I have always looked at this painting as the portrait of love. For years I admired it's guild and detail, wanting to be the woman in the arms of this man who so visibly desired her. It seemed to me that she must feel so coccooned within his embrace.
What I never saw, until now, was the detachement in her pose, the way her soul is absent from her expression making even the man's apparent devotion seem brutal and unwanted. She is awkward, not herself.
Every relationship I had I dwarfed myself to fit in the crook of the man's arm, I painted gold and illusion around each story to make it feel like "The Kiss". Instead of being loved, I was being molded. And instead of loving I was palying a role.
Today, if I were to choose a print on love, both lovers would be standing tall, each equal in their story. They would be facing outward but also, impossibly, towards each other. Neither one would have to alter their stature, or change any part - for there would be no constraining, only love.
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