A colleague of mine and I stood in the gallery where the campus-wide art exibition was being held. Works of every sort: three-dimenisonal design, sketches, stencils, wire sculptures, water color, digital editing. The place cleared out and we both focused on this four feet by two feet watercolor that depicted a girl from the knees up. In the painting, she is facing away from the frame and she is looking back over her shoulder, completely nude, and from the looks of her arms she is cradling her breasts.
"I wanted to get over here and check this one out," I say, "but I didn't want people thinking I was a perv."
"Yeah, me neither," he says.
"It's beautiful," I say. It's really the girl's face that strikes me. It's the most detailed of the entire piece. Dark eyes, flowing brown hair, and a look of pure innocence. Behold, this is the daughter of God. This is Eve, just before the fall.
"Yeah but there's something wrong with it," he says.
I scan over the painting once more. "Her ass is too low," I say. "She's got this huge lumbar region thing going on." Admittedly, parlance not often heard with the walls of an art gallery, but a hell of a lot more sophisticated than sipping wine and talking about how much you can afford to pay for the piece.
"Or," he says, tracing the line with his finger, "the crack needs to go higher."
I concur. We head for the door. Have to get back into the office and appear useful before the day's end.
"Who do you think that is?" he asks.
I turn around and bend at the waist and squint so I can see the artist's name in the lower right corner of the painting.
"No," he says. "The model."
I pause and look up and think.
"Wouldn't I like to know?"
"It's probably a student," he says.
"Well, in that case, nevermind."
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