Note: Although this started out to be a simple response to a few negative e-mail messages (a few folks thought that a few tasteful nudes I had once posted on the site were "disgusting"), as it developed, it has strayed somewhat away from its intended subject area. In any event, I removed all nudes from the site. Regardless of that, this story came into existence of its own volition, truly not something I ever intended to write, and I post it as it developed. Maybe I'll delete it. Probably I will. Please excuse the somewhat less than polished form; I realize it's not of publication quality, but I'm compelled to present it as it developed; I'm afraid that if I re-read it, or attempt to revise it, I'll throw it away. Feel free to ignore this, or read on at your own peril.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
-- John Keats

If you think any of the images found on this site are ugly (or any other negative term), then you're absolutely right. You're right because ugliness, just as beauty, is found not in the image, but in the eye of the beholder. I know that a very few people think they see things that are horrible and ugly. But I don't. And (thank goodness) literally thousands of others who visit here also see beauty.

When I gaze upon the images of the lovely young women found in the Nudes Gallery (now removed), I see beauty, innocence, truth, and magic. The beauty of a girl taking the first, tentative steps of her womanhood; the truth of innocence; the rare and wonderful innocence we all had when were in high school or college; the optimism, trust, honesty, and wonder we see in the eyes of the young (before it has become despoiled by the hypocrisy, manipulations, and prevarications which mark so much of our adult behavior). The wonder of being in the springtime our lives, when the grass is green, and the growing season barely begun, when we looked forward to an unknown, but exciting and hopeful future that lay before us. I see the truth of that which is, and the magic of that which is becoming. I see a brief period in time which lasts only a moment, in the great scheme of things, and then is gone forever, along with the youth which is mother to the mature person. How anyone can find God's creations to be disgusting or ugly is a mystery to me. But it wasn't always so. I, too, used to see ugliness.

Was it not Satan who revealed to human eyes the curse of shame? Why let him win? However, dear reader, to be perfectly honest with you (and for some reason unbeknownst to me, I must), there was a time when I, too, saw ugliness. [Alright, here is where it started to off on its own; sorry] Although I have never told anyone the circumstances of how I learned to see things differently, I'll recount now, for the very first time, my first awakening to the truth of beauty, should anyone care to read it.

This is basically a story about my very first Epiphany --ee-PIFF-uh-nee-- (an Epiphany is a sudden manifestation of the essence or meaning of something; a comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization: e.g., "I experienced an epiphany, a spiritual flash of understanding, of knowing something totally and absolutely, a realization which "whups you up the side of your head," and, all at once - and for the first time - you understand something in its entirety; in its totality; and it just blows you away. That changed the way I viewed life - forever). This is a realization which, I think, is a prerequisite to true artistry (not that I in any way claim to be an artist, just that learning how to "see" is required to appreciate the beauty which surrounds us all). The greatest photographers have learned to "see" the beauty in everything; even that which is distressing, can motivate us to make the world a better place, and in so doing, brings out the beauty which, within us, is called kindness. For example, a photograph of a painfully thin, sick, starving child is distressing to all of us; it might even be disgusting to many. However, if seeing that horrible image motivates us to make a contribution to help feed and give medical care to those starving children, then that image was powerful and beautiful in that it elicited from us kindness and generosity, if you can see what I mean.

If you'd care to know how I learned to see, then allow me to digress a moment, gentle reader, and recount a (very) personal experience with ugliness and with beauty. It took place years ago, in a large and imposing museum in New York City. I don't remember precisely what year it was, nor do I recollect which of the several very large museums in New York City it was (but there was a lovely little park right across the street from that museum; this I remember quite clearly, because I sat in that park, in the rain, all night long, one night many years ago, never taking my eyes off the front doors of the museum across the street, praying that when they opened again an angel might still be there...). I experienced many things that day - things I never even knew existed before; and, gentle reader, I can assure you that when I left that museum that day, I was a different - and better - person than I was when I walked in. But, in spite of the ravages of time, the experience remains etched very clearly and distinctly in my mind (such that is left of it, anyway :). So, if there is an interest, here is the story:

I was taking a leisurely tour of this great museum building, replete with great works of art by the greatest artists of the greatest ages, on a warm spring afternoon. I was researching some report or other for a course in art history, which required of students a trip to several museums, and a written report of the experiences submitted. At the time, I was not much of an art lover; but I get ahead of myself.

