To my left,
there is the Neoclassical beauty,
profile drawn by David himself,
delicate,
bright eyes, reminiscent of Gainsborough.

The Rubeniste sits in front of me,
full figured, though not as colorful
as the Graces.

Behind me lurks the Rembrandt,
moody, dark,
in the chiaroscuro of a leather jacket
and tousled hair.

Here I am.
With my Schiele hands,
Rosetti lips,
but without the quiet grace
or distortion of either.