I drew this one last year, somewhere between March and April. I just wanted to capture her eyes faithfully as possible, took me some time to do it, but everything else was completed in under ten minutes. I'd like to call this an 'unfinished-finished' sketch.
"I think about your thighs,” she wrote in the second letter, “and the warm, moist smell of your skin in the morning, and the tiny eyelash in each corner of your eye that I always notice when you first roll over to look at me. I don’t know why you are better and more beautiful than anybody else. I don’t know why your body is something I can’t stop thinking about, why those little flaws and ridges on your back are lovely to me or why the pale soft bottoms of your New Jersey feet that always wore shoes are more poignant than any other feet, but they are. I thought I would have more time to chart your body, to map its poles, its contours and terrains, its inner regions, both temperate and torrid - a whole topography of skin and muscle and bone. I didn’t tell you, but I imagined a lifetime as your cartographer, years of exploration and discovery that would keep changing the look of my map. It would always need to be redrawn and reconfigured to keep up with you. I’m sure I’ve missed things, Bill, or forgotten them, because half the time I’ve been wandering around your body blind drunk with happiness. There are still places I haven’t seen."
"Let old Plato look on you with an austere eye; You earn pardon by the excess of your kisses And the inexhaustible refinements of your love, Queen of the sweet empire, pleasant and noble land. Let old Plato look on you with an austere eye." — Charles Baudelaire, Fleurs du mal