Three big iron stoves tried in vain to heat the room, where the cold seemed to come not from outside but from the statues forgotten in the dark. Those sculptures, once proud exhibits and then inconvenient obstacles, were pushed by the whims of art down into the underground world. Every now and then an expedition would arrive: critics or sculptors would decide to bring back a former style or a forgotten artist, and archangels, Madonnas, or Greek gods would rise up to the surface again. The youngest women came from the countryside or abroad; rather than showing any conviction in their new line of work, they seemed to curl their bodies into question marks as they undressed near the glow of the great stoves. There was a Chinese folding screen, red lacquer with silk panels, but no one bothered to use it; the drawings made it seem much more indecent than nudity itself. I had managed to blend in with those who came to the basement in search of models. The young women displayed their figures, some opulent and others angular, while the artists would judge and perhaps propose a deal.
What do You think about Voltaire's Calligrapher (2010)?
