Future Perfect Now #315
Bottoms. I have seen a lot of them in my lifetime. As an artist who loves to do life drawings, I suppose I have seen more than most. It’s miraculous how the human body comes in so many shapes and sizes—and all on a similar bone structure. Shapes can change with musculature, diet, DNA and environment, I guess; but the end result (sic.) is an infinite variety that keeps artists on their toes and blesses the world with a cornucopia of subtle and not so subtle differences. But I digress. The magnificent bottom, the seat of all sitting, the parting that reveals itself on parting and speaks its own language of cheeky, chubby, chortling chat as it recedes before our eyes, giving another perspective—that cannot be disguised beneath trousers or tights or even large dresses—of the person who’s front may just be a front. Bottoms are honest barometers of life, of habits and disciplines or lack thereof. They follow us through life, embedding their cruel or flattering record, a receptacle of decisions made manifest. Celebration or consternation. No ifs or buts. A fabulous, flatulent, flabbergasting phlegmatic form. Shrivelled prunes or big balloons, continental shelf or tuck and mince, they are the heralds of our passing, inputs and outputs, what we gather and what we let go as we pucker and bloat our way through life.
About this image
In praise of bottoms: ink on paper 18 x 24 inches
Anyone who's been on a nudist beach (and I, for one, haven't - it's somewhere on my bucket list, I suppose...) has seen the incredible variety that we humans show up as, particularly once we reach maturity and start heading physically downhill. You know how it is. The gym seems like a good idea, but good food and wine seems like a better one most of the time until, one day, we look in the mirror and ask "what happened!?", and we have to re-define perfection.
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