The Love Picture Exhibition

Walking to my studio on West 29th Street early one morning, I ran into a man who had worked as a commercial artist for my former husband. Sergio DiNolti had been fat and homely, but the man standing in front of me was trim and very muscular with a lean, appealing face. As I admired his miraculous change, he said he'd been doing Karate four times a week. As we walked towards my studio, I sensed some extraordinary sex was about to take place. Luckily my diaphragm was still in place from the sex I'd had with Grant the night before.

Once we stepped inside my studio, there was no need for words as our clothes were stripped off. As we stood under the big north skylight, his muscular torso glistened while I watched a satyr on a Greek vase come to life with a curved goat-cock. Picking me up effortlessly, he gripped my ass firmly as I wound my legs round his hard body. My wet cunt slid down over his hardon as I impaled myself on pleasure. He stood solid as a tree while our standing fuck stirred up hot juices that melted us into one huge sex organ. As if from the bowels of the earth, I felt his dick swell and contract as the hot lava of his come filled me. His cock stayed hard! He placed me onto the couch without breaking our connection, and I was caught up in the power of his second come. Again he stayed hard, and we continued until he reached his third orgasm. This time his cock throbbed and his body shook with orgasmic ecstasy, but the well of his ejaculate had run dry.

Before he left, Sergio showed me a series of Karate moves. At forty-eight he had the body of a young man as he performed the naked dance of an ageless warrior. One moment I saw his power, the next his grace. I had been so astonished by his sexual prowess that my orgasm had gotten lost. As soon as he was gone, I was back on the couch playing with my still swollen clit- going over the entire scene in my head. This man was phenomenal! Most guys had to wait ten to thirty minutes before going again, but he was having multiple orgasms; something I'd never known was possible for men. Oh how I wanted to capture his pure physical essence in a drawing.

Following weeks of futile struggle trying to hire two models to pose in sexual positions, a light bulb went on over my head. Grant was an excellent photographer with cameras and darkroom equipment, so I picked up the phone and told him I had a hot proposition, "How would you like to take some photos of two people having sex?" He said it was one of his favorite fantasies and asked what I had in mind. When I explained I wanted to draw from photographs of Sergio and me, he chuckled and said, "Anything for the sake of art." Sergio knew Grant and I were lovers, and I knew Sergio was living with another woman, so I wasn't worried about jealousy. We were doing sexual love- not the exclusive romantic kind.

When we arrived at Grant's apartment, I felt fantastic; aroused beyond my wildest dreams by two incredible men who were devoted to me in their own unique ways. The whole ambiance was such a turn on that Sergio and I ended up fucking under the floodlights. Grant clicked away satisfying his voyeurism while I had my first experience with exhibitionism. I used to think voyeurs and exhibitionists were people with sexual problems. But now I realized both elements contained important aspects of developing my sexuality.

In the spring of 1967, a young man who modeled for me asked if he could bring a gallery director to my studio to view the new erotic drawings. The following week Andre, an elegant middle-aged gentleman showed up. He invited me to put two of my pictures in a group show he was having the following month. Andre chose the egg-shaped lovers that were done in color and a large Leda and the Swan charcoal pencil and pastel drawing. After both drawings sold, he offered me a one-woman exhibition at the gallery the following year. Glory Hallelujah! I'd finally gotten my big break at the age of thirty-eight. The exhibition was to be held November 1968 at the Wickersham Gallery on Madison Avenue. Although it was a small space the location was ideal, right next door to the Whitney Museum.

Three months before the show, the drawings numbered eighteen and I had four in the works. Since I'd set twenty as my goal, I was on schedule. As I worked in my studio, shocking news kept interrupting the classical music on my radio: Dr. Martin Luther King assassinated in Memphis, Senator Robert Kennedy shot and killed in a Los Angeles hotel, Andy Warhol shot and critically wounded by a crazy actress who'd been in one of his films. Those were the big headlines along with the usual domestic violence and random killings topped off by the horrors of the Vietnam War coming into everyone's living room via television. At the time I didn't own a TV so I was spared the visuals of the war. I kept thinking how sexual expression was an antidote to violence, so I was working with dedication.

