Entering the garden room to dust, I found myself facing the pale torso of a naked man. Broken marble dripping with sensual beauty. I was thunderstruck. It's probably Greek, since Ortega is wealthy enough to afford original pieces, works of antiquity.
It made me think though. Back in college we had heated debates about the merits of depicting nudes in art. Some saw it as another form of exploitation, and those discussions invariably centered around the objectification of women.
But here I am in the presence of the archaic torso of Apollo, and I find myself moved, spirit and body. My eyes linger on the rounded shoulders, the meaty under-curve of the pectoral muscles, then the lower abdomen, flat and drifting downward. If this was a breathing man made of flesh, I'd turn away. But instead I drink in the image, knowing that it will come back to me later.
Did the Greeks who first saw it look at this smooth stone and only think of it as an aspirational ideal? Or did they stare without shame, enjoying its naked beauty at a more carnal level? Why should we think of one as noble and the other as sullied somehow, since both originate from with us, common across centuries and cultures.
The statue is broken, incomplete. But somehow the missing pieces render it more sensual. Without shame, it draws attention to its center. My eyes trace the lines again, down the chest to the tender genitals. So lovely, so striking.