(The
first in a series of coming-of-age stories.)
Getting settled in our new digs in the Brentwood
section of Los Angeles has meant a lot of soul-searching for Rita and me. For example: where to hang that framed lithograph
of the French painting made famous in a celebrated 1916 Chicago court case.
This
September Morn, not to be confused
with the Neil Diamond album or the upcoming movie thriller, shows a naked French
maiden preparing to take a dip in a cold Swiss lake.
When my grandfather tried sneaking it onto the wall
of his Ohio farmhouse my grandmother would have nothing to do with it. It
remained in a closet for 50 years.
Novelists today are fortunate. It wasn’t until the 1960s
that the obscenity rules stifling authors were revoked (along with the
introduction of The Pill) and the atmosphere changed. We take it all for
granted now as we seek to top the sex scene in our previous novel.
Of course, parents
don’t just worry now. They agonize about
how far their sons and daughters went after Saturday night’s high school prom. But
I guess that’s the price we pay for the new freedom.
As for September
Morn, it is proudly hanging next to my computer desk as I write this. And I
am sure my Grandfather is smiling as he looks down admiring every delicious curve.
No comments:
Post a Comment