Art Moves Me

“Art can never exist without naked beauty displayed" ~William Blake

"The essence of sculpture is for me the perception of space, the continuum of our existence." - Isamu Noguchi

“The attractions of ceramics lie partly in its contradictions. It is both difficult and easy, with an element beyond our control. It is both extremely fragile and durable. Like 'Sumi' ink painting, it does not lend itself to erasures and indecision. The best is that which is most spontaneous or seemingly so.” - Isamu Noguchi

http://www.noguchi.org/

It was the third morning that I awoke in Manhattan. I still couldn’t get used to the sirens all of the time. I was thankful for earplugs. I got up and showered first. I am an early riser, he was not. I got out of the shower and proceeded to begin my morning routine; deodorant, lotion, teeth brushing… and then I began to dust my face with makeup. A few minutes into this process, he came in to pee. He looked at me, still sleepy from another night of random lovemaking and talking in the dark. His face reflected in the mirror I was using to apply makeup. He looked down, finished what he was doing and sighed. As he flushed the toilet he spoke for the first time that morning. It was a low, very matter of fact, almost annoyed voice that quietly yet sternly said… “Wash your face.” He clunked the lid of the toilet down and sat on it. I turned around and said… “I am just putting a little make-up on, aren’t we going out all day?” He stood up, a full nine inches taller than me and quietly said: “Yes, we are going out, and no you will not be wearing make-up.” He kissed me and walked out of the bathroom.

So… I laughed at him and myself, and washed my face. I stepped into the bedroom and grabbed a red sarong and threw it around my body, tying it between my boobs. I shook out the water from my hair and left it down to dry.

As I walked down the hall toward the kitchen He came into my line of sight. He stopped; glass of orange juice in hand, poised on the way to his mouth. His eyes caught mine and he said quietly “Drop the sarong.” I looked up at him incredulously and started to object. “We are sitting down to breakfast and I don’t want to eat nak…” I didn’t get the rest of my sentence out. His eyes locked on mine with an undeniable look of “don’t push me” and he quietly and deliberately said: “Drop. The. Sarong.” He tipped the orange juice to his lips without breaking eye contact. There is suddenly no question who will win here. Without taking my eyes from his, and while blushing to the roots of my hair, I untied it and threw it onto the couch. As soon as it hit the cushion, he nodded and murmured a quiet “thank you” and turned around to get breakfast.

I stood for a moment, alone in the living room… then took a frustrated breath and walked into the kitchen. Naked. Bare faced. Wet hair. Black circles under my eyes and I am pretty sure I had a zit on my eyebrow or something. And I was kind of pissed. I put my hands on my bare hips and said; “SERIOUSLY? YOU have pants on. We are cooking breakfast… we are leaving for the entire day AFTER breakfast…. I can’t wear makeup OR have clothes on… REALLY?

He quietly finished slicing mushrooms, put down the knife, washed his hands… all while I was standing there practically tapping my foot in annoyance.

He reached for the towel on the oven door and began drying his hands. Without looking up at me he said to me. “I am an artist Jess. I close my eyes and see you. You have these amazing freckles and blonde tipped eyelashes and these fantastic curves I have craved my whole life. You are standing in my kitchen, I am cooking you breakfast; we have made love until neither of us could move… I have kissed every inch of you, and NOW? Now, you need to be modest in front of me?” He looked up at me finally, and looked straight into my soul. “Please let me see you… just you. With all of the beautiful imperfections that make you so amazing. If you want me naked, I will get naked. But you don’t have a choice. If we are inside, you are naked, face and body. Period.“

So here I am… standing in the kitchen, still naked; with tears slipping down my cheeks. And no make-up to smear. Looking at a man who is looking at me, and seeing things I had NO idea were beautiful.

It was a quiet breakfast. We laughed about things from the day before and planned the day together. We were going on an outing of some kind. That’s all I knew. I had learned a few days ago that I was not supposed to ASK where we were going. My part was just to BE there when we got there. We threw on jeans and shirts and coats and tennis shoes and headed out the door. We drove through New York City, across bridges, through Burroughs, He showed me his world. Where he had grown up, his school, where his parents taught school, where he rode his bike as a child. We ended up in a VERY industrial area. We were near the water and we were NOT in Manhattan. I could see the city across the river. Hmmmmm. I wasn’t really paying attention to how we got there; there were too many other things to see.

He parked the car between two buildings that looked like warehouses and next to a building under construction. We proceeded to walk around the building that at first glance was an old building under renovation. Half way around the building I said: “Where ARE we?” “Near Queens” was the only answer he wanted to give. I started to ask what we were doing here and got a quiet look of … “please wait”. So I did.

We walked up a wooden construction ramp and into one of the most beautiful museums I have ever been in. It was the Noguchi Museum.

Art moves me. Deeply. Sculpture especially so. There is something magical to me about someone taking a seemingly ordinary and sometimes ugly hunk of something and making it… beautiful.

As soon as I realized what kind of place we were at, I had the most sensual butterflies in my stomach. I was so excited. The docent took our coats and we proceeded to turn to our right and began the tour. Just as we were leaving the main hall, he called to me. “Here.” He was directing me with small come-hither gestures. I remember thinking in that moment that something about him looked somewhat like a kid in a candy store. I was looking at pieces of beautiful sculpture as we walked, trying to do what he had asked me but so deliciously distracted. He smiled at me, knowing my giddiness for art museums… and kissed me quietly. Then he turned me and wordlessly asked me to walk in front of him as we rounded the corner. He pushed me a few steps in front of him and guided me around a corner.

I turned and stepped into the room… and in a moment… I saw her. Nadia.

