The Art of Him

Oh, how I love him.


I'm going to photograph him...his lines, curves, dips, shadows, planes, in black and white, in sepia, I'm going to map his body inches at a time.

Long ago, people made maps by exploring territory.

I like that idea.

Sometimes, it's overwhelming, this love. It's huge, and old, and new, and comfortable and frightening. It's a challenge, and a blessing, and as easy and natural as breathing.

I love this beautiful man.

Beauty...more than skin deep, his, and complex, and fine. I wish I could paint him...paint his likeness with oils, acrylics, watercolors. The oils and acrylics for the bold, the strong, the powerful, the anger and the love and the smile and the intelligence...but the watercolors for the soft, the shades, the subtleties.

Or to sculpt...but how would I sculpt what isn't seen? Clay or stone...they can't capture the nuances of personality that I see, that add to this love, layer upon layer...

The soft voice when he speaks to the cats, coaxing them to come take a treat from him or accept a gentle stroke from his warm hand...music...there is no instrument with which I could convey the tones...and it goes right through me, melts the frozen places, transforms my stone or leaden heart onto a warm and beating thing, fluttering in my chest.

Dear Goddess, if a person of words finds it indescribable...

I'm at a loss.

I think...I cloud fill a museum...and still never quite convey what a marvel I find him...

There is no art so fine as the original.