I have a notebook, which I was given for my birthday, which has Klimt’s The Kiss on the cover (twice, front and back). It’s one of my favourite pictures and I had forgotten I had it until, having bought a framed print for the wall, I then came across the notebook too.
I looked at it more carefully today. Doesn’t the woman look happy – more than happy – blissfully unaware of anything other than her lover. He adores her; she knows that and is wallowing delightedly in it. She can even hold back a little as he covers her in kisses, knowing that he’ll hold her close: even so she’s holding on to his hand and has one arm wrapped around his neck. She may appear to be less passionately involved than he is, but she’s not going to let him go. She is melting into him, allowing him to worship her. She is his Queen, and she has closed her eyes in the ecstasy of being loved; wanted; desired; adored.