She looks comfortable, cuddly, as if curling up is the only thing she needs to comfort herself. Around her are hands playing with a piece of string. There’s an interesting power discourse of male presence and voyeurism, because although you see her completely naked, you never see his face or his body. Just his hands, and a piece of string wrapped around his fingers. He is there without being there. And he’s watching her curl up without gazing directly at her.
I’m standing in the middle of a jazz club, looking at myself. Sure, I’ve seen dozens of drawings Read more