reproduction of Dürer’s Praying Hands with her nighttime prayer printed on it. ‘Now I lay me down to sleep…’ A school pennant she’d received with her welcome packet to St. Joe Valley Junior High. Photos of the family, one I’d taken from the air of our home and airstrip, and one of the party she’d attended last spring.There was something about that photo. Twenty or so children lined up in rows, almost like a school picture in its formality. I was quick to pick out Cassie and realize how much she had changed this year. Beside her stood Brian Frost. I picked up the picture to look more closely. They were holding hands!This was, perhaps, more serious than I thought. The photo was in a cheap dime store frame and the back practically fell into my hands as I held it. I started to reassemble the photo when I saw the.
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