And so it was, at that stately museum, that I found myself wondering among the works of art. As I meandered from one great exhibit hall to another, I would occasionally pass several different groups of people taking one of the museum tours led by a docent, or tour guide. Among one of those groups which I would occasionally encounter, I noticed a most lovely and demure young lady. She was somehow different; beautiful, certainly, but something more than that; something I couldn't quite define, but could clearly recognize, nonetheless. It was almost as if there was a golden glow around her. But I went on my way, taking notes for the report I would be required to submit for the art class. I passed this young lady's tour group several times as they and I moved about the museum. Trying hard not to seem as if I was looking for her, I would nevertheless attempt to catch another glimpse of her whenever I could. This girl possessed, what seemed to me, a certain air of refinement, as well as beauty. But, as with the usual circumstances of daily life wherein you may catch sight of someone who is in some way attractive or striking to you, I simply continued on my way, moving to and fro among the crowds of people that float through everyone's daily life. Other than thinking to myself how lovely this girl looked, I did not ascribe much to this situation.

However, as I circulated throughout this huge museum, I made it a point to seek out a glimpse of her whenever I passed her tour group. Nothing particularly unusual or different from most of the days we all experience. Being quite shy, the thought of actually approaching this girl, never entered my mind. Although I would never have presumed to introduce myself to her; I did manage to catch the eye of the young lady in question a time or two, and we exchanged a pleasant smile on a couple of occasions. I proceeded through the museum and continued to take my notes, moving from one exhibit hall to the next on a largely random basis.

As fate would have it (O.K., it's a phrase that is bit trite, but it fits), about half an hour after last seeing her tour group, I noticed this girl walking alone in an exhibit hall dedicated to sculpture. I presumed her group's tour had ended, and she wished to linger a bit among the artwork. As we were both trekking through this repository of ageless aesthetic creations, I paused in front of a huge, hulking stone sculpture of a most unpleasant and ugly beast, and she walked up next to me to look at it, too.

Perhaps the sculpture was a gargoyle, but if not, certainly something similar. It must have been ten or fifteen feet tall, massive beyond description, towering over us with grotesque malevolence. It sat before us hunched over, with it's limbs coiled in wrath, seemingly ready to spring forward and tear us (or any unlucky living creature in its vicinity) to shreds, crushing our bones like toothpicks in its great jaws. Its horrifying lips were curled back in hatred, exposing a mouthful of sharp, gigantic teeth. Dripping from it's hateful fangs was what could have been globs of saliva, but seemed to me more likely the blood of it's last victim. As I realized the appalling horror of this creature, I stepped back a bit, almost involuntarily, trying to make it seem as if I were jockeying for a better view of the gigantic monstrosity, but deep inside I knew it was fear that had sent me backwards.

For a few seconds, there was silence. I stood before the beast trying to look intelligent and studious, as well as trying hide the shiver that ran down my spine, when, in a quiet, gentle voice, the girl murmured: "Isn't it beautiful?"

"Beautiful," I spat out. "That's the ugliest thing I've ever seen!" As soon as the words escaped my lips, I regretted having said them. Contradicting someone you would hope to impress favorably was a somewhat less than tactful way to enter a conversation, I realized.

She just stood there, quietly, smiling at my reaction. To be honest, I don't know her name; I don't think I ever did know her name; but her small, graceful frame, long light brownish-blond hair with the golden highlights reflecting the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the window, delicate features, and striking blue eyes, I will never forget. Ever. She seemed so small and delicate and fragile, especially standing there in front of that tremendous, angry, hulking monster. Her vulnerability was such, and the threatening position and proximity of the beast so near, I was almost overcome by a desire to shield her from the danger of the coiled beast. It was all I could do, to refrain from reaching over and embracing her, protectively, at that moment (as if I could protect anyone from the giant monster). But, to hide the tenderness I felt for her, and the fear I felt from the beast, I said, yet again, something stupid, like "Are you nuts? How can you see beauty in a monster like this?" gesturing towards the beast that stood before us.

