the line of beauty
As a young woman I really didn’t understand classical sculpture – what’s with the obsession with male beauty, I thought to myself. Yes, yes – muscles, form etc, but, really, let’s be honest here…women’s bodies – lush curves and delicate frames – are so much more, well, aesthetic.
It’s not that I didn’t like the male of the species, I did, I just didn’t think their physiques were worthy of art. Handsome faces atop tall and gangly bodies, blue eyes, short dark hair – the type never changed – were certainly attractive, but sculptural? Hardly.
A few years ago Germaine Greer wrote a book called simply, The Boy, in praise of male beauty and I remember thinking at the time– interesting, but odd. However, something has changed.
I suppose it started with a precise and deeply felt attachment to TA’s bottom. TA is blessed with a bottom that is the peak of pert perfection. Sometimes I just like to hold it – it has (I did ask him if I could write about this) a pleasing density and the softest covering of velvety plush. The obsession that developed over a couple of years has now ripened to a direct relationship between me and it that somewhat circumnavigates its owner. I recognised that this was a radical departure in aesthetics, but it wasn’t until a certain theatre poster intruded into my consciousness that I realised how complete the revolution has been.
That boy, that horse; the beautiful curve of muscle above the hip – the Greeks and Romans were on to something after all.