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As children, we are almost always in awe of our Dads. I was. One of the earliest memories I have of my Dad is him reading his big books. Jeffrey Archer and James Hadley Chase were some of his favorite authors. Surely he must have realized how awestruck I was. It must have been around this time that Dad decided to gift me my first real book. Our first big books are always special aren’t they? I still have mine. A little tattered, a little soiled, a little dog-eared from reading, re-reading it. It was Oliver Twist. Which was yours?

This copy of Oliver Twist was my little treasure and is probably the reason why I have an inexplicable inclination towards classics. There was a time when I tried to be like Anne Shirley and had promised myself that I would name my daughter Cordelia. The capricious girl that I was though, I moved on from being Anne to Elizabeth Bennet on the lookout for my Mr.Darcy in no time. I guess what I am trying to say is that these people shaped my life somehow. 

Anyway, I am currently reading ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ and something that I read has stuck with me from a long time now. In the book, Oscar Wilde says every painting that is painted with feeling, is a portrait of the artist, not the sitter. Isn’t that beautiful? The sitter is the mere subject, a muse, an occassion, the accident. How the painting turns out is entirely up to the artist. The painting reveals more of the artist than the sitter. 

I took this up with my artist, who tries to photograph me for my ootd posts. My artist, the husband. Dandy or dowdy, it’s the artist’s job to make me look good.What followed was him nonchalantly agreeing to not being a good artist. So, if any of you guys do not like how my pictures turn out, you know it’s not the subject who is at fault 😉. Sharing a couple of my pics from earlier this evening, let me know your thoughts.

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