Quite unexpectedly, she reached over and gently took my hand, and without saying a word, led me over to a marble bench a few yards away from the monstrosity. We sat down, and there was a moment of silence, before she softly began explaining to me how one can look, but not really see. Now, at that time, what she said just didn't make sense to me; how you can look but not see? If you look (presuming you're not blind), you see what you're looking at, I reasoned. But, fortunately, this time I kept my mouth shut and let her go on. She must have been European, or at least not American, because nobody in New York City reaches out to take the hand of a complete stranger. I was both shocked and pleased at the familiarity of this lovely young lady. I can feel her small, delicate hand taking mine, and hear the softness of her voice, still. She had a very slight accent, almost imperceptible, which I couldn't place then, nor can I now. Perhaps Scandinavian, I thought to myself, or perhaps slightly Austrian or German. I'll probably never know for sure, but that doesn't matter.

She looked into my eyes for a moment, and then began speaking softly, but earnestly. I was almost mesmerized, not only by her beauty, which was considerable, but by the sweetness of her voice, the blueness of her eyes, which ventured back and forth between me and the beast as she spoke, and the gentleness of her touch. She was amazingly articulate and knowledgeable, I remember thinking, for someone so young; she couldn't have been much past her teens, but that of which she spoke held me spellbound. I'm not sure of all she said to me there, in that museum in New York, nor of how long she spoke, but I'll never forget what she taught me, and I remember clearly that it was late, and dark outside, by the time we left that museum.

As I sat there, enchanted by her beauty, amazed by her knowledge, enthralled by her words, she explained to me how this hideous, gigantic demon was created more than a thousand years before Jesus Christ walked this earth. She told me how an artist, unnamed and unknown to us, without equipment or modern tools, turned a massive granite boulder into a work of art that not only survived the millennia, but retained the majesty and power to provoke and arouse for over a hundred generations. She told of the rudimentary tools, of the lack of techniques, and of the years that were required to hew and pound, to grave and score, to chip and polish and turn a rock into a spectacular masterpiece. She led me back over to the horrid sculpture, and, taking my hand in hers, ever so gently guided my fingers over the immense beast's stone flesh, tracing back and forth over its frame, pausing momentarily upon textures and lines, teaching me the technique of seeing through touch. She pointed out the infinitesimal fineness of the tiny, almost microscopic chips of stone that were lovingly and infinitely, painstakingly, cut, bit by bit, chip by chip, day after day, out of the massive rock, slowly, painfully, hewing it into shape. To this day, I can close my eyes, as I'm doing right now as I write these words, and see clearly, and in sharp detail, the huge beast, and the slight girl, and I can still feel the smoothness of the granite as my fingers slid over the body of the beast, and the blueness of her eyes and the gentleness of her voice and the softness of her touch....

It slowly became obvious to me, standing there in front of that towering, gargantuan figure, that it must have taken someone, literally, years of his (her?) life to create it. The artist must have possessed both great talent, in a time where there were no art schools or courses in depth or nuance or light or technique, as well as a great love for his craft, in order to have conceived and endured, and created it. Upon closer examination, I saw the millions upon millions of blows, large and small, hard and soft, and the tiny, intricately wrought chips of stone, and time and effort expended in its creation. I saw the talent and dedication; I saw the care and the sacrifice and the work and the years of hard labor that gave birth to the massive beast.

As her soft, gentle voice enthralled me with its tone, and she surprised and amazed me with her obvious breeding and education, her small hand would reach out to take mine as she led me from the bench to the beast and back. Again and again, her words carried me through the centuries, as her hand led me to the beast to make a point, or show me the skill and constancy of the artist. She spoke with a compassion and empathy and tenderness and love for art and beauty and sacrifice I had never before experienced. Nor have I since that day.

