|
I felt almost embarrassed to be clothed, at an unfair advantage.
|
I did not even let myself fantasize that she might be anything like as aroused as I was. I worried that she might be bemused or condescending at the depth of my involvement with what was, after all, just art. On the other hand, she wasn’t looking away either. And I did notice that she never looked at any of the other onlookers in the room, not even the ones who approached as closely as I had. I felt a childish thrill of sibling-rivalry triumph: She likes me best.
In one sense the performer of this piece renders herself utterly vulnerable--naked and splayed as if for vivisection, the light sparing nothing. But of course submission and dominance both contain an element of the other, and in another sense she was the one in power. The fact that she had voluntarily offered herself up for this purpose was an intimidating act of will—coolly fearless, brazen, awesome. Her unwavering reciprocal gaze denied me the cozy invisible omniscience of museums, TV, or the internet, asserting herself as another person in the world, and reminding me that I was there to be seen as well. Luminosity is a female riposte to 30,000 years of nudes from Willendorf to Avignon: Okay, here’s a naked lady; look all you want. She’s looking back, though.
I felt almost embarrassed to be clothed, at an unfair advantage; if I hadn’t been on the real-world side of that white line, still subject to its rules, it would’ve been only common courtesy to undress. As the minutes passed, I shifted my posture in awkward increments, turning to face her fully, unclasping the book I’d been holding in front of me like a fig leaf and lowering my hands to my sides, surrendering to a more open pose. Something about the enforced separation between us, the boundary imposed by that white line, freed me to let down my defenses, the way we’ll spill our secrets to a stranger on a train, or fall in love with someone safely unattainable.
|
I did not even let myself imagine that she might be as aroused as I was.
|
Also, bear in mind that she was literally above me, exalted like the image of a saint or an angel, and the old iconic power of the configuration had its effect; I felt almost unworthy in her presence, a supplicant. Standing there, I remembered the Creature from the Black Lagoon gazing up with primordial wonder at the girl in the white one-piece, suspended high overhead in her rippling aurora of light.
But I was also uncomfortably aware that her experience of this exchange might bear no resemblance to my own. I wasn’t even sure how clearly she could see me with that spotlight in her face. I was wearing glasses—could she even see my eyes, or only a glinting far below? I knew, too, that her attention must be far more divided than mine—she had to concentrate on maintaining her balance and following the prescribed motions of the piece, moving her outstretched arms by excruciatingly infinitesimal degrees out to either side, and then upward over her head again. I was also conscious that, for her, this was a job. She might have this same experience with several different people every day. How personally invested was she in this act? Was it really her I was seeing, or a professional persona? Maybe her mind was elsewhere—doing the crossword, trying to ignore her aching coccyx, already looking forward to happy hour. Even the most exhibitionistic actors or confessional writers are calculating in what they give away, and always withhold something more essential than what they reveal.
Comments ( 28 )
Leave a Comment