I walked down to Hampden, mostly to enjoy the weather. It was after four on a Sunday so most of the shops were going to be closed.
However, I found myself in Avenue Antiques quite paused. I had wondered into one of their little areas of stuff, tea pots, tobacco jars full of character, plates, random books, a few little end tables, and up on the wall was a painting.
Its of a woman on a pond or river bank wearing nothing but her orange-yellow high heals, one of which she is in the process of removing. She is under a tree, but it is clearly broad daylight. Strangely, the two unpeopled sail boats in the back ground makes the scene somehow more private instead of less.
The woman is looking down, half bent over, lifting her heal to her hand, balanced then on one leg, the other arm stretched out toward the tree. Her hair is done up or rather done down, in sixties style. Her breast hang free and are nearly the center of the painting, but her bent leg covers her more private parts.
At first I just stopped, not knowing why particularly. The boldness of her breast could have been, perhaps should have been, kind of off putting. But the moment of the thing made their exposure unoffensive. If anything I should only feel embarrassed about thinking I should feel embarrassed. She is caught in a brutally honest (however unlikely it may seem) moment, concerned only for the removal of her shoe and perhaps her balance. There is no traces of past or future in her movement or facial expression. To assume she was going to go for a swim or lie down to make love to the observer would be simply assumptions with little or no grounds. She does not blush. She is not looking out. I do not know the color of her eyes. She looks down not in shame or shyness or coyness, but in concentration. All that matters to her in this instance is that she needs her shoes off.
All that matters to me is that she saved them for last.
This is what gets me most. Why save the shoes until last? Did the desire to disrobe involve only the freeing of the clothes, likely a dress, and only after discarding it did she find herself in the silly state of wearing nothing but high heals on the brink of water? Was there an odd logic to it, that she didn't want to take her shoes off outside, didn't want to muddy her feet, but then later, considering the absurdity of it, decided to discard of them anyhow?
I am seldom if ever feel an urge to buy a painting or piece of art. Surely I like some, but usually there is nothing that makes me want to take it home. This was different. Today I had an urge. But, for better or worse, I ignored this urge.
I left the painting there. I did not read the little orange sticker on its medium wood frame.
The colors were not particularly brilliant or unique, nor per-say was the style. And I found that her back shoe, the one being removed, was in fact a little foreshortened. It wasn't completely in proportion. Where would I put it anyway?
Though I offer these for reasons not to purchase it, these issues were minor. Certainly worse art had hung on walls. My real concern was how I would explain it. What to say to guests or handymen or even my husband when he returned home?
The lady in the picture shamelessly needs to make and wants to make no explanation for her current, awkward state. But I, I would not be able to free myself, whether asked or pestered or not, of explaining the odd naked woman in my hall.
However, I found myself in Avenue Antiques quite paused. I had wondered into one of their little areas of stuff, tea pots, tobacco jars full of character, plates, random books, a few little end tables, and up on the wall was a painting.
Its of a woman on a pond or river bank wearing nothing but her orange-yellow high heals, one of which she is in the process of removing. She is under a tree, but it is clearly broad daylight. Strangely, the two unpeopled sail boats in the back ground makes the scene somehow more private instead of less.
The woman is looking down, half bent over, lifting her heal to her hand, balanced then on one leg, the other arm stretched out toward the tree. Her hair is done up or rather done down, in sixties style. Her breast hang free and are nearly the center of the painting, but her bent leg covers her more private parts.
At first I just stopped, not knowing why particularly. The boldness of her breast could have been, perhaps should have been, kind of off putting. But the moment of the thing made their exposure unoffensive. If anything I should only feel embarrassed about thinking I should feel embarrassed. She is caught in a brutally honest (however unlikely it may seem) moment, concerned only for the removal of her shoe and perhaps her balance. There is no traces of past or future in her movement or facial expression. To assume she was going to go for a swim or lie down to make love to the observer would be simply assumptions with little or no grounds. She does not blush. She is not looking out. I do not know the color of her eyes. She looks down not in shame or shyness or coyness, but in concentration. All that matters to her in this instance is that she needs her shoes off.
All that matters to me is that she saved them for last.
This is what gets me most. Why save the shoes until last? Did the desire to disrobe involve only the freeing of the clothes, likely a dress, and only after discarding it did she find herself in the silly state of wearing nothing but high heals on the brink of water? Was there an odd logic to it, that she didn't want to take her shoes off outside, didn't want to muddy her feet, but then later, considering the absurdity of it, decided to discard of them anyhow?
I am seldom if ever feel an urge to buy a painting or piece of art. Surely I like some, but usually there is nothing that makes me want to take it home. This was different. Today I had an urge. But, for better or worse, I ignored this urge.
I left the painting there. I did not read the little orange sticker on its medium wood frame.
The colors were not particularly brilliant or unique, nor per-say was the style. And I found that her back shoe, the one being removed, was in fact a little foreshortened. It wasn't completely in proportion. Where would I put it anyway?
Though I offer these for reasons not to purchase it, these issues were minor. Certainly worse art had hung on walls. My real concern was how I would explain it. What to say to guests or handymen or even my husband when he returned home?
The lady in the picture shamelessly needs to make and wants to make no explanation for her current, awkward state. But I, I would not be able to free myself, whether asked or pestered or not, of explaining the odd naked woman in my hall.
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