I felt daring. And noble. This was a grand thing I was doing, an act that would render me immortal.
Yet my face flushed as I reached the plinth and let the flimsy robe slither off. It made a silken hiss as it fell like a shed skin. Through the forest of easels, the zephyr of a collective sigh. Cool air caressed my bare flesh.
The gentlemen peered, squinted, grunted, as they began my slow transformation into art.
The movement behind the easels grew more frenetic, and the grunts louder.