Spring is here in one of its first days of sun and warmth. I’d forgotten what sitting outside in a T-shirt felt like, a crisp breeze on my skin amid the sun's heat.
To say I’m relaxing wouldn’t quite capture it.
My posture is ramrod, my back pulled up into a single line, my sloping shoulders back, chest out.
My posture is ramrod, my back pulled up into a single line, my sloping shoulders back, chest out.
My eyeglasses are off, so it’s tough to find a point on which to fix my gaze as I am instructed to look this way and that way. Between the lack of vision and the sunshine, I’m trying hard to avoid squinting.
Oh, and I have a sash curled up on my head like a turban – like you do.
This is what happens when my friend, Anna, is painting me. I’m not suspended on a fake horse like the Prince in the new Cinderella movie, thank god.
Anna’s an artist, and a very talented one, working in canvas, ceramics, porcelain, whatever she decides to master. And today, she’s trying to master my visage by translating it to canvas in oil paints.
All of this is new, all of this is different, but the words to describe this process are simple: I’m a muse.
I’m a muse!
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| Maybe I could rock this look. |
I’m a muse!
