A languid tongue face lick! That’s what I’d have given that woman had I been in Rox’s place. As she was so closely shoved in their bosoms that it was beyond embrace.
A man standing on his head on the beach with legs spread up – “Ce frumooos, ca o floricica!” – is NOT a flower. In spite of the apparent anatomically correct disposition of parts.
Fingerblushing through his hair. One should’ve got to her on the spot. There, in the dust of time. But then again, maybe he did, just there. The venalia of fingerprints chem-changing their blood to and fro in that simple gesture between them.
The damnation is in the hand of the painter then (and the dogmatic norms of representation). No surprise. But then that’s where my aesthetic preference lies. In the smears of paint and overlapping of forms, intrusions. The transgressive forms in Gerhard Richter. But isn’t that more human?