I stopped mid step and quietly took in a small breath. By the time I could exhale, there were tears sliding down my cheeks. He came to me then, standing behind me, quietly placing his large hand on the bare skin at the small of my back. No one spoke. We were alone in the room with her. He just stood there… watching me cry. His eyes were swimming during one of the moments I became briefly aware of his existence. I wiped my tears with an embarrassed sweep of my hand and took a step toward her.

Her hands are tangled above her head, in a soft decidedly feminine stretch. I step forward and look at the artistry in her. You can almost hear her breathe. In an instant the tears are back. I reach behind me for his hand and whisper through my tears. “Her toe! Look at her toe.” He looks down. Her big toe is flexed. It is a wildly erotic portrayal to me. And in that moment we can both almost hear her moan in quiet pleasure. I moved around behind her. Her hair is a curly mess, her hands are tangled in it and she is completely and utterly… feminine.

To continue to attempt to describe her is futile. To those that appreciate art, I won’t insult you by telling you what I saw. And to those that don’t appreciate art. If you are ever in her presence, breathe her. For me.

Nadia was for sale last year. She brought $4,226,500. It was a world auction record for Noguchi.

I stood with Nadia for about 10 minutes the first time. I returned to her three more times before we left the museum that morning. She is beautiful.

As we left the room to explore the remaining rooms in the exhibit, I whispered to him in a tone thick with conspiracy. “She was his lover.” He laughs and says “Huh?” I stop and turn and quietly say to him “Noguchi. Only a lover would notice her toe in that moment. Only a lover would have given her Just-been-screwed hair and THAT kind of stretch. Look at her. He had to love her. Look at how BEAUTIFUL he made her.” He smiled his amazingly beautiful smile at me. We were quiet then. Eye to eye for a moment, then quietly returning to our journey, walking and looking at the life’s work of a brilliant and passionate artist.

As we prepared to leave the museum, I begged to see her one more time. We stopped again, in the “Nadia Room”. This time, he stood behind me in the corner, we were no longer alone. There were other people looking at busts, around the walls. I hadn’t even noticed them. I should go back some day. I am pretty sure there were some famous faces in the group of plaster and bronze. But in that moment, I didn’t care. I was dancing with Nadia.

His arms were around me and his head was bent forward near my ear. “Are you ready?” I tilted my head slightly, and said, “Almost.” I walked around her, one more time, celebrating and memorizing the beauty that was captured in this creation. We quietly walked out of the museum hand in hand and wordlessly walked to the car.

As we neared the car he said to me “Have you ever read the story, about Michelangelo and the David.” I ponder for a moment. “Yeah, where he said that he could see David in the marble, and recognized that it was his job to allow that beauty to come into being.” He nodded. We walked the final steps to the car. He leaned his back against the passenger door and opened his coat for me to cuddle into. As I curled into him, he breathed my hair and quietly whispered. “Jess, I am certain that Nadia didn’t have make up on when he made her beautiful.”

And then, again, came the tears. I looked up at him then, and whispered “Thank you.” He said, “No sweet, thank YOU. I don’t know that I have ever seen anything as beautiful as your eyes when you saw her. I knew you would love her. I have been counting the days until I could bring you here.”

He then quietly explained to me that the most arousing thing for HIM that we had done together in the few days we had spent was when he pushed me into that room the first time. He shared with me how magical it was for HIM, to see my eyes light up. I had never considered that.

Later in the day, after an amazing lunch on the pier in the rain and an intense conversation about post 9-11 New York City, we were strolling through central park. He knows this park. It begins less than 40 yards from his front door. He has lived here for 25 of his 50 years. He photographs its beauty and the beauty of the people in it. We had been walking and talking, but suddenly something was strange. There was a hedge in front of us. He was guiding me to step onto a step to look over it. I gasp in delight as I step onto the ledge and lean over the bush in front of me. There is a bronze statue fountain in a little amphitheater depression in the park. They are women, dancing, playing flutes, spinning, touching. They are laughing and skipping and they are beautiful.

I step back this time; eyes wet with fresh tears and say “you did that ON PURPOSE!!!” He smiled innocently and said “Did what on purpose?” “Made me cry and showed them to me and…”

It slams into me like a freight train… in a moment… I see it.

My voice almost fails me as I whisper, “And you stood back and watched.” My demeanor changes instantly, the statues in the little secret garden are forgotten. I look at him again, forcefully studying his face. ”You did it again. Why? What is so amazing for you about making me cry like that?” He handed me a tissue from his pocket. I was embarrassed that I was crying again. It had been a supremely emotional day. It began with Nadia and moved to Ground Zero and then graduated to this quiet hidden garden in Central Park at dusk. I looked at him again, almost frustrated. “What does it do for you? Why do you like embarrassing me like that by making me cry?”

His face lit up and this tall ruggedly handsome thickly muscled man with the beautiful eyes locked onto mine, began to tear up. “I know, it is kind of a selfish indulgence at this point. There is just….. something so exquisitely beautiful about your face when it lights up like that from within. And I am a selfish bastard. I know I will only get to see that a few times in my life. So you need to get used to it. There is nothing more beautiful to me than seeing that.” “And Sweet,” he whispered as he kissed the top of my head, “putting make up on would dirty that for me. I would have missed too much of you had you tried to hide.” He reached between us. Took my hand, stepped away and said… “Now c’mon, there isn’t much daylight left, they sparkle at this time of day… let’s go see your bronze nymphs.”

I will end this blog as I began it. Possibly, the quote resonates a bit more deeply now.

“Art can never exist without naked beauty displayed" ~ William Blake