JC Sulzenko – p. 174

Self, imagery

Of course, I never looked like her— the woman in black— one hand loose around her slim waist, the other resting against her hip. That angular face promised drama. Her green eyes, predatory as a cat’s. And those lips, pursed as though she’s made clear what she wants and when.

Doesn’t look to me as though she’s ever suffered. That could be the light, the brushstrokes, her pose more striking, more confident than I can bear. But it is a self-portrait after all. She selected what to reveal.

The painting in oils, me at twenty, stays stacked against the basement wall. I wear no make-up. My hair falls in soft curls. Hands folded in my lap, I look a little prim. Pretty, not head-turning like the woman in black.

For the sitting I wore an earth-brown wool tunic. Offered only the hint of a smile to appear older, sophisticated. To be taken seriously.

The artist crowed, That’s your essence. But I could taste my disappointment. The image, bland; the colours, insipid. My gaze, vacant.

Forty years later, I see a ballerina’s grace in the arc of my arms. A mildness, a kindness, a quiet, particular to the gentle woman I was and had forgotten.