I paint you, and we Are. [Editorial]

My first time painting breasts I was nervous.

The close proximity of my outer hand, posed carefully centimeters from her bare flesh. Brush strokes evoking hearts and swirls, cautiously lifting and matching the rhythm of her breath.

Creating something beautiful, together. Her vulnerability, my momentum.

Layering, saturating the colours; it can take a long time. My novice skills had not prepared me and my sense of spontaneous design, usually so good when painting small faces, seemed to be failing me. Her breathe, in and out, my face leaned into her collar bones.

Time continued. We were committed to create.

Slowly, the brush strokes came easier. The image began to form. Time evaporated, as it does while painting, and the meditation on medium marking skin became our experience. It could have gone on, until head to toe was wrapped in story; brightly coloured textile of skin. Our selves, met through a looking glass of neons and pinks. And somewhere, and understanding of both worlds, even if just in those moments.


Perhaps this is just my experience. Being that close to someone physically without sexual intimacy is an experience. A beautiful experience. The interaction of giver and receiver in the context of art alone. In the context of spontaneous creation, soon to be washed off, left as memory.

The creation and destruction of its existence being its true testament.




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