The so-named “The Eternal Feminine” oil on canvas, painted by Paul Cezanne in 1877, haunts me.
At first blush, it could be me at the center of the painting: unformed, gawked at by various men. Their fantasies will mold me. I’m as blank and passive as a porn actress.
But then I realize that I myself could be said to be one of the gawkers. In my quest for the Eternal Feminine, I will fill in the blanks of what Cezanne left unpainted.
Actualizing the woman within, I fashion myself inevitably into the object of the male gaze…reflecting lecherous curiosity and lustful desire. So it is that it is their faces that become blank, anonymous, forgettable, a blur, animated and defined only by how their imaginations — and thrusts! — fill me. Yes, it’s the the cock (but not the faces) that I remember.
And yes, I want to be, and remain, forever fuckable. Isn’t that what “the Eternal Feminine” is ultimately all about?
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