The voluptuous woman

I like big women. ┬áThere. I said it. Frankly I find the sylphlike figure of most models (and some aspiring teenage girls) strictly theatrical. Often I have marvelled at their 12″ waists while at the same time earnestly questioning when they last had anything to eat. Dieting is a such a hopeless chore and one which invariably prescribes a manifestly unhealthy nutrition. By contrast the voluptuous woman paints a sybaritic picture without the stoic reserve. All in all it is a more balanced view in my opinion. And just because a gal is a “full figured woman” that means nothing when it comes to sartorial expression. The runway is not in my opinion the correct place to display the fashion; it is a cold vernacular more suited to pouting lips and bolting movements of the Praying Mantis with their flexible necks and elongated bodies.

Acquainting the voluptuous woman with “plus size” and large bosoms is a common abuse of the real Rubenesque picture which is more devoted to well portioned and alluring.

The art surrounds the face as often as not. Clear eyes, clear skin, a pure ceramic beauty! There is a robust earthiness to the whole, a familiarity with all five senses amid a vigorous body, a purity invigorated by its contrast with the vulgar reality.

Neither weight nor fashion is the interpretation of life.  Nor more than jewellery is an adornment that answers all objections. But put together on a fine day, they project a wholesome regard for living.