Khajuraho Figure

A study about art and painting. And distraction. Or inspiration.
Or, a story about an artist and his canvas. And an elusive subject. Or his muse.

This is all about focus and frame. Foregrounds and backgrounds. Colors and shades. Proportions and perspectives. Colors and planes, gradients and intersections.

The photo itself is a frame. A frame of frames. Orthogonic frames at that. All lines and grain. Even the lights.
And so close to life. Almost alive, if only but its intricacies and our own projection.
But its dead and sterile. All lines and coarse grain.

All but for her.
All curves and silk. Colors defined and smooth. Shades and shapes that talk of continuity and not asperity. A flawlessness tribute to life.
And she not only eludes the primary frame but the entire lattice of them.
She is remarkably unconcerned by them. By the artist's efforts to frame her?

She isn't the subject (or the object for that matter) of the photo. She just makes sure we properly focus. Or rather, we step back. Is this why the author requested she posed in symmetry to the curve of the wall on the opposite side? That wouldn't surprise me in the least. Is this also why the photographer voluntarily expanded the right side to include a curved arch as is response?

This is a testimony to the artist's unending search for perfection.
A masterpiece if it were. And I am not overly fond of this art, finding it often coarse and prone to overindulgency. Again, it's almost a painting, which may explain that. In a way close to Fernand Leger in its use of frames and color gradients, but in a class of its own.

I hope Randall Hobbet will not find this critique too lame or convoluted. Lacking essentials in beauty and aesthetics yet superfluous on intents. I hope to dispel all such by simply stating I love paintings and woman, simplicity and subtility. And this is a masterpiece.