It was a room of nudes captured for all time ceaselessly undressing. Oceans of white flesh lay exposed by the affected ease of the painter's brush, some swimming, some conversing, some turning their white visages out into the stark white of the hall. Everywhere there is flesh, white flesh. One can almost hear the sounds of another age, another market, a market where the skin is black. Still the call is the same. Flesh, flesh for sale, take your pick. Yet this is no market, this is a quiet place meant for contemplation. Still the cry runs out from every painting, called in the grating tone of a peddler, Flesh,flesh for sale, take your pick.

The couple moves, turning this way and that. The woman walks with an affected gate placing her high heels in a calculated path. She is dark and her black heels compete with the white everywhere else. The man blends in, not white, not dark, simply there. His head twists side to side taking in the room. They come to the last painting; a woman with her white skin half warped in a blanket of grey green. She is forever poised half in and half out of bed. She stares out in an almost accusing fashion at the couple asking why she must be perpetually cold, forever exposed to view. She gains no answer as they turn away leaving her painted hand digging deeper into the painted folds of the blanket. Now it is my turn to face her questioning. I can see her asking why; why she must be cold. So many questions and so few answers. Is it really my fault that she must forever stay as the artist has rendered her? Surely it is not my fault that art calls for a certain amount of skin. She is a painting, she has no feelings, no other meaning than inspiration. She is high art and as such she must bear the price, whatever that may be.

The couple turns away, towards the exit. The woman's heels click against the floor and the man's hand slowly travels down her back towards her rear. He gives her rear a squeeze. The woman gives him a smile as they leave the white room. I am left alone, alone in the company of dozens of naked humans, alone to ask why. Why is such a pretty word encompassing everything we see and touch, a word that is impossible to answer. I am alone and there can be no answer; the artist is dead and only his brushstrokes remain.