3 lines of stone. One uncomfortable truth.

Before Victorian morality rewrote “decency,” our temples carved confidence into granite.

A woman stands here — weight shifted, hip alive, chest unapologetic, gaze lowered not in shame but in rhythm. Drapery suggests, not hides. Form flows, not flattens.

No anxiety about “contours.” No panic about “exposure.” No borrowed morality.

Then came the rewrite.