Around 100 people saw my nude body in the last 3 weeks. More than 50 of them I kept seeing in different contexts. Around 20 of them felt uncomfortable seeing me dressed afterward. Less than 5 saw my tears while observing my body.
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Second hour of the posing, my fully spaced-out brain sends the signals of a potential upcoming act of crying.
It is a mixture of having experienced observation of my appearance, within a group, and the great beauty of a moment witnessed.
It is a cocktail of sadness I could not ever fully express, covering it with a lovely tornado that burned my chest.
It is the vulnerability one develops while being literally naked, not only undressed.
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…and then, like a live sculpture, I started weeping over my pale cheeks, with the tears sliding over my neck, covering my nipples, some dropping on the ground from these little hills, some kept following the body’s line, the ribs, most of them drying up around the hips, embracing the abdomen. And then I became a live sculpture of a nymph, a crying Muse.