Epistle

It's a funny word, EPISTLE, but all it means (though I think: thistle, artichoke, epi-pen) is letter.

There's some thaw today, a single snowdrop gracing the garden among the gray grass and mealey mulch. I visited my daughter's school as part of an arts program--bring in a quality print (this is an amazing program--they have a vast circulating collection) and discuss a bit of art history, asking questions about the painting. Lucky me; it just happens to  be the season for the Poetry Project, where you direct the class to write a collective poem about the painting. So much to think about! We directed our poem within the frame of an epistle: who do you want to ask about this painting? What questions do you have? What kind of action words might you use in your answers?

The resulting poem has a bit of a narrative. Never mind that the kids are six and seven years old; they're full of language and ideas, and within a half hour we had this:

Epistle: Renoir’s Dance at Bougival

Dear Mom and Dad,

What kind of dance are they

dancing?

Ball dance, kissing dance, cha-cha, the waltz, step dance,

square dance, Macarena, rolling rumba, chicken.

What kind of drink are they

drinking?

Apple juice, wine, orange juice, grape,

Cranberry, root beer, fruit punch, lemonade.

What kind of dress is she

dressed in?

White dress, dance dress, ballroom,

yellow sash, wedding dress, when?

What kind of thoughts are they

thinking?

Love thoughts, valentine, snacktime, hungry,

happiness, honeymoon, puppy love, kids.

Love,

Mrs. Starace’s First Grade

 

So here's your assignment: find a work of art. Maybe it's a pillow on your living room couch (mass produced or hand woven, it's up to you to choose), maybe your new faucet has a post-modern design, or maybe you have a copy of Jansen's History of Art growing heavier with information on your bookshelf. Choose a work of art and write a letter about it--to your parents, your art teacher, to the woman in the frame. It's up to you. Have at it. (30 minutes. Use your listening ears and don't forget to raise your hand...)

Comments

[B. Muse]

In my house there is not one picture of people looking into a camera on display. Not one. Nor are there magazines with pictures of people looking out of them. I turn them all face down or I throw them away as soon as they've been read.

I prefer pictures of nature or food or flowers. Impersonal scenes that do not remind me of much of anything.

There is a picture in my bedroom of graceful egrets lifting elegant wings toward a milk white dawn. I've stared at it's muted greens and lavenders for hours. It's so peaceful.

There are a couple of pictures of my children at the beach. One of my daughter deep in concentration building a sand castle and another of my son skim boarding, his body in a neat curve, mimicking the waves. Both were taken from a side view.

My daughter's art work hangs in the hallway.

Other than that, no pictures grace my walls.

Consequently, there seems to be something missing when you enter my house. A sense of... person, life.

Here's why. I'm a little crazy. People in photographs are staring at me, watching me. What's crazier still. I KNOW that this belief is crazy and yet I persist in believing it. Somehow, the person whose picture was taken still exists in that two dimensional world and can think or worse, judge.

I have a therapist named Chad. Chad is a nice guy, but he insists that I put the pictures of family I have tucked away in drawers on my walls. He thinks it would be a good idea to put magazines with people looking out in strategic places like my bathroom and my closet or next to my bed. Places where private things happen.

I understand, of course. He wants me to experience the anxiety that comes with this particular paranoia and learn, over time, that the people in the pictures are not really thinking about me. They are only images. This type of therapy is usually very effective and can, given time, begin to reduce the amount of paranoia and anxiety that erupt from overactive brain chemicals resulting in said insanity.

Chad is wrong.

Both of my parents are in heaven now and I understand that they are not actively watching my life. If they were, I would never have sex again. But with their pictures watching me, there is the slightest chance that they just might use those pictures as make shift two dimensional eyes and report on their findings to my sister who died at 15 who might then tell my grandparents and there would be no end of the lectures I'd get from THEM on any number of subjects from how I sometimes kick clothes under my bed to deal with later to how I cut my toe nails completely wrong, thus causing painful hang nails.

Now, do I believe all this? In my truest and most sincere heart, do I believe? Let's put it this way. If there is even the slightest chance that I'm right, no pictures of human beings watching me from their frames will ever find their way onto my walls. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. Sorry, Chad.