What's to like, you might ask. Well even if you don't mutter such a question, I'll tell you. It's the innocence. Not necessarily the innocence of the subject, though, as you'll see, you get that too. No, it's about the innocence of the time and the total absence of an all-pervading culture of sex. And by culture I mean not just the business of sex, but also the way it squirms its way into our everyday lives. Now, I realise that such a statement is not exactly an advert for this blog, but it's true nevertheless.
Back then, the business and culture of sex wasn't around. Of course, this is not to say that sex in itself wasn't on the minds of those gentle patricians and willowy ladies. Sex is always on the mind, it's always a consideration. Jane Austen would have disagreed, but I can tell you with absolutely no authority, that what she really wanted to do was to get in the britches of Mr Darcey. She didn't write him to be ugly and unattractive. She just couldn't say that he was the hottest thing around.
I'm straying aren't I. Let's have a piccy.
Isn't she gorgeous. This looks like twenties America with that hair. She's got a toned body and those are serious legs she's partly hiding away. But what strikes you most once you get past the titillation is the look on her face. She's not giving you the sexy come on. In fact there's no sense at all that she could imagine that she'd be looked at by lecherous men. What her face says is that she's not totally at ease with the situation.
In the current day, she might have a word with the photographer.
"You're not going to put this online are you."
Back then she'd have put it differently.
"You won't show it to anyone will you."
"Of course not Beatrice, this is just for me."
The bastard.
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