Eyes wide open. A pure vision. A celestial creature is appearing: beautiful pale luminescent skin, shining, emerging from darkness. Her hair softly blowing in the wind. Her body: smooth, self-contained, all harmony, the perfect greek statue, an idealized form for him to idolize.

Vacant eyes. He is standing in his kitchen, as a bearded ghost, a pink dishcloth on his forearm.  He is looking at this image of her, at her as an image, and he laments the great distance between them. To him, she seems lonely in this dark sky, in her exquisite beauty, and sad, and lost. He too, is lonely and sad, and lost, in his kitchen. Worse, he is old, and she is youth in eternity. But wait… he sees her sending him a sign, to him: her index finger pointing to her breast, her little finger pointing to her pubis, her lips half open, waiting for his kiss to break the spell. And her eyes, with great charm, deliciously crooked.

Eyes closed. She has been a dream for so long. A spectacular hybrid of angelic goddess and porn star. She is descending among us mere mortals, and he is there, waiting. She now graces him with her divine and vulgar Barbie-esque presence. Her inflated generous breasts extend towards him. Trembling, he touches her flesh for the first time, with care, with gloves. The more he touches her flesh, the more his own flesh thickens, he is affected, infected. On his face layers upon layers of make up, blue eye shadow, a mirror of hers, red lips swelling up, a mirror, again, of her own swellings. They are now fuller, full of life, both of them, with pink cheeks. There is a Before and an After. He is the androgynous lover, closing his eyes in reverence and in jouissance. She is the perverse angel, eyes closed, she savours this sacred moment, the warmth of his leather gloves on her skin.

Marie-Hélène Lemaire
DHC/ART Education

Photos: Richard-Max Tremblay