ANDREW WYETH'S HELGA COLLECTION

It had made a small sensation,
an exhibition at the National
Gallery, a collection of
nudes that featured a woman
"friend" of the artist, painted with
obvious appreciation of her
voluptuous breasts. The crowds
that flocked to see what
he had wrought came to
learn what all the fuss was.
They murmured their own
appreciation at his skill
and obvious devotion.
This was love committed to
canvas. Anyone could see it.

My own enjoyment conjoined
an equal measure of seeing
art and overhearing
comments. Some were
sophisticated. Some were not.
A man and woman next to me,
in their seventies at least,
seemed especially enthralled.
Close enough to hear his
whisper, I caught:
"Yours are nicer."
To my delight
she giggled, giggled
like a school girl. "Oh, go on,"
she said. "Oh you."