Tag Archive | fine art

Widow’s Walk

(I wrote this in response to a class assignment. It is inspired by a picture by Rob Gonsalves and the journey of a dear friend. )

Widows walk. They walk along the balcony, pacing out the nights. One step after another, chained to a mast that never comes into view. No skips, no hops for the balcony is dangerous. Weeping into the ocean doesn’t count if you are alone.

Widows walk alone, friends and family woefully out of step. They bear the isolation alone, watching the clouds skittle across the night sky, longing, wistfully, for a glimpse of the one who left them behind. They walk, they pace, they shiver and moan. Even among the crows, they are alone.

Widows walk alone into… . They carve out a path made of stone yet soft as sand. Night becomes day becomes night and still they walk their lonely halls of grief. Typhoons, monsoons, tsunamis break over them. The trick, the widows say, is to let them break. Let them rain down on you, absorb the fury and power of nature into yourself because otherwise it will burn you alive. The clouds on the horizon are puffy and white… or are they a sail in the wind… or will they change as they start to come in. Widows walk alone into…

The unknown. Once you are half of a hole (it’s wrong but it fits and oh how that hurts!) how do you become whole while only half of you is there? Once, you were whole all on your own. You didn’t choose to walk this walk, you didn’t ask for this you didn’t want this–never this– game of life that tossed the rules out on you– why did the rook take the queen– you didn’t know you didn’t want you didn’t mean in when you said you only wanted a minute alone youdidntyoudidntyoudidntyoudidnt

But still. Here we are.

Somber as a post.

Knowing.

Widows
Walk
Alone

Copyright 2020 Wynelda Deaver

Shifting Sideways: 13 Nekkid Ladies

First off, mind out of the gutter. This is fine art, folks!

Nymphaum by William-Adolph Bouguereau

Nymphaum by William-Adolph Bouguereau

Shifting Sideways: 13 Nekkid Ladies

“One naked lady, two naked ladies, three naked ladies, more. Four Naked ladies, five naked ladies….” My son cooed in his sleep, snuggling into his stroller. Sunday afternoon, and it was time for The Haggin Museum, where we were sitting, and sleeping (respectively), in front of the Nymphaeum by William-Adolphoe Bouguereau. (For the record, there are 13 of them, along with a boy peeping at them and a satyr. Yes, I’ve seen this picture. A lot. If you follow the link, the boy and satyr are on the far right, but are not really visible. Hidden.)

Back then, the Haggin was my refuge. Me time away from my crazy life, moving from place to place. No worries about roommates, a crazy husband or what to do with my life. Instead, it was my infant son, me and the quiet of the museum.

Being surrounded by art allowed me to breathe again. My weird, shift to the side mentality started kicking back in. Some mothers count blocks, some sheep. We counted (almost) naked ladies.

I probably should not have been doing it out loud.

The Princeling and I came to the museum so often that the security guard knew us. At the time, the elevator was operated by Ray, the security guard. I ended up buying a year pass, because we were in there so often.

Now, not so much. Instead of cooing softly from his stroller, my boy has grown into a rambunctious nine year old boy. He’ll tolerate the large machinery, the jeep, the boat… But his heart was captured by the hall of swords. That’s what he calls it now. He thinks the life sized dioramas are creepy, the paintings are boring.

My meandering days are over.

I miss them.

Once again, my life is in turmoil. My mind is scattered, thoughts being tossed like litter in the wind. Art calms the windstorm, settles the thoughts. Whether it’s the Nymphaeum, a storm tossed sea, a piece of porcelain… it reminds me of the beauty in life. Even the potato farmer painting hanging in the same room as my nymphs. They are care worn, they are trying hard… but there is beauty in that struggle.

Walking through the halls, my heart start to slow. My breaths deepen. The soul relearns that it can fly.

##The End##