I have decided to add a certain gravitas to my blog and let the experts weigh in on my new masterpiece. May I introduce Susan McEwan, my guest critic, who has summoned her extensive Art School knowledge and written this illuminating critical review.
Just when we thought feminism had successfully eradicated the stylised nude from sophisticated art circles, along comes Fieldey with Nevermind the Bullocks…Miss Minotaur 1977, forcing us to rethink our tastes.
A far cry from the demure nudes of Botticelli and Titian, Miss Minotaur playfully taunts us, inviting us to admire her sumptuous form and scratch her behind the ears, as she flicks us away with her tail as if we were nothing but pesky flies.
Fieldey grapples with that tricky line between art and pornography, between the highbrow and low. Whereas the likes of Titian, or indeed Manet, concealed the more ‘private’ regions of their nudes under the guise of modesty, Miss Minotaur proudly displays a gleaming pink udder. Olympia may have invited us to gaze upon her beauty, but Miss Minotaur seems to offer something more than a visual feast. Those big, green sultry cow eyes seem to beg the question – ‘Got Milk?’