I wonder about Peggy Guggenheim living in her Venice house which to me smacks of a mausoleum with cold marble floors and concrete walls built in the most severe right angles to one another. But the gardens – oh, the gardens! The rear is something out of a Zen monastery exuding peace and calm. But it’s the front that excites; looking out onto the Grand Canal with nothing to block the way except an amazing statue of a naked man on a wild horse, arms outstretched in flight, his gigantic penis, hard and erect, thrust straight out like a throbbing finger of virility and freedom. How something of metal or stone could project such life, such electric vitality, is a wonder in itself. It’s neither erotic nor sexual in the lurid sense; rather it’s a testament to youth and the fiery energy of life in all its orgiastic glory. Even so, a father abashed at passing this work of art with his young daughter ordered her to avert her eyes and to walk on.
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