My shoulders slumped when I saw the art for today-- Gustav Klimt's The Kiss. It's almost worse than having The Thinker to write about. With not so well know art, it isn't difficult to spin a tale about someone in the picture or the feeling I get when I look at it. But too many people have seen these, they're almost icons, trite in their way just because of the familiarity. Lordy, I hope I don't turn the page one of these day to find The Scream. Can you say Home Alone? Here goes.
August 12--Gustav Klimt, The Kiss. Emily felt as if she had fallen into a dream. The soft pressure of Gus' lips on hers robbed her of breath. She felt on fire, exposed, and at the same time sheltered in his embrace. The heat of their bodies seemed to melt the fabric separating their eager flesh. The scent of flowers rose from between them. She was dizzy as Gus raised his head and smiled into her soft gray eyes. "I missed you," he said, the warm honey tones of his voice washing away any impulse to pull back. "I missed you too," she breathed. Her lips brushed his as she spoke and a shiver rocked her. His arms tightened and held her steady as his hand slid into her hair to draw her near again.
Whew. Got outta that with barely a scratch.
--Barbara
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