Dear Mr. So-Called Artist,

Each time we revel ourselves in tender caresses and half-stolen kisses you become a painter and I – your blank canvas on which you paint so carefully and tenderly, the empty pages of a novel on which you start to write poems with no words with feather carresses. Every time you touch me you paint a picture with your hands, you write love stories of us both, and our lovemaking becomes an art itself. Every time you kiss me your lips paint a thousand words of love on mine. You need not tell me a word, you have your own artistic ways to tell me everything I need to know, and even more. I came to think, indeed, that every move of yours is in fact an art. For art is creation and imagination. With every caring touch you do create another unforgettable moment that sticks upon my memory forever. And so your art becomes eternal, but only inside my mind, as if it were a secret that only we know. As for imagination… I know better… that you have plenty! Although you always use the same canvas, your works of art are all different. Still, to me, all of them convey the same message of love. So authentic, and unoriginal… at the same time! Love is contradiction.

Though nothing compares with those unequalled, art-creating moments when I am your muse – your one and only source of inspiration! I love it when I am lying next to you silently – (oh, precious silence that is worth one thousand words!) – and I ask you to draw me a portrait. You accept so willingly, having no idea about my real intentions, with a naive smile upon your face that quickly disappears from your lips as I take off my clothes. Yes, I ask of you to draw a portrait of me, without any clothes on… and to show me how artist you truly are when it comes to other canvas than my own body. What a timid young boy you always seem to be when you so carefully study every inch of my body and still don't know which part of me to begin with. In the end, you say that I am a work of art myself and there is no way you could reproduce that on your canvas. You always begin with my face and stop somewhere between my shoulders and my thighs.

At times, I might ask you to describe me in words. But you give the same typical answer to me, that it is beyond words what I am asking you to do. How cliché. I'll tell you what: you are neither a painter, nor a writer. You're never an artist when it comes to anything else than our lovemaking!You are never "artist" enough with other canvas than my own thrumming body. Your hand is shaking and you never manage to finish your drawing, each time finding a silly excuse. I am never satisfied with the result, but I immediately forgive you as we always end up making love, the only art you can make. You just can not keep your hands off of me for a long time, can you?

I pretend to be disappointed, but only until you reveal your other artistic self, that part of you that I adore so much. And I am thinking, while you love me, that love is the immediate form of art for us, mortals. Artists are immortal... because they never die, their art will be forever remembered, unlike our art of love. For what is art, after all? Nobody can give an exact definition of it. Art is creation, it awakens certain feelings inside one's soul and I know better than anybody that this is what your love does to me. It makes me feel one thousand emotions at the same time through the simple game of touches. So, yes, what we do can be called an "art". You have proven it to me.

I am glancing at you as you try, a thousandth time, to make me a portrait. I silently laugh at your pretentious attempts. In the long run, I take your pencil from your hands and put it aside. My dear Mister So-Called Artist, don't try to overstep your artistic limits. Let's make the art that you are so good at!


your blank canvas that awaits to be painted on