Alex Waterhouse-Hayward: I would not paint — a picture

On September 21^st 2009 my friend Kimberley Klass Spademan died by suicide. She was 40. I will never be able to figure out how such a sweet soul could leave without saying goodbye. She inspired me to take some of the best photographs of my life.

There is one occasion that will be impossible for me to ever forget and most of the series from that one session are here. She called me one day to tell me, “I have a new boyfriend called Glen and he is an artist. He paints.” In an instant I said, “I have an idea. Tell Glen to bring one of his thinnest paintbrushes and we will meet in my studio.”

I would not paint — a picture — (348)

By Emily Dickinson

I would not paint — a picture —

I'd rather be the One

It's bright impossibility

To dwell — delicious — on —

And wonder how the fingers feel

Whose rare — celestial — stir —

Evokes so sweet a torment —

Such sumptuous — Despair —

I would not talk, like Cornets —

I'd rather be the One

Raised softly to the Ceilings —

And out, and easy on —

Through Villages of Ether —

Myself endued Balloon

By but a lip of Metal —

The pier to my Pontoon —

Nor would I be a Poet —

It's finer — Own the Ear —

Enamored — impotent — content —

The License to revere,

A privilege so awful

What would the Dower be,

Had I the Art to stun myself

With Bolts — of Melody!

More Emily Dickinson:

November left then clambered up
You cannot make remembrance grow
November
the maple wears a gayer scarf

We turn not older with years, but older

Now I am ready to go
Dilapidation's processes Are organized Decays

I find my feet have further goals

A melancholy of a waning summer
Just as green and as white
It's full as opera
I cannot dance upon my Toes
a door just opened on the street
Amber slips away
Sleep
When August burning low
Pink Small and punctual
A slash of blue
I cannot dance upon my toes
Ah little rose
For hold them, blue to blue

The colour of the grave is green

Its temple stands, alway,

The Woman in white

Her Grace is not all she has

To know if any human eyes were near
Linda Melsted - the music of the violin does not emerge alone
The Charm invests her face
A sepal, a petal and a thorn
The Savior must have been a docile Gentleman
T were blessed to have seen
There is no frigate like a book
I pay in satin cash

Emily Dickinson's White Dress & a Hunter of Lost Souls