Sherman now noticed, over the bed, a small painting with a simple frame of blond wood. He took a couple of steps closer.
It was a picture of a nude man, seen from the rear, outlined in crude black brushstrokes, the way an eight-year-old might do it, assuming an eight-year-old had a notion to paint a nude man. The man appeared to be taking a shower, or at least there was what looked like a nozzle over his head, and some slapdash black lines were coming out of the nozzle. He seemed to be taking a shower in fuel oil. The man’s flesh was tan with sickly lavender-pink smears on it, as if he were a burn case. What a piece of garbage… It was sick… But it gave off the sanctified odor of serious art, and so Sherman hesitated to be candid.
The Bonfire Of The Vanities by Tom Wolfe