Between treason, innocence and the bliss of ignorance... It is any of that, or is it simply naiveness?
She was taught to be wise, and within the sanctuary walls of prohibitions, there was sanity, holiness and purity even. The world? Mad. And everything beyond herself? Dangerous. Dangerous Sun, for a fair skinned girl such as herself. Be quiet, but violent, joyful, but private. Brave, but afraid. Or should I say… astray. Astray of the world, belonging and integrated, but never fully there. Separated, again with walls, the restrictions, the disciplinary decisions, purely for restraint. Betray. All that is logical and that makes sense. What is it that she used to say...? You may stay, have fun, but don’t be last. For him? Be his last, be his first, your first, and of you both - last. Be dreamy, be smart, knowledgeable, but play dumb. Provocative, eloquent, but reserved, observe. Something about shining, at the right time. It matters not the age, so she said, it’s always a prize. Like the books in my shelves, the words in my tongue, the sharpness in my eyes. My eyes, what about my eyes? To some the kindest they have ever seen, to other the utter symbol of superiority. Be that, or be the later, where is the true meaning of this whole picture?
A painting. Onstage. As the curtains are drawn the crowd watches silently, curiously, meticulously, voraciously. A painting. Between tilted heads and murmurs, ghosts within their minds seek for refuge inside the idealized and imaculate catacombs, not ever touched, maidenly awaiting for a kiss of death. Death then comes, to who they once were, to all the possibilities that could have once come, and death dismisses grief. There is no such time for that, when you are a prize.
Their eyes begin to close in. The admiration of the simple complexity, the understanding that it can not be possessed by mere ignorance, it is what moves them. Neither here, nor there, neither theirs nor hers. It’s simply not there to be possessed. But the mere purpose of the painting is to be held up, treasured, and kept safe. In a spacious room within a loving home. A Home. A home, a man, some books, a fireplace, a varanda, maybe a garden. Would we hire a gardener? Some cattle, in the middle of the woods, and surely an atelier. But a painting is just a painting, neither here, nor there, waiting to land in the complexity of a brilliant mind, or a humble heart. One filled with compassion, and love, some ideas, but mostly understanding, of how time wear down a paiting, how it has traits left by a brush that don't belong even to herself. It was not her choice how she came to be, but it is her choice to whom she may open behind the faded tears that mark the frame within which she's is
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