Comments on Art and flesh

[SW1] I have moved back to the city, my love, and I’m not far from our first apartment. I savor every memory of that the place and all that happened between us. I still find it hard to understand why you chose to be with me. I was a moody introverted man whose only cared was forabout painting. One day you’ll be found drowned in your own paint. Your own words, my dear.  

Remember when you came to bebecame my model. The first time we met. You were different from the others. They had a cool business manner. Uninvitingly professional. Your every act was sensual. Warmth and heat and restlessness trying to hold a pose.  

Day after day I explored you through my painting. The sunlight spilled over your form: a symphony of shadows and light. I loved you with my eyes. 

You kept tryingtried to engage me in conversation, and I kept retreatingretreated. It was irritating and distracting, but I could not dismiss you as I would have dismissed anyone else. I couldn't bare the thought of your absence. 

I laboured at the work for weeks and thenbefore you saw what I had done. 

When the hell are you going towill you paint me?!  

I couldn’t believe your anger. You were staringstared at my work and screamingscreamed.  

When are you going to will you get out of your fucking head and paint something real. I was in love withloved you by then. You seemed lost in your own eyes, helplessness and ferocity converging and spilling over. All sweetness turned to venom and every intelligent thing I might have said in defence of my painting work disintegrated in the heat of your rage.  

I took you in hands without a hesitation. Your flesh was my truest canvas. I left a painted imprint on your skin. Grasping. Hunger and ferocity. A world collapsing collapsed beneath my feet. And you. I was neither artist nor man before I was with you. I was nothing, and with you, I became fire.