A beautiful one. I'd most definitely put you up on a dais, to let people be awed by your beauty.

[The man has a skilled tongue. Or at least he did when it came to talking. The rest was a question. Though he did hesitate a the idea of him being art. For half a second his hand pulls away, as if to tug his shirt closed, as if to try and hide the silver-white skin, not unlike scars, in concentric rings above his heart, all circling the small, hard to see scar from the knife wound. He didn't see that as fetching at all.]

You're wearing too much for me to see your true beauty.