Anyone with only a nodding acquaintance with classical music will immediately tie this to Saint- Saens orchestral masterpiece. The origins of Danse Macabre (Dance of Death) go back to the middle ages but the original intent is now obscure.

However, I believe Saint-Saens thought of it as a "once a year day" well night, when the dead were released from the grave to party, which is the way I chose to portray it. The semi nude lady adds the necessary erotic freight whilst negating anything sinister. I like the play of moonlight on her back and the upward swing of her breasts which adds a certain dynamic to the whole scene.

I think most artists would agree that to paint an accurate realistic skeleton is difficult so I shopped around for the real thing to study. No one had one. The local cemetery had plenty but no rental policy. A moonlight requisition perhaps ?, possible, but a graveyard in the dead of night is no place for novice backhoe operations. So I settled for "Petite Pete", a plastic model. He has a mocking sneer on his face that says "you chickened out buddy, you should have gone in with the backhoe".

My touch of black humor. The title dates to Victorian times when it was customary for a women to dress in black on her husbands death - I've updated things with a black bikini. The wife in this instance is obviously the arch gold digger, the old boys gone lets live it up, onwards and upwards to the next client, or diamonds are a girls best friend. Perhaps not surprisingly I had to place an explanation next to the painting, some people suggesting a resurrection, others vampirism or the un dead.

Researching for a painting can result in some interesting experiences, in order to get the casket size correct I visited a local funeral home on the pretext of obtaining a burial vault for a friend, with the unlikely story that he already had a coffin. I can still see the look on the "associates" face as I pulled out a tape and started measuring. I love that word "associates", will Wal Mart ever get into coffins I wonder. The liquor store were kind enough to allow me to photograph the Dom Perignon, the manager hovering, ready to pounce in case I made off with it.

To me the most erotic thing in the painting is the jewelry worn over long slinky black gloves - sexy medieval I call it.

Chicago in the 1930's, windy and wild, a young attractive blonde with a passion for dancing, a violent argument with her boyfriend, a fatal decision to walk home alone down Archer Avenue where she was struck and killed by a passing automobile, murdered by her boyfriend perhaps. Her grieving parents buried her in Resurrection Cemetery and that might well have been the end of the story except, months later Mary began appearing in human form, sometimes at the O' Henry Ballroom, more often at the cemetery.

Young men would meet a girl in the ballroom, dance with her, offer her a ride home only to have her vanish from the moving car on passing the cemetery gates. Numerous strange incidents are recorded in Chicago Police Department files and many people risked ridicule to relate their eerie supernatural encounters. More chilling perhaps is the fact that Mary left physical evidence, fingerprints burned so deep in the cold steel of the cemetery gates they defied all efforts at removal - eventually the bars had to be replaced.

Mary to this day remains an elusive and romantic mystery ; is this painting really hers or mine, and are we destined to meet I wonder?

Like Gorge Bernard Shaw I borrowed the idea from Greek mythology. It's the story of a sculptor Pygmalion who falls in love with his creation, the perfect women Galatea. He petitions the Goddess Venus to give her life which obligingly she does. Here the story becomes flawed perhaps. One perfect women wanting another around ?, you'd have to be smoking something to believe that. Anyway, for my Galatea I chose a stone graveyard angel. She is given life not by Venus but by a magic kiss from a seductive blonde sorceress. I chose the title "Desires" with good reason, it expresses wishes or cravings. The angel desires life and love, the blonde a special kind of love, perhaps decreed by a quirk of nature, but love every bit as real and compelling.

I think of love as a mutual caring which can exist with or without sex, so have fun with my fantasy and draw your own conclusions. Don't jump to any though, the thumb on the hand which appears to caress the angels breast is hooked into her gowns folds holding it in place protecting her modesty. Pornographic you say - no, erotic yes, I certainly hope so, otherwise I will have failed.

This really is erotic fantasy no bones about it, it's the old fairy tale supercharged. The lovely girl dreaming of a handsome lover. The frog dreaming of princely conquest, lacking only the necessary osculation to make it happen.