It's hard to say at exactly what point I began to see things differently, but somewhere between that marble bench and the hideous beast with curled lips and sharp teeth dripping with blood, the ugliness slowly, imperceptibly, faded and disappeared, to be replaced with a beauty deeper and more intense than I had ever known, than I had ever even suspected, before. And for the first time in my life, I felt overwhelmed by an appreciation of the skill and sacrifice and love and devotion inherent in the creation of something magnificent, something beyond description, something that could endure throughout the ages... For the very first time in my life, I felt.. I FELT beauty.

I have on occasion been accused being capable of eloquence, gentle reader, but in this matter I am at a total loss for words to convey what happened to me on that day in the museum. It was the epiphany about which I had read, but never believed existed, and it was happening to me. It was indescribable; no words to which I have access can convey the shock, the bolt of comprehension, the almost organic understanding of something I had neither believed existed nor would have acknowledged in another, had I not then and there experienced it myself. It was a revelation, a knowing of something so deeply and so comprehensively and so beautifully, that I might have described it as of an almost a religious intensity (had I not been an agnostic at that time). I had never before experienced anything even remotely akin to that which was happening to me that day. I had never before experienced anything even remotely akin to that which was happening to me that day. It was as if I had spent my whole life seeing the world "through a glass, darkly." It was as if I was born wearing dark glasses, without ever realizing it, until the darkness was removed by this most beautiful and amazing girl.

Suddenly, everywhere I looked, there was a beauty of unimaginable proportions! The paintings on the walls were beautiful; the sky outside the window was beautiful; the horrible, ugly beast was incredibly beautiful; the marble bench upon which we were sitting - which only a moment ago was nothing more than a place to sit - was magnificently beautiful. I saw the millions of years the earth took to create the marble, I saw the time and labor to quarry the marble in Italy and bring it thousands of miles across the sea to America; I saw the craftsmanship in shaping and polishing it; I saw the beauty of the swirling colors; I saw Beauty everywhere I looked, and for the very first time in my life I understood how one can "look" but not "see." And when my gaze returned to the girl, a golden glow surrounded her, and she was truly the most unbelievably beautiful creature I had ever seen. In retrospect, gentle reader, my mind reasoned that the late afternoon sunlight, streaming in through the museum's great windows, illuminated her golden hair, and made it seem as if there was a golden halo around her. My heart, on the other hand, would have none of it! She was the most unbelievably, exquisitely, magnificently gorgeous thing that I had ever seen, and - without a doubt - she was an Angel! A most fabulous and exquisite Angel. She was so exquisitely beautiful that I could not bear to gaze upon her for another second! I closed my eyes as tightly as I could, certain that if I looked upon such beauty for another second I would literally die from the magnificence of her beauty.

With my eyes as tightly closed as I was capable of doing, I stood there fighting it with every ounce of my strength. I was young, and I was ashamed, and embarrassed, and I can still feel my teeth clenching so hard and so tight that my jaw ached, and I began to tremble with the effort to stop it from happening, but no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't stop the tears from rolling down my face. And to be perfectly honest with you, dear reader, with this recollection, I can feel the tears coming back again. Excuse me a moment...

Sorry about that; but what I didn't get a chance to tell you is that when she saw what was happening to me, standing there in the museum in front of that gigantic, ugly/beautiful, beast, she reached out and put her arms around me and hugged me more tightly than I had ever been hugged before, and I hugged her back, and we stood there for what seemed like an eternity, in an embrace that I can feel still. Honestly, sometimes, when I close my eyes and wrap my arms around myself as if I were holding her again, I can still feel her in my arms, and smell her hair, and feel the wetness of my tears dripping down my cheeks onto her hair, and I can still see the dark streaks on her long, blond hair where the wetness of my tears left their trails, and then I can feel her arms holding me ever so tightly....

I don't know if she had ever experienced a situation like this before, or if giving people epiphynous experiences when they were least expecting it was a hobby of hers, or how she knew what to do, or why she wouldn't have run away when some stranger, who must have looked like he was having some sort of mental breakdown in the middle of a museum in front of a gargoyle, started shaking and crying, but she held onto me and hugged me and comforted me until.... until everything was all right....

