When I opened the door today for Astrid I was taken aback
not only by her very English accent but also by her quiet elegance. It struck
me that here was a lady and that I was back in that century when the word “lady”
was not seen as an insult or a deprecative and sexist epithet.
After taking one single photograph I thought of a poem by
my fave American doctor/poet.
William Carlos Williams, "Portrait of a Lady"
(first published in the Dial, August 1920)
Your thighs are appletrees
whose blossoms touch the sky.
Which sky? The sky
where Watteau hung a lady's
slipper. Your knees
are a southern breeze -- or
a gust of snow. Agh! what
sort of man was Fragonard?
-- As if that answered
anything. -- Ah, yes. Below
the knees, since the tune
drops that way, it is
one of those white summer days,
the tall grass of your ankles
flickers upon the shore --
Which shore? --
the sand clings to my lips --
Which shore?
Agh, petals maybe. How
should I know?
Which shore? Which shore?
-- the petals from some hidden
appletree -- Which shore?
I said petals from an appletree.
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| Fragonard, “The Swing,” 1767. Oil on canvas. Wallace Collection |