Free Two Americans in Paris by Julia Ritt Page B

very clear, sometimes it’s much softer with color. He makes different adjustments with the paint. She doesn’t have any fingernails.” He points to the blank tips of Olympia’s fingers. “No one has ever answered the question of why Manet often did not paint fingernails; it’s not as if he couldn’t. Sometimes they’re there, sometimes they’re not. It’s one of those art historical anomalies.”
    Olympia’s fingers are so carefully modeled by Manet’s masterful hand that her lack of fingernails is hardly noticeable, but the puzzle of why Manet would not paint them nags at the back of my mind.
    On our way to the escalators to look at the Impressionist art upstairs, Professor stops us by William Bouguereau’s Naissance de Vénus , an unabashedly sensuous expression of Baroque aesthetics. Of all the paintings in the d’Orsay, it is the one I find the most enthrallingly beautiful. The painting is mounted high on the wall so you must gaze up at Venus. She stands atop her pearl-white seashell, one hip torqued upward to emphasize her waist, and gently threads her fingers through the thick golden-red curls that drape down her back. She has a touch of the soft fleshiness Rubens is known for as well as a trace of the fine musculature of Venus de Milo . Venus is entrancing. She stands naked before her admirers at her most beautiful and pretends to be ignorant of and indifferent to the eager gazes affixed to her body. I imagine this method of seduction might be effective on you—I want so much to bring you closer to me.
    It occurs to me that if I am willing to employ any variety of techniques to seduce you, I probably want more from you than just a summer fling. I spent the entire métro ride here listening to “Meaningless” by The Magnetic Fields, attempting to persuade myself that my infatuation is without meaning, but my obsessive method itself proves that my desire for you is far more than physical. I am attracted to the girth of your lithe thighs, the build of your shapely calves, the strength of your flat abdomen, and the round of your shoulders as well as the handsome coils of your brain coursing with enlightened thoughts. Most of all, I believe we could grow together and learn from each other. Although I see Professor as my ideal in most ways, his intelligence and experiences are far more developed than my own. Intellectual exchange is nearly always unbalanced, with him as the teacher and I the student, which makes him an excellent mentor, but would not make him a good romantic partner. And he is already married, of course.
    Professor begins to speak about the painting. “This is another example of the kind of Baroque painting contemporary with the avant-garde movement. It’s another version of the birth of Venus, like Cabanel’s—”
    A museum guard with bushy hair pokes her head into our group, interrupting Professor. The guard insists that Professor needs an official reservation to continue lecturing, even though Professor assures her he made a reservation. Rather than waste thirty minutes of class time acquiring the proper permissions to have class here, we move away from the rude guard. When Professor thinks he is out of her earshot he continues to talk. But she has followed and barks furiously at us, calling us a “savage group.” Professor, extremely offended by her intrusion, makes indignant exclamations under his breath as he leads us away. We regroup outside and prepare to receive our midterms.
    A male guard yells at our classmate sitting on a seat of concrete, telling him he can’t sit there and has to move.
    “Right, because concrete is so unstable,” the student mutters under his breath as he slides off.
    Professor hands out our graded exams. We each take our own and stow it away.
    “We’re still set for Transformers tonight?” I ask you. You nod. “Headed to the métro?” I ask. You nod again. We walk away from the class and toward the animal statues gathered near the entrance to the