Lost in cyberspace

Unable to remember, or unwilling to remember, the content of a lost reply to another's Journal entry, I have remembered a metaphor I employed, an image, I might turn into a short story. The title will be Rembrandt's Nude. The woman in the painting was Rembrandt's housekeeper, later, or at the time maybe, his wife. The painter is correctly known as a Biblical Illustrator, so it's no surprise that his nude painting is known as 'Batheba Bathing,' an Old Testament description. I can't vouch for the absolute accuracy of these statements so don't jump on me; my actual interest is other than precision of art history narrative.

The woman shown in the painting is stunningly ordinary. She'd never make it nude in contemporary art, or media outlets. She couldn't endorse soap; nobody would pay her. Her breasts are biological, not chemical synthetic. She's at ease for her comfort, not for someone else's prurient peering.  What is present, what the painting is famous for, the reason it is not for sale, not even for hundreds of millions, and is kept in a room at a constant temperature, is that what shows is the degree to which the artist loved her. Artist and subject are at peace with one another in a moment of intimacy.

I was married for ten years, fathered three children, with not one single moment of true intimacy. In my next marriage, my present one, intimacy did indeed show up, but only after about another ten years of marriage.

How all that occurred might be too much for a short story. Curiously, also, only fiction could dig up the truth. Because, you see, all writing is fantasy.

Barry