Frieda. Her name was Frieda... At least, that was the pseudonym used for the series of photographs dedicated to her. Strangely enough, thinking back, her name echoed that of the heroine of the comic strip Necron by the artist Magnus.
I remember well the photograph of the woman who inspired this drawing. Frieda posed nude on the glossy pages of that erotic magazine, the name of which I have forgotten.
However, it had all started much earlier. At school, I had friends who were a little ahead of me when it came to sex, because they had older brothers who had paved the way with adult books and videos, which my classmates had access to. All of this ended up intriguing me, making me curious. I should point out that in France in the 1980s, attitudes were very different from today (although I realise that today, with the internet and social media, teenagers have much easier access to adult content than I did at the same age). Anyway.
It must have been just before Christmas. It had been ages since I stopped believing in the big bearded man dressed in red. At that time of year, I was always snooping around to find out where my parents had hidden the Christmas presents. It was while searching through their cupboards that I stumbled upon a treasure trove: my father's erotic magazines, remnants of his time in the military. I still have vivid memories of images from those magazines.
One day, listening only to my courage, I decided, right under my mother's nose, to borrow one of these magazines so that I could draw a girl I had spotted in my room.
remember it as if it were yesterday: the woman, blonde, was lying lasciviously on a sofa, sprawled across the double-page spread of the magazine. Completely naked, she wore only a sheer red nightdress and a pair of red boots... it was breathtaking.
So I hurried to reproduce the photo with my poor drawing skills, my heart pounding, afraid that my mother would discover me. ‘Oh shit!’, the matriarch, who had sensed something was up, caught me in the middle of my anatomical drawing exercise! The hiding place behind my bed had been poorly thought out. She snatched the magazine from my hands, ‘That belongs to your father. It’s not for children!’, she said, embarrassed. Frustration.
Later, I discover Frieda. A beautiful blonde woman wearing a tight black top, pulled up above her chest, and a pair of black pointed-toe ankle boots. Who knows why I decided to replace the ankle boots with a pair of thigh-high boots. Perhaps I already had an unconscious attraction to this type of footwear.

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