Limp erotica.

9th July 2010. We are staying at the fabulous Hotel Rivoli, in the centre of Sao Paulo. The hotel is probably from the late 1940s and it has sprawling, narrow corridors and long and narrow rooms, with wooden floors and sparse, cheap furniture; in some way, the whole ensemble retains a dignified air. We feel smugly bohemian. Above the bed there’s a pastel portrait of a semi-nubile woman, blonde, head bashfully but coquettishly tilted to avert her gaze from that of the man she is offered to, strap of her chemise sliding to reveal a breast. In ultra-soft-focus, powdery pinks and baby blues and lilacs. Signed with an Italian-sounding namet that the manufacturing company thought would bestow a Renaissance sophistication on their “tasteful” product. It manages to put a smile on my face every time I enter the room.