The art of touch.

Mono-printing. Simple and beautiful. I would arrive late at class (always), find a corner away from the tutor's attention and lay down my sheet of glass. Squeeze out just enough of the thick, acrid, black ink, slick it across the glass with a roller until it was the thinnest sheen, then softly lay on paper and begin to draw... just a few simple lines and then feel my way across the skin of the model's body with a finger, a thumb or the heel of my hand. Pressing and smoothing the curves and shadows into place.
I loved mono-printing. It was incredibly fast as a way to work. And I was fickle with my art. I liked to catch a moment and move on. 

 It wasn't so much that I didn't notice the model, or that I deliberately de-humanised them in any way. I just enjoyed them on an entirely visual level. I didn't really engage.
I arrived at this class, late as ever. Ducked past the tutor with a grin (it was really that simple) and set myself up to quickly begin enjoying the model's undulations. I think she might have been sleeping. She looked so peaceful, the class was unusually quiet, the room impossibly warm as ever. I became lost in her body. Trying to catch the feline shape she created.

 At some point someone called 'break'. The model stood and walked over to the window, her back towards me. I was preoccupied cleaning ink from glass, laying a confetti of artwork out to dry. Then she turned...

"Oh! Hello. I hadn't expected to see you here." It only ever happened to me that once. Everyday life intruding upon the peace of my life class.
My partner at that time (later my husband) refused to look at the drawings. "How will I ever go to the delicatessen and buy bread knowing that she knows I know she has a tattoo where I didn't ought to know she has one?"
It amused me enormously. His prudishness should have been a warning.