Perfect Resolution

Perfect Resolution Frank Montesonti

To whom have I given this gift, to the dog on fire in the street like a frothing torch, to the child in static blankets recharging in anticipation of daylight, to myself who sleepwalks to understand the desire of rivers? I go to bed on nails like a body tenderizer. I like to imagine the sun as a giant coin tossed into the sea. I only wish for solitude.

The white shirt on the hanger seems to be the ghost of former prosperity. Maybe it's the incarnation of the idea of wind, maybe a child frozen in a block of ice in eternal scream. The moon drips lava onto the earth like a candlestick which is also a finger. Growing horizontally out of my ears are two tulip trees. In Spring they bloom with perfect resolution.

The First Female Nude Eric Stephens

It must have been a man, who wrestled it out first. Who painted the first female nude. Women, back then. They lacked opportunities. They were the flowers. The Roses. That men plucked from the wild, and put in pots on windowsills.

Downtown. People everywhere. Constant motion. From shop to vendor. From vendor to merchant. As if haphazardly choreographed. A dress rehearsal of untrained actors. Living out their plays. Live performances on every street corner.

She stood out. The curve of her back, straightened. Stressing attention to the ruffles of her dress. The slow fluff as she moved, as if her legs had lungs. Breathing, as she walked. Each breath, carrying her next step.

He had seen her. Knowing a moment would not be enough. Knowing he could not fully take in this wonder, this woman, in one breath of a glance. He wanted to study each color as it shaped around each form. From forehead to pinky toe. He wanted to know it all. How each form connected. Curved. Compromised his standing.

He approached her with nervous movement. Some twitching muscle. Beginning above his hips. Feeding up through his throat. Until he forced out a whisper. And asked her to pose.

She blushed the first time. Walking before him nude. Cheeks lit up with fire. Muted, before it burned. Breasts behind her hands. Cradled a little too tight. The nervous laughter as he sat her on the couch, covered all the way soft with satin. Indigo. To heighten and complement the warm flesh tones.

He put brush to paint to canvas. In careful study of her skin: the way it fell into the depths of a shadow. The edge soft, before it disappeared. He moved his brush across the canvas, as if he was silently sliding two fingers across each rise and slope of skin and bone. Muscle. Tissue. Until he had it right. Until he felt he could reach into his canvas. And pull out something beautiful. Something human.