If only the cat would look away so that I could go about my morning business without a power struggle. Struggling to swallow without taking a mouthful...of paste with me, I blinked my eyelids, but would not look away from the tiny little face at my feet. Cursing God for creating such a creature, I glared down at her. My eyebrows were beginning to pull together as I frowned at the cat, cursing God again, cursing the cat, cursing all cats everywhere, and finally cursing myself for caring for such a. It didn’t matter if the subject was male or female, as long as it was alluring to me—and both could be alluring to me.I was compared—or at least I compared myself when asked—to Whistler or Renoir in my use of rich colors and lush settings to set off the sensuality of the human body. But I wasn’t confined by the Victorian conventions that, I believe, had limited these artists’ works. Often when I looked at a Whistler or Renoir portrait—of perhaps a woman in a brightly painted kimono resting on a. More

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