I. One morning in Paris,she alighted on the Orangerie. Hadn’t she, as a girl, loved Monet? Had each jigsaw of greens and blues not cohered into a lily, had she not let him daub her vision, had she not longed to disappear into his impression, had she not been taken by the river, freckled in light, would she have noticed the museum guards who followed her, the dark woman, across the gallery, as if they might soon ask, Where are you from? Exposed, gradually. II. She abandoned the Orangerie to wander to the Jeu de Paume where Lorna Simpson’s solo show, her first in Europe, happened to wait, as might a friend, for her. In Waterbearer, the figure faces away, wearing only a white shift, tilts two jugs—one metal, one plastic—of water for reasons unknown. Into the black background, she fades as if to discount her position in the composition, her position as muse. Were she to tell her story, would it be, even with her strongest muscle, she could not force Monet to see, as she has, the river? Beneath the photograph, vinyl letters reflect her memory: She saw him disappear by the river, they asked her to tell what happened, only to discount her memory. Her souvenir of that morning on the Seine.
Impression, Jardin des Tuileries
poetry
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