ABSTRACT
The cover of this book shows a close-up of what appears to be the sculpture of a man, sitting. He seems to be naked (how quickly the personification of that which is perceived as human: he, not it). Fabricated from bone and plaster, he is unquestionably white. It might be more usual, for a male nude sculpture, for him to be standing. But he looks normal. And yet, something might be slightly off. He looks relaxed, almost languid. The legs crossed at the knee, the arms so loosely crossed at the wrist are unmanly, somewhat effeminate. He sits like a gay man gossiping on a bar stool, in a way that many men may have been instructed – perhaps by their fathers – not to sit.
