...
It pains me that I can never come up with a good enough image of this Bouguereau. It is by far my favorite because of the expression on Amor's face. It's also wonderful on Psyche, but it's Amor's face that kills me about this painting. There is no world here. There is only love, in its very most essential state.
Psyche is completely gone for Amor. She's his. She's not even hers at this moment.
Bagged.
But Amor, lest ye think him elevated in relation to her somehow, is intent past expression of any other thing but love... not lust... though that is clearly happening... love.
I bring this up because maybe you can relate, hark back to a moment in your youth, remember where there is no self-consciousness, no adulteration, no worries, no world, no ugliness, no terror, no anxiety whatever... where your self is not what you call it... where there is no government or politics or cruelty or starvation or consumption... no psychopaths... where only what is real is.
.
