Monday, 8 October 1877

For the head study, a new model — that is to say, in the morning. A sort of café-concert singer who sang to us during the rests. And in the afternoon a young girl for the life drawing.
They say she is only seventeen, but I assure you her figure has been quite knocked about. They say these hussies lead an impossible life.
The deacon lunched and dined with us.
The pose is difficult; I am struggling.
I should horribly like to pose in the men's studio — nude, no doubt.
I assure you that what makes people ashamed of their nudity is that they do not believe themselves to be perfect. If one were certain of having no blemish on one's skin, no poorly formed muscle, no deformed feet, one would go about without clothes and feel no shame. One does not quite realize this — but that, and nothing else, is what produces shame. Can one resist showing something truly beautiful and of which one may be proud? Who has ever kept a treasure or a beauty to himself without boasting of it, beginning with King Candaule?
But as readily as one is satisfied with one's face, so instinctively scrupulous is one about one's body.
Modesty disappears only before perfection — beauty being all-powerful.
And from the moment one finds something to say other than "it is beautiful!" — then it is not quite so. And there is room for blame and for everything.
Thus I myself would feel shame because the skin of my calves is not quite as fine as that on my arms, and because my feet — my toes — are not of quite a classical form on account of those horrible fashionable shoes. The big toe is slightly bent by shoes that are too short. I console myself only by looking at other people's feet and at those in modern paintings, the painters having used models who wore shoes like mine, no doubt.
I would give a year of my life to have feet entirely to my liking.
The studio hussy had straight and pretty toes but thick ones, the whole foot heavy though regular and not large.
I was saying just now that complete beauty liberates from everything — and it is so with every perfect thing. A piece of music that allows you to notice the flaws in the staging is not perfect. An act of heroism that in the moment leaves in your senses any room for something other than admiration is not the most heroic act you have dreamed of. What you see or hear must be great enough to occupy your whole being, [words blacked out: then it is all-powerful.]
From the moment that, seeing a naked woman, you tell yourself it is wrong — that woman is not the ultimate expression of beauty, since you have room for another thought than the one that should pass through your brain by way of your eyes. You forget that it is beautiful in order to notice that it is naked. Beauty was therefore not complete enough to occupy you entirely. And so those who display themselves feel shame, and those who look are shocked.
One feels shame because one knows others find it wrong — but if they did not find it wrong, it would be an accepted thing, [words blacked out: of which consequently] one would feel no shame.
So then. Absolute perfection and absolute beauty annihilate, and even prevent blame from arising — and consequently suppress modesty.

Notes

King Candaules of Lydia (myth): he showed his wife's naked beauty to his guard Gyges, which ultimately led to his downfall — a classic myth about pride in beauty and its consequences.