The erotic content of my art was quite modest: a kiss, sexual intercourse and oralsex. No genitals showed except one couple embracing where the man had an erection. I'd drawn that one for women to enjoy. Meanwhile Dimitri, an artist friend was designing the invitations with the perfect title: "The Love Picture Exhibition." Everyone was for love even if they didn't know what the word meant. When they saw my drawings they'd at least get to see images of sexual love which would be a positive experience for most people.

Dimitri mentioned he was working on the Kronhausens' first erotic art book and suggested I meet them so they could include one of my drawings. Doctors Phyllis and Eberhard Kronhausen were clinical psychologists and authors who had been collecting erotic art for years. Several days later I was shaking hands with them- my heroes ever since I'd read their book, Walter, the English Casanova. Ebe had poignant eyes set in a sweet face etched with a thousand lines, while Phyllis, an alert blonde, bubbled with energy in her early forties. Together they showed me dozens of photos from their collection. Viewing sex art for the first time was astounding! Each picture revealed a wealth of sexual content: tenderness, horror, fear, beauty, love, hate, and desire that made up the rich emotional stew of sexual passion and pathos. The reality that censorship had deprived me of these powerful and insightful images infuriated me.

When I asked why more educators and therapists weren't speaking out against America's censorship of sexual images, Phyllis said that for most professionals, it was too big a risk because they would have to confront the disarray in their own sex lives. She said my show was going to threaten a lot of people, and that I'd be dealing very directly with the public's fear of sexuality. They didn't want to frighten me, but I ought to be prepared. That night I discovered Ebe and Phyllis were in a non-sexually exclusive marriage so the three of us had a light hearted threesome chez moi- the beginning of an erotic friendship that lasted many years.

During this time, my primary relationship with Grant had entered another stormy phase. Our on-going power struggle was too emotionally draining, so I decided to get through the show without him- time for some emotional distance again. On the other hand, my sexual exchange with Sergio, the Karate black belt was giving me energy. His intellect couldn't match Grant's by a long shot, but what I liked most about Sergio was the absence of a meaningful relationship with the ever-present emotional complications. Two or three afternoons a week we'd have a three to four-hour session of hot, uncomplicated sex and then I'd go back to work.

Finally reality struck like lightning the morning I awoke drenched in fear. How were people going to respond to me, a woman so openly into sex? Would I be seen as the whore of Babylon? Congress had created a Commission on Obscenity and Pornography to study the social effects of sexual materials, which meant pictures of sex were now a national issue. Although the Supreme Court had ruled material with "redeeming social value" could not be censored, material that appealed to "prurient interests" was still classified as obscene. Would my art appeal to prurient interests, and who would decide?
The scariest part was going public while standing in the spot light. Would people realize I was the model in all the drawings? My exhibition was going to be the first one-woman show of erotic art ever held in New York City. There'd been a group show of erotic art the year before, but it was mostly male artists who had created abstract or humorous images of sex. My drawings were all classical nudes. Was some sex hating, religious nut going to bust into the gallery and mow us all down with a machine gun?

In the past, fear had always stopped me cold. Being afraid meant I wasn't ready, that I needed to learn more; to better prepare myself to eliminate fear. Then I remembered Castaneda's book and went to the bookshelf to find the place where he talked about man's natural enemies on the path of knowledge. He said I had to defy my fear, feel it, but never let it stop me. In spite of it, I had to take the next step in learning, and the next. Don Juan's words got added to the quotes on my wall with the usual change of pronouns: "She slowly begins to learn, bit by bit at first, then in big chunks. Every step of learning is a new task and the fear the woman experiences begins to mount mercilessly, unyielding. The first of her natural enemies is fear."

