ekphrastic

The Girl on the Train

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Traveling with Elise was a trip.  People stared. And then they pointed. And then they chuckled. The more you watched, the more you saw that was just a little bit off center. Or a lot.

Image “Anywhere” by Haylee Morice at hayleemorice.com

For instance, who travels with potted plants and decorates their train seat with twinkle lights? Feeds their cat cake with a bowl of cream, of course?

Now many people wear their slippers on the train, I know I do. But their jammies and comfy sweater four sizes too big? 

Elise was born eccentric. It wasn’t something she became, and it wasn’t something she grew out of. It was her core personality. Part of it was based on her desire to be comfortable and part of it was based on her personal ideology that home was wherever she was.

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The Persimmon Tree

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The leaves are strewn about the foot of the tree and, if the sun is just right, the persimmon looks as if it was hung with Chinese lanterns.

Persimmon Tree by Behnaz Khanban

The tree bears fruit that is not edible until after the first frost.  The orange globes hang from bare branches and color a gloomy autumn day with their ethereal orange.  What a gift.

This time of year always finds me depressed and hopeless that the verdant mountains and abundant flowers will return.  We are all gray and black and brown.  The trees are naked and stark.  One persimmon here — up on my hill — would be a blessing.

To be like the persimmon – to produce vivid color in a black and white world.  To provide fruit when all else is spent and the earth waits for the snow cover.  To be a beautiful beacon of Mother Earth’s miracles.

I want to be a persimmon.

Memento Mori, Tempus Fugit

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Alla Tsank https://statestreetdistrict.org/painting-list/alla-tsank

Her hair was a miracle, a wonder, a symphony of wild and beautiful.  You could get lost in hair like that. 

Let it wrap you in golden strands the color of wheat just before harvest like a blanket and a fire on a cold winter night.  Her hair was a mystery, an enigma, a talisman. 

Her hair beckoned you to magical forests, castles, charmed cottages.

Her hair.

I was in love with her immediately.  Entranced.  Intrigued. Infatuated.  I knew deep down it would not end well, but I hung around waiting for her to either find a table or leave.  I intended to follow her out the door if need be.  Determined to talk to her. 

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The Odalisque

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The odalisque sits staring off into the now.  Completely comfortable in her body, belly, thighs, and all.  She has come to terms with it and embraced her physical self.   

The artist is in love with color and is not concerned with flattering her, though she is gorgeous.  She is just what I need as a muse – a woman at ease in her skin, able to tell her story, and willing to do so to anyone who will listen or to remain silent – according to the whims of her audience. 

People talk of their muse as if a magical creature that drops art in their laps fully formed and ready to go.  No.  The muse is the inspiration for the art – the one who whispers in your ear….the stray thought that ties the piece together.   

Matisse’s model for the Odalisque series was Henriette Darricarrère.  She too was a painter.  She gives the appearance of complete comfort and rest while holding her poses – for ten hours at a time.  Art is not necessarily easy.   

The blue and white porcelain pot with the plant echoes the blue and white porcelain in the room I am in as I write this.  

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