Pastel Perfection

Sophie Marie folds herself into the corner of a bright, airy room, her raven-black hair spilling in glossy vintage waves against the chalky mint of a skin-tight camisole and matching leggings. The pastel green is almost translucent against her porcelain complexion, and a woven macramé swing chair hangs beside her like a prop from a boho editorial, knotted rope and bleached wood catching the skylight above. Diamond stud earrings, smoked-out lashes, and a nude lip keep the focus on those dark, heavy-lidded eyes, and the effect is a woman who looks like she was painted into this room rather than simply walking into it. Pastel Perfection does not oversell itself.

Sophie sinks to her knees on the warm hardwood and draws the mint cami upward, revealing the mandala ink that spans her sternum and the heavy swell of her chest beneath it. The leggings peel away to leave only a pair of olive-toned knickers, and she sits cross-legged on the floor, one hand tangled in her dark curls, her body a gallery of tattooed geometry and soft, warm skin. In the closing frames she rises to her feet beside the macramé chair, completely bare, gripping its rope with one hand as the daylight from the dormer window traces the elaborate thigh piece that wraps her left leg like a stocking drawn in ink. Sophie wears nothing now but her artwork, and it is more than enough.