Winter 07

He had done African wildlife and Amazonian landscapes, the fresh ruins of Manhattan and Venice’s sinking endurance. His friends joked that he was the most Pulitzer-worthy photographer who would never win a Pulitzer, since he could shoot a cityscape or a sunset so that it looked like a tragedy, but didn’t have the stomach for war photography.

He spoke with an Australian accent and smoked French cigarettes. He grinned a lot, five o’clock shadow, battered leather jacket, a study in artistic nonchalance. He also did people: portraits, groups, nudes. Group portraits.
Nude groups. When he offered to do me I told him he could have either one or the other, either my head and shoulders, the rest decorously covered, or my naked body.

I decided that if he chose my face he would be faking, trying a bit too hard to appear artistically abstracted from common desires, and I wouldn’t let him come near me.

He chose my body. One year later his exhibition opened at a downtown gallery.

I made it a family outing, curious to see if they’d recognize me. I knew I would be there, all of me but my head, but goodness gracious me! I never expected them to blow me up so I covered an entire wall, right across from
the entrance. Even passersby out in the street could see my every pore and stretch mark.

Would the artist be attending? I asked a gallery employee. No, she said, unfortunately not. He was off somewhere suitably exotic, gathering material for his next exhibition.

Busy man, I said. Yes, she sighed, and I wondered if I’d be able to recognize her tits if I saw them up on the wall.

My daughter and husband stood at opposite ends of me. Her head with the Rastafarian hairdo obscured my right nipple. He was dwarfed by my giant pudendum. Between them, my hand lay next to my navel like a piece of
shipyard machinery at rest. My reclining body ended at the neck, looking younger than I really am, and more powerful.

It was called Untitled. Rather uninspired, I thought, but appropriate for an afternoon fling, the game of seduction by celluloid immortality more pleasurable by far than the rather mundane sex that followed.

I was tempted to buy one of the glossy B&W catalogues before we left, but decided against it. There is much pleasure to be found in risk-taking, as bungee-jumpers, adulterers and war reporters know well. But bringing my
naked self into the house, where someone might see it and decide, from that distance, from this angle, that yes, there is something very familiar about that nude, now that would simply be asking for trouble.

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	Untitled Nude By Emily M. Z. Carlyle

	He had done African wildlife and Amazonian landscapes, the fresh ruins of Manhattan and Venice’s sinking endurance. His friends joked that he was the most Pulitzer-worthy photographer who would never win a Pulitzer, since he could shoot a cityscape or a sunset so that it looked like a tragedy, but didn’t have the stomach for war photography. He spoke with an Australian accent and smoked French cigarettes. He grinned a lot, five o’clock shadow, battered leather jacket, a study in artistic nonchalance. He also did people: portraits, groups, nudes. Group portraits. Nude groups. When he offered to do me I told him he could have either one or the other, either my head and shoulders, the rest decorously covered, or my naked body. I decided that if he chose my face he would be faking, trying a bit too hard to appear artistically abstracted from common desires, and I wouldn’t let him come near me. He chose my body. One year later his exhibition opened at a downtown gallery. I made it a family outing, curious to see if they’d recognize me. I knew I would be there, all of me but my head, but goodness gracious me! I never expected them to blow me up so I covered an entire wall, right across from the entrance. Even passersby out in the street could see my every pore and stretch mark. Would the artist be attending? I asked a gallery employee. No, she said, unfortunately not. He was off somewhere suitably exotic, gathering material for his next exhibition. Busy man, I said. Yes, she sighed, and I wondered if I’d be able to recognize her tits if I saw them up on the wall. My daughter and husband stood at opposite ends of me. Her head with the Rastafarian hairdo obscured my right nipple. He was dwarfed by my giant pudendum. Between them, my hand lay next to my navel like a piece of shipyard machinery at rest. My reclining body ended at the neck, looking younger than I really am, and more powerful. It was called Untitled. Rather uninspired, I thought, but appropriate for an afternoon fling, the game of seduction by celluloid immortality more pleasurable by far than the rather mundane sex that followed. I was tempted to buy one of the glossy B&W catalogues before we left, but decided against it. There is much pleasure to be found in risk-taking, as bungee-jumpers, adulterers and war reporters know well. But bringing my naked self into the house, where someone might see it and decide, from that distance, from this angle, that yes, there is something very familiar about that nude, now that would simply be asking for trouble. >>> More

	Emily M. Z. Carlyle is from Europe and currently resides in Maryland. She is an avid reader and student of history and languages. Her fiction has appeared in the anthology Dead Men (And Women) Walking (Bards & Sages, 2006) and in Thirteen magazine.