I guess I'm as heady as any man would be, having studied a picture of female pubenda for a duration-though any frustrations are borne from the snail-paced process of layering with oils. It's something else though-the sensual scent of turpentine and linceed, the smooth malleability of lush greens, ochres, crimsons and flesh white, the acid flow of pinot sliding down your throat...you learn to take your time, as in all things-better to savour the sensation. My browser static for hours on the incredible yardstick of Jenny Saville (imo the last great figurative artist of our time), I lost myself and my sable, in the beautiful fragility of a hipbone pushed against translucent skin.Tonight that feels like all their needs to ever be.
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