In The Chariot

Come closer, come closer... Not like you are just gonna walk away and leave me all alone with these other hideous pieces and too much fluorescent light, are you? Stay a while...

So, you saw me on a postcard and thought that you wanted to see the real deal? Fair enough. I see the ones in