You showed me a
picture of someone with a huge scar and asked me if I felt any differently
about you - knowing that you have such scars.
The short answer
is of course, no.
Your question I
think, elicited a more in depth response.
I recently wrote
about my love of women to you. I love women of all shapes, sizes, colours and
races. I love people. I’m as fascinated by them as you are.
And then I was
reminded of my old art teacher at college. He was a huge influence on me. I
used to socialize with him and he taught me an awful lot about the human race. He
showed me symbolism in art and how it was a whole language that you had to
learn. He loved people. He thought the human form was the most beautiful thing
ever created. The female form in particular.
He used to take
our life drawing classes. Once a week, we would all huddle into the room with
the overhead heater in the middle. In would walk the model, often a different
person every week. I distinctly remember him describing a particular girl who
was coming in. “She has the most fantastic apple shaped arse…” he enthused,
whilst excitedly chewing on gum. “Ah, she’s knockout.”
To many he would
appear a bit of a dirty old man. But I genuinely knew that he had studied the
human body all his life. He strove to be able to draw or paint it successfully.
But he knew it was nigh impossible, because you were trying to replicate
perfection.
He practiced and
practiced and practiced draughtsmanship. And he was our teacher. In his
opinion, very few ever mastered this art.
He was never happy
with our results, or his. He would tear up paper in front of you and just say, “Start again”. And you did. And then he’d tear it up again. Gradually you
improved, but you improved the hard way.
So there we all were,
behind our easels waiting for the model with the ‘appley arse’ to enter and
disrobe.
She took our
breath away when she entered the room. She was a middle-aged woman with spina
bifida.
In that moment, he
proved that he was a great teacher. Not just of art, but of life. In not choosing
a traditional ‘model of perfection’ he was telling us that it didn’t matter one
bit that she was disabled, or disfigured. She was
just as beautiful as the next person. We were all equal. It also taught us a valuable lesson about
bravery. Her bravery, in doing the job she did – for probably not much money.
I will never
forget the strength of that woman, or that moment. Our art teacher sat in the
corner, quietly smiling at the silent, but clear reaction he had caused among
the class.
He came up behind
me and leaned in conspiratorially.
“Fantastic arse,
mind.”
I turned and
smiled at him.
“Start again,
though lad. You’ve made a right fucking mess of it.”
I hope that this
rather long-winded story gives you some idea of how I feel about you my darling.
Even though I have
never seen your scars, they really don’t matter to me. I love you as you are.
To me you are
perfection xxx