Beauty Makes Good Propaganda

Beauty Makes Good Propaganda                
     
     Smut took on the patina of art with the frescoes of Pompeii where John splashed the colors of heaven into murals of boudoir angels. “Rowena, how hath thou become so sullen lately? Let us share a bottle of chardonnay to reminisce upon the years we dated.”              
     “John, when we blink a year passes. Let us breathe the air of the here and now. This present finds your artistry demeaning to the womankind.”                  
     “My murals hold fast in memory such stories as the Satyr who makes love to a nymph. Our city fathers found much to cheer in it. In fact, they commissioned me to embellish the temple wall with a woman who mounts her man like a rider of Pegasus ready to fly with him into the ether.”                  
     “John, when women are painted with their sex as the main attraction the bed is turned into a circus where the female is the hoop and the man is the lion. It degrades the fair and the brawny likewise. The woman’s sole purpose is to provide pleasure to men. You’d comprehend were you to be with a womb.”        
     “Ro, should the road you propose be printed by my feet patrons would scatter like pigeons in the square. Then the unpaid bills would usher you into the very soulless profession which is most ancient.”        
     “Dost thou posit that if money turned into butterflies and took flight my desperation would find our meal ticket by me peddling my flesh? What kind of woman do you take me for? Must thou insist on the profane in art while ignoring spiritual nature which has been the subject of portraits from ancient times? Your patrons would swoon upon sensuality in its unadulterated form of scantily clad but still clothed women whose coquettish manners would charm their aesthetic sensibilities.”                  
     “I could become a tax collector instead. There is always a demand for that.”                  
     “Well, I never. You’ll lay blame upon me as the nemesis of your passion which is art. Marriages end in such a way.”                  
     “The blame would not be laid upon thou. Your ideas have merit. One day public displays of decadence will be a thing of the past. But until that day lay down your demands in favor of a filled cupboard.        
     The dawning day flies across the sky in streaks of pink. Rowena folds clothes and sings to herself. All seems well as the discord of yesterday turns into peace accords to a melody of love. John enters the scene carrying his easel. Rowena says, “Darling, it is my desire to commission a painting by you. If ‘it's true that my complexion is the shade of the moon in the day sky whose supernal beauty haunts mere mortals then surely you must preserve me for posterity. Let my pose be knickered.”                  
     “Ro, my municipal art is a jealous Goddess who hungers for my time. How will we make up the money?”    
     “Use your abacus to figure in years of housework, mopping, cleaning, washing of clothes, shopping, and cooking. Imagine you had to retain a chef to cook your food or a maid to do all my work. You see the accounting bears even when these are factored in.”    
     “Well, doff thy tunic. The present is pregnant with God.”                  
     John places his hand on the small of Ro’s back and guides her. He has her sit on the edge of a small fountain.  The sound of splashing water soothes Ro. She watches as crystal streams of water arc in sparkles of sunlight. Vines entwined as lovers creep up the orange walls of the patio.                  
     John stands in front of his easel and looks down at Ro as she sits across the edge of the fountain. Ro feels butterflies in her stomach. Ro turns, stands up, and turns her back toward John. She slips her tunic up her hips and over her shoulders. She stands in her bra and panties, feeling the bright sun on her exposed body. The feel of sunlight on her bare legs is something altogether new, though a good feeling.        
     Ro is bathed in brilliant sunlight. She lays feeling joy in the deep reverence John has for her beauty and spirit. Ro feels beatified by this holy man. John venerates her through his art. Deep in her heart, a bud, which had lain dormant for years, is blooming. She steps off onto a new path.                  
     The morning eases into the afternoon, as he puts the finishing touches on Rowena’s portrait. The angle of the sunlight across the walls casts Ro in shadows. When John shows her the painting, she gazes in astonishment. The image is more divine than human. Ro’s skin shines like a freshly sculpted statue of Venus. Her legs are toned as a virgin dancer for a Dionysian festival for the rites of spring. Rowena has been transformed through John’s vision into a Daphne whose luster draws Apollo in hot-blooded pursuit. John says, “My rendering of you could adorn a temple dedicated to Daphne, daughter of Peneus, rival of Diana the virgin Goddess who had many suitors, but scorned them all; wanting no part of any man, she traveled the pathless groves and had no care whatever for husband, love, or marriage.”                  
     Rowena replies, “Yet were you to chase me like Apollo did Daphne the only danger for me would be that my legs were too quick. I would hardly consider my skin turning to the bark of a laurel tree as an alternative to love made by you to me.”                  
     “Yet, through my illustration of this wall, you need not become a tree for your beauty to possess the eternal youth of an evergreen.”        
     “In that sense, the gift from you my Apollo is cherished in my heart for the same reason the leaves of the Bay laurel tree do not decay like my frescoed beauty. But I have a notion to sell you. There is a market for women’s lingerie. You could illustrate these cotton undies for burgeoning commerce of untold profit. The art of the tease is to leave much to be imagined. Envision a woman’s Mons Veneris swathed as seen from across her hips. Her fleece peeks out of her panties like a forest silhouetted by the light of the sun just before dawn.”  
     “Thank God our bread and butter are not imperiled. Let us get to work. The cabernet is in season and an amicable marriage is best served the grape.”