In this “captivating and profound” (Antoine Wilson, author of Mouth to Mouth ) debut novel, an art historian journeys to a Greek island in pursuit of a found sculpture and quickly finds herself immersed in a cultural tug-of-war and a complicated love affair. 1999: An island off the southern coast of Greece. Art historian Elizabeth Clarke arrives with the intent to acquire a rare female sculpture. But what begins as a quest for a highly valued cultural artifact evolves into a trip that will force Elizabeth to contend with her career, her ambition, and her troubling history. Disoriented by jet lag and a dependence on prescription pills, Elizabeth turns to her charming translator to guide her around the labyrinthine island. Soon, the island’s lushness—its heat and light, its textures and tastes—take hold of Elizabeth. And when she’s introduced to her translator’s inscrutable wife—a subversive artist whose work seeks to deconstruct the female form—she becomes unexpectedly enthralled by her. But once the nude’s acquisition proves to be riskier than Elizabeth could have ever imagined, Elizabeth’s and the statue’s fate are called into question. To find a way out, Elizabeth must grapple with her past, the role she’s played in the global art trade, and the ethical fallouts her decisions could leave behind. Gripping, provocative, and sensual, The Nude “pries apart the pristine veneer of classical art and allows something sublimely twisted to emerge” (Alexandra Kleeman, author of Something New Under the Sun ). "Thrillingly taut and magnetically told, The Nude pries apart the pristine veneer of classical art and allows something sublimely twisted to emerge.” –ALEXANDRA KLEEMAN, author of Something New Under the Sun C. Michelle Lindley’s writing has been featured in The Georgia Review , Conjunctions , and more. She has received support from the National Endowment for the Arts and has an MFA in Creative Writing from Cornell University and a BA from the University of Berkeley in English and Art History. The Nude is her first novel. Chapter 1 1 When a Greek fisherman caught a woman’s body in his net—a marble statue, around five feet tall, missing two arms—I was working for a museum in Los Angeles on the other side of the world. After the discovery, a group of men hauled the figure to the island’s only museum, cleaned her, and kept her on a metal table in a climate-controlled room near the back of the building. It was there, somewhere in southern Greece, on a windy day in April, where I first saw her. “Doctor Clarke,” the local antiquities dealer, a man named Alec, said. “What do you think?” We were standing on opposite ends of the table where she lay, the only living people in the room, his eyes darting from me to her, her to me. I specialized in female statues of the Hellenistic Mediterranean, and though I was a curator for one of the most respected institutions in the states, whenever a colleague or patron called me Doctor, I did not immediately register myself as the object of their address, and in the ensuing blip of silence, an overwhelming self-consciousness would turn my tongue to stone. What did I think? Pentelic marble, head tilted back, a stretched neck. If the statue should have cracked anywhere, it would have been there, but that delicate neck defied its own vulnerability. She was completely nude, with a rift on her right breast, a smooth abdomen, and censored vulva. Minor depressions carved into both sides of her hips. She might have been holding something in her left hand—a mirror, likely—based on the way her chin pointed slightly upward, as though she were studying a reflection of something—or someone—behind her. I tried mentioning this possibility to Alec in Greek, but upon hearing me, he appeared shocked, offended. I repeated myself, quieter, and with a questioning lilt. He shook his head. In English, I apologized. I told him my Greek was rusty. He waved his hand as if to say, it’s nothing. He offered me a pair of white cotton gloves and I began inspecting the statue’s every bend and fold, casually measuring proportions, lightly tracing areas of abrasion. Both her arms had snapped off at nearly identical points. It wasn’t uncommon for figures to be found without limbs, noses, genitalia, but usually, the breaks were uneven. Hers appeared, somehow, purposeful. Which isn’t to say the fissures seemed inauthentic—just, rare. Each new vantage point conjured more questions, more ways of seeing. Her hunched posture insinuated a self-consciousness, while her curved torso and bent knee invited the eye to travel down, then back up again, suggesting either an indifference to possible observers—or else, an invitation. I bent to her level, my eyeline meeting the top of her head, where ropes of wavy hair twisted into a crown, curls like limpets around her temple. Meanwhile, Alec circled the room’s perimeter, the edges of his wrinkled khaki shorts skimming each hairy kneecap, his black socks