I really lathered on the old lapis lazuli on this one. What really sends me about this is the beautiful flat almost concave line of my models hip. I'm sure she thinks that's rather weird but is always too kind to comment. Incidentally, it is enormously difficult to paint lust in the eyes of a frog.

Artists have been painting and illustrating this subject since Hans Balding Grien in 1517 to Edvard Munch, he of "The Scream" in 1927, and many others I'm sure. Most often the erotic jolt is achieved by depicting the maiden clad only in wisps of super flimsy gossamer fabric consulting death, usually a skeleton or entwined male nude. However, with the addition of a nuns cowl, sexy silk stockings and high heels the concept can take on entirely new meanings and possibilities.

The Prince of Darkness is throwing an all- night fancy dress party in his penthouse crypt. Grand prize of the evening, the chance to live out your wildest fantasy throughout eternity. Price of admission your life, payable at the door, no refunds. The fallen angel guarding the entrance wringing her hands in despair is your last warning, venture no further, she stole a look at the prize and was turned to stone.

Someone once said that the eyes are the windows of the soul. We are attracted by beauty and seduced by it's promise, but eye's can hold the power of mystery and dark secrets - these are the eyes that inspired "Invitation".

The driver smiles, her companions cloak falls slowly to the ground revealing a nubile body white as porcelain. Full dark lips suggest erotic pleasures and you yearn for gentle lashes from her whip. Dark eyes hold you in their caress, your surrender is complete.

Clouds ripple the moonlight on the valley floor, the cry of wolves now becomes a whisper on the wind. From a castle turret high above the count contemplates the approaching hearse, saliva shimmering along his cruel lips. He pulls the voluptuous girl closer, his powerful fingers marking her flesh. "Your sisters have done well" he whispers, "tonight you three must indulge our guests fantasies, shower him with your sweet kisses, pleasure yourselves and drink the blood of his lust in full measure, but remember least you cause me to anger, tomorrow he is mine for eternity".

Readers of Bram Stokers "Dracula" will immediately recognize these ladies as his lovers, condemned by his lust to share eternity with him and spread the curse of the un-dead among the living. We know they were beautiful desirable and voluptuous, but Stoker gives no hint as to their private moments together.

You are awakened by the faint sound of female laughter, silvery and musical but hard, as though the sound could never have come through the softness of human lips. Despite the Count's grim warning you take pleasure in disobeying him. The laughter and the soft moonlight dispel your fears, you step into the gloom of the arched corridor and walk softly along it's length, moonlight illuminating your footsteps in the long accumulated dust.

The laughter is louder now intermingled with soft cries of pleasure, a musky fragrance embraces the air with wicked allure. Silently you approach the heavy oak door, light flickering from underneath throws the flagstones into sharp relief - there is no turning back........

The girl at the party, so beautiful and mysterious behind her dark glasses, intimate yet strangely distant. You danced together, her body cool and sensuous in your arms. You asked her name and where she was from, but she pretended not to hear, and only pressed tighter in your embrace. Her perfume enticed, you tilted her chin to kiss her. Her lips parted slightly, her tongue moistening them in anticipation. Lips ice cold - passion - sense of death. Sudden fear engulfed you but you could not pull away, you longed to be drawn into her dark exotic world.

You asked to take her home. "Please" she said, "no, I'm sorry I can't explain I must go". Tears in her eyes, as she turned and walked away. You searched, but no one at the party had seen her, remembered her, or knew her name. You waited for a long time but she never returned, disgusted you started the drive home.

Car low on gas. You decide on a shortcut over a country back road. Miles later, it is apparent you have taken the wrong road. Full moon, patches of cloud, strands of mist meandering the gullies, her, still on your mind.

Gas gauge nudging empty. Three minutes to twelve.
Then a solitary figure in the headlights beside that old deserted graveyard, dark glasses, black cocktail dress, waiting, expectant, provocative. The girl from the party.

I still see her on cold November nights by the old graveyard when the moon is full.
She waits for me, as she said she always would.