Danger, Beauty, and the Human Form

What art awakens in us, and how it matters

Amedeo Modigliani, Nu Couché (Reclining Nude) 1917

When I posted on Facebook an AI-generated image of a young woman, bare to the waist, it was simply a piece of art to me: expressionist in style, mysterious, tender, and beautiful. I hesitated only because the figure was nude. Soon after it appeared online, a dear Bahá’í friend wrote to say she felt uneasy. The figure, she thought, looked too young, and she worried it might play into unhealthy fantasies. She admitted it was first and foremost a visceral reaction — a gut feeling that told her something wasn’t right. Her heart objected. 

Part of her unease, I realized later after speaking with my wife, was not only about nudity but about youth. To her eye, the figure suggested someone underaged — and in our world, with its painful revelations of exploitation and abuse, that association carries enormous weight. I did not see the figure that way. To me, she appeared simply as a young woman with a slight, undeveloped frame — diminutive breasts, yes, but nothing childlike. Casual, unposed, and not voyeuristic. Yet my friend felt something different: a suggestion of underage vulnerability, and in our cultural moment that alone can feel troubling. The same image, then, lived in two realities at once — one of quiet beauty, the other of potential harm.

That set me thinking. As an artist, I know the human body has always been at the center of art. Michelangelo’s David towers over Florence in his colossal nakedness, admired for centuries as the pinnacle of beauty and strength. At the Academia Gallery, when people stand before the 17-foot-high, perfectly proportioned figure, genitals at eye level, many gasp, their eyes widen, and I daresay pulses quicken. Each time I’ve stood there, I’ve seen eyes widen, smiles flicker, and even laughter rise — the shared astonishment of being so publicly, so unabashedly face-to-face with the naked male form. It is a delight to witness, and it always makes me smile.

Amedeo Modigliani, scandalous in his day, painted nudes with such frankness (including pubic hair) that they shocked Parisian audiences — though today they are celebrated as masterpieces. His 1917 Paris exhibition, which included Nu Couché (Reclining Nude) was even shut down by the police for being too provocative. (Nu Couché sold at auction in 2015 for 170,400,000. dollars.) 

And then came Auguste Rodin, pushing the boundaries even further into raw physicality. His Iris, Messagère des Dieux (c. 1895) stunned viewers with its bold fragmentation — a headless, airborne female torso, legs spread in unapologetic display. To some it was obscene, to others a daring hymn to vitality and raw power. I love the piece because it feels like a direct invitation to unite in the matrix, to celebrate the generative force of Mother Earth herself. Today it is recognized as one of Rodin’s most radical and compelling works, proof that provocation and beauty can be inseparable.

It seems every era has its thresholds of comfort, and what unsettles one may inspire awe in another. It is the same old tension: one person sees beauty, another sees danger.

My friend put it simply: wisdom resides in the heart. She admitted her unease came before any reasoning, and in truth, that’s often how art works. First, the heart reacts. Only later does the mind step in with analysis, categories, and judgments.

Where I saw beauty, mystery, even a hint of eroticism — but not exploitation — her heart felt something different. I wasn’t thinking of “dignity” or “morality” at first. I was thinking of how the colors, textures, and forms combined into an aesthetic whole with artistic merit. Also the celebration of the human form—uncensored, innocently portrayed. That was my opening response. Hers had been different, and both were genuine.

At the same time, I recognize that her unease wasn’t only personal but cultural. In a world where the exploitation of young women has been exposed with horrifying clarity — from the Epstein files to countless stories of abuse — even a suggestion of youthful vulnerability in art can feel charged. To her, my image risked echoing those wounds, however unintentionally. That is no small matter, and I honor the seriousness of her concern, even as I hold to my own intent as an artist.

Is there a right or wrong?

In the Bahá’í Writings, Bahá’u’lláh describes a state where a person seeing with only the spiritual eye open would not even notice the most beautiful woman as an object of attraction. Yet most of us live with both eyes open — spiritual and physical — and we navigate the tensions between them. Perhaps this was my friend’s concern: that many cannot look at such images without sliding into desire. But does that mean showing them is wrong?

I found myself wondering, too: isn’t it possible that extreme puritanism around the body has actually fueled the very deviancy it fears? When something natural is shrouded in shame and prohibition, it can become distorted, even fetishized. The forbidden fruit effect: people crave what they are told they must not touch. By contrast, in cultures where nudity is normalized — on Mediterranean beaches, in Scandinavian saunas, or among tribal peoples for whom the unclothed body is simply part of life — the body is often seen as ordinary, natural, even noble. That doesn’t mean such cultures are free of deviancy, but the baseline is different: less about shame, more about balance.

And then another question arose: what about unity in diversity? In the Bahá’í Faith, much is said about “binding the hearts together.” But how much individuality must be surrendered in unity? Imagine a man who hunts animals with reverence and gratitude, and a woman who is a vegetarian conservationist, equally pure in her devotion to protecting animal life. Can they both be “right”? Can their hearts still be bound in love, even if their instincts point in opposite directions?

Art is a mirror for life. It elicits first our gut responses — sometimes conflicting, sometimes harmonious. It then pushes us to ask: can we respect what another sees, even when it differs from our own? Can beauty be both a provocation and a comfort?

Never comfortable to be contained in a box, no matter how safe, the bird of my spirit demands the broad spaces. Fifty years ago, when I was a student in Art College, a symbol came to me , which became my logo. I did not know what it meant at first, but in time I realized it was a box, with an energy breaking out from the contained space into the outer world. Art wakes us up. It reminds us that our hearts feel first, and our minds follow after. And maybe, just maybe, when we allow both to speak, we might come closer to that unity-in-diversity that is the highest form of human community.

American poet Walt Whitman reminds us: “If anything is sacred the human body is sacred … and if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?” Simone de Beauvoir adds another dimension: “The body is the instrument of our hold on the world.” To me, these words name the ground where art and spirit meet — to see the body without shame, as part of a single holiness, the vessel through which we touch life itself.

For myself, I am still learning. Each work of art, each dialogue, is a step deeper into mystery — where beauty, spirit, and passion weave together in ways that unsettle, illuminate, and possibly, bind us closer to one another.

I remain grateful to my friend for speaking from the heart. Her unease reminds me that art does not exist in a vacuum — it lives in the world we share, shaped by wounds, fears, and hopes. To honor that response is part of the work too, even as I hold fast to my own vision of beauty without shame.

Footnote: Today I see that Facebook removed my original image for going against its community standards. Female nipples are taboo.