Nobby Nobbs, a shadow in the warm red gloom, nudged Sergeant Colon.
“You don’t have to keep your eyes shut, Sarge,” he said. “It’s all legit. It’s an artistic celebration of the female body, Tawnee says. Anyway, she’s got clothes on.”
“Two tassels and a folded hanky is not clothes, Nobby,” said Fred, sinking down in his seat. The Pink PussyCat Club! Now, fair’s fair, he’d been in the army and Watch, and you couldn’t spend all that time in uniform without seeing a thing or two – or three, now he came to recollect – and it was true, as Nobby had pointed out, that the ballerinas down at the opera house didn’t leave a lot to the imagination, at least not to Nobby’s, but when all was said and done, ballet had to be Art, even though it was a bit short on plinths and urns, on account of being expensive to look at, and moreover, ballerinas didn’t whizz around upside down. And the worst of it was, he’d already spotted two people he knew in the audience. Fortunately they hadn’t seen him, which was to say that whenever he’d sneaked a glance their way, they were looking in completely the opposite direction.
– Colon struggles more with his concept of Art | Terry Pratchett, Thud!