After that, after I had stopped trembling, and could control the tears again, she led me back to the bench, and we sat down for a few minutes, neither one of us saying anything, until they announced that the museum was closing. As we stood up to leave, I began to say something, probably to ask her what her name was, or where she came from, or how she knew so much about all this stuff, or something like that. She took my hand again and said "Shhh, we'd better go." It occurred to me that she might be right. Again. As we were walking towards the doors, I wanted to thank her for.... well, for so many things that she had just done for me, a complete stranger, no less, like showing me beauty where before I had seen only ugliness, and for explaining so many things, and I also really wanted to apologize for crying all over her, but as we arrived at the front doors of the museum, she said "look outside; it's raining." I was really happy about that, because a plan had just sprung to my benumbed mind; I figured I'd take her to dinner and propose, and... well I really didn't know what, but I knew I couldn't possibly make any more of a fool out of myself than I already had. And the one thing about which I had no doubt at all was that I wanted to find out more about this most unique, amazing, wonderful, and lovely girl. So I said, "Wait here, I'll get us a cab." She started to say something, but I didn't give her a chance. I let go of her hand and ran out into the rain and hailed a cab. I opened the cab door with a gentlemanly flourish, and when I looked back at the doors of the museum, she was gone.

I never saw her again. I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for letting go of her hand just inside the front doors to that museum in New York City. A lot of water has gone by under the bridges of life since then; but I'll be forever grateful for her kindness; for the wonderful and wondrous gift she gave to a stranger that day. And, if, in the fullness of time, by some strange quirk of fate, that girl should happen to come across these words, I'd like to say... about a million things. But I'll keep it short; just two things, five little words, that I wish I'd had the chance--or the wisdom-- to say to you that most fateful day in the doorway of the museum in New York City before I let go of your hand: "Thank you. I love you."

In any event, gentle reader, that was the day I first learned to see, to feel, to know, Beauty; Beauty with a capital B. In retrospect, it's not fair of me to say that I learned anything. "I learned" implies there was a certain proactive intent or motivation on my part to acquire something. There really wasn't. That wasn't my paradigm at the time. I didn't go forth seeking to learn anything. I was just there. I was just hanging out. It would be more correct, I believe, to say I was taught it. I don't know why I was given that gift; I certainly don't think I deserved to receive it. I have no idea why it came on that day, in that museum in New York City. I don't know why it was delivered to me by that wonderful, angelic young girl. I don't know. As time goes by, it becomes much more clear to me that I really don't know very much at all. I guess when it's your time to be endowed with an understanding of something, you're given it as a gift. A precious and wonderful gift from God, whoever or whatever you may conceive Him to be. Or maybe, just maybe, He sends an Angel to give it to you.

I've been all around the world since that fateful spring day in New York City; and wherever in the world I go, from Honolulu to London to Bombay, I check out the museums. I'll often linger a bit around gargoyles and similar types of sculpture. Just in case.

Well, that's about all I can write for now, dear visitor. There's really a lot more I wanted to get to, on the subject of seeing beauty or ugliness in things, and the story I've just related to you was *not* among them. But right now, I'm just a little too emotionally drained. I don't think I ever intended to tell anyone about this, at least not as thoroughly and as honestly as it has come out here. I try not to think about it too often; it hurts too much. But once it started coming, even though I really tried to stop a couple of times, it was as if this story acquired a life and a power of its own; it just wouldn't stop... it wouldn't stop coming out until it was finished. Perhaps there's a reason I was compelled to write it, after all this time. Y'know, it's funny; I've never told anyone about this before. Sure, I may have mentioned that I had discovered how to recognize beauty a couple of times. But I never told anyone about the girl, or what happened to me in the museum that day. And now, here I am spilling my guts out to the cyberworld. I don't know why. Maybe... maybe it'll help someone else. Maybe not. Perhaps it will be meaningful in some way, to someone who might be destined to come across these words. Maybe not. But whatever it means, whatever it meant, no matter how much it hurts to recall, I can't think of even a single second of it I'd change.

Except maybe letting go of her hand to run out in the rain after that damned cab. Maybe I'd change that. If I could. If I only could.

RM

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