I'd been so freaked out about this new kind of public exposure that I'd forgotten the drawings had to be framed. Finally I spent a whole day on the phone getting estimates. Most of the framers said it was too late to consider the job and the rest were totally out of my price range. Out of the blue, Grant called and I broke into tears, pouring out my problem. With his impeccable logic he said every problem had a solution. He'd meet me in the studio the following day with a plan of action.

The next day, Grant showed up with an ingenious solution. We dashed off to Canal Street and bought huge, brightly colored sheets of Plexiglas. Each drawing would be sandwiched between two sheets with all four corners secured with handsome brass fittings. The temporary framing had a unique contemporary look. Behind vivid red, orange, and yellow Plexiglas, my black and white classical nudes having sex looked vibrant, exciting and quite modern.

Mother arrived three days before the opening. It was her first trip since Daddy died three years ago. With our many phone conversations, I'd kept her abreast of my progress, talking very openly about the sexual content of the drawings. Although she kept reassuring me that no drawing of mine was going to upset her, I couldn't wait to see how she'd react. On our way to the studio, I told Mother there would be a disclaimer on the gallery door stating the art was sexual and only people over eighteen would be admitted. It was to keep us from being closed down by the cops.

As we entered my large studio, the pictures were on the floor leaning against the walls. "Pretty impressive," I thought, as I silently held my breath watching my 68 year old mother carefully examining each drawing. She stood back for a long view before coming in for a close-up raising her head now and then to engage her bifocal lenses.
"Honey, your art is just beautiful," she finally said with a note of triumph. "That 'disclaimer' business is nonsense. It's really too bad little children can't see these lovely pictures. They could stop worrying about sex all the time, and look forward to enjoying it when they got older."

"Bessie, I love you," I said hugging her. If my own mother could handle my erotic art, I didn't have to worry about the rest of the world. Most of all, I was thrilled to be sharing my moment of glory with her. A large part of why I was able draw sex was thanks to her openness and acceptance. She thought having sex and orgasms was natural and that most people enjoyed it as much as she did.

That night over dinner with Grant, Mother and I started talking about what we were going to wear to the opening. I'd decided on black tights under a black jersey tunic with a brightly colored jeweled chain belt at my hips. Black suede mid-calf boots that laced up the front would complete my outfit. Grant said I'd look like a Dominatrix. Since I'd never heard the word before, I asked him what it meant. He said it was a woman who was in control, and then jokingly suggested I carry a black leather-riding crop for the perfect finishing touch.

November 1968. On the day of opening night, my nerves were jangling on edge. I actually went to a store that sold riding equipment and bought a black leather crop for good luck- hoping I'd feel more in control. Besides, it looked good with my new boots. Along with a lot of other folks back in the sixties, I had no idea that the word "Dominatrix" had anything to do with sexual activity. Since I wanted to arrive at the gallery a little early, I arranged for Grant to pick Mother up later. I hit the street wearing a gold plastic raincoat over my black outfit, carrying the riding crop. As I stood on the corner to hail a cab, a young black man passing by sized me up and broke into a big grin as he said, "Oh Baby! Beat me, beat me." Although his comment made me smile, I had no idea why he'd said that.

The gallery was nearly filled by the time I got there. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the glass door open and walked into a sea of faces rolling toward me: friends, acquaintances, strangers, all smiling, all wanting my attention, all circling around me. There were hugs, formal handshakes, kisses, pats on the back along with voices raving about the "my beautiful work," "fantastic show," "an artistic triumph," and just plain "congratulations" on all sides as I swirled in the spotlight of my first one-woman show. The reality was even better than the dream.

Several photographers, including Diane Arbus, were taking pictures and the press was there. With Mother standing by my side, one reporter asked if I always carried a riding crop. I said not since I was twelve years old when I rode in the Wichita Bridle & Saddle horse show. Mother told him I'd won second prize as she radiated pride surrounded by her daughter's sexual imagery. She was having the time of her life and so was Grant. He was running around, proudly pointing out which pictures he'd posed for to our friends as well as total strangers. Throughout it all, I was blissed out, and André, the gallery director, was having his own moment of glory. Everyone congratulated him, saying he had just pulled off the show of the season.

More than eight thousand people attendled during the two week run. It was the largest turn out the gallery had ever experienced. It was so exciting that I went to the gallery every afternoon so I wouldn't miss anything. André would be sitting on the edge of his desk in the back of the room, clicking off each new visitor with his counting machine. There were many humorous happenings, embarrassed glances, and also delight on people's faces. A young woman with long hair wearing hippie sandals walked out of the gallery smiling as she said, "Love is coming to us all."

The fact I'd drawn sex made me some kind of expert in many people's eyes. At first I kept saying I was no authority on the subject, but after listening to so many mini sex histories, riddled with guilt and suffering, I started sharing whatever information I had with no apology.

One afternoon an older man with white hair took me aside and confided in a whisper, "I have the same disease as the model in one of your pictures." Then he said a Latin name his doctor had used. Unable to understand, I asked him to show me. We walked over to the drawing of the man with the erection that André had discreetly hung behind a large plant. "There," he said, pointing to the upward curve in the penis that belonged to Grant. "That's my problem." Shaking my head in disbelief, I told him he was perfectly normal. I had two lovers and both of them had curved penises just like his. With that the old guy got angry and complained bitterly about all the years he'd thought he was deformed. I welcomed him to the club saying that until a few years ago, I too thought I was genitally deformed. He thanked me profusely as he shook my hand and left the gallery smiling.

On another day, two policemen came in to check out the show because of a nearby shopkeeper's complaint. They seemed to like the pictures and left after just a few words with André. When I saw the dark blue uniforms a second time, I was sure we were busted. However, it turned out the officers were just there to enjoy the art again. Late one afternoon, a mother and her young daughter walked into the gallery. When the mother realized the drawings were about sex, she grabbed her daughters hand and said, "We don't want to look as this, Darling." As she turned to leave, the young girl said, "Oh Mother! It's just a bunch of people wrestling."

Going public reaped many rewards. The show was a financial success and André begin talking about my second exhibition for 1970. The longest write-up was in Women's Wear Daily which I thought appropriate since I'd been a fashion illustrator for many years. They also had a detailed description of my outfit, including the riding crop. At the first opportunity I told Grant that the word "Dominatrix" wasn't in my dictionary. This time he was more explicit with a definition: a female who dominated men sexually with threats, discipline, and punishment. At that time, I was dedicated to the ideal of sex between equals. The thought of sexually dominating another person was disgusting, and his treating it like a joke infuriated me. That day I threw out the riding crop, but without my knowing it, Grant retrieved it from the incinerator room. Fifteen years later, he returned the crop to me, and I promptly hung it on my wall. We both laughed, remembering my first exhibition when I rode the high spirited horse called "Success," dressed as a Dominatrix; a sexrole I'd learn about much later when I became a more sexually sophisticated woman.

That winter, following my exhibition, I found myself on a popularity skyrocket. Having a show of erotic art was like a big advertisement that I'd be fun in bed. Many interesting men became available to me as I waltzed into the glittering world of the rich and famous. Artists have always been able to break out of the rigid class structure that we all pretend doesn't exist in America. I'd already dated a movie star, a big politician, a well known author, and lots of wealthy jet setters who lived here and abroad with more waiting in the wings. All of my girlfriends told me now is the perfect time to score a rich husband. But I had the luxury of being a sexually liberated woman who knew how to say "yes" to the men who intrigued me and "no thank you" without an explanation to the one's that didn't. I was going to be a famous artist and make my own million. Sex for the shear pleasure of it was intoxicating with no emotional hangover. I never felt better in my entire life as I looked forward to turning forty.