Confession

Perhaps I’m a cruel artist. I always depict In great details, lovingly, all the defects On the faces and bodies of my models. I use my eyes and brushes to thread The jagged gaps of their stiff smiles. I pamper Each pimple, hump, massage each incrustation. I cajole my models into poses that are awkward, Dangerous, unhygienic, sometimes mortifying. I don’t care to paint smooth, poreless skin but collect All manners of rashes and eruptions. Inspired, I’ve forced a hundred bodies—impossibly old, Extremely young—onto appalling heaps, Democratically naked, viscous with sweat, spit and etc., Just so I could render the human condition Most accurately and movingly.