Alex Waterhouse-Hayward: Her breast is fit for pearls

Marlene Cohen

Her breast is fit for pearls,

But I was not a "Diver.”

Her brow is fit for thrones –

But I had not a crest.

Her heart is fit for home—

I—a Sparrow—build there

Sweet of twigs and twine

My perennial nest.

Emily Dickinson

When in doubt, wear pearls.

Willoughby Blew

Ever since I was a little boy I have the memory of my mother and grandmother taking out a strong box from a hidden place. They would open it and inside, what was a treasure chest, I would gaze at jewels much like in the stories that my Uncle Tony would tell Wency and me, jewels that had ghosts with broad swords on the side.

My grandmother and mother would be dressing up for a party. In that treasure chest were jewels sent from Paris by my grandfather, Don Tirso de Irureta Goyena when he was wooing María de los Dolores Reyes.

A chest of sort is in our Kits home, but the more valuable of the jewels are at a safety deposit box. There are pearls at home and Rosemary wears them when she can.

The two photographs here of Marlene Cohen and a receptionist at Vancouver Magazine I took in the late70s. The latter (I have no memory of her name or how she communicated her request for me to photograph her with nothing on) may represent the first job I ever had of taking pictures for pay of a woman undraped. I really did not know what I was doing. I did not use lights but shot two rolls of b+w film. One of them was with Kodak B+W Infrared film.

Marlene Cohen wasn’t wearing much except for her pearls. By the look of this photograph I must have used either vaseline on a clear filter or some sort of softening device. It might have been a woman’s nylon stocking stretch out in the front of the lens.

More Emily Dickinson

I would not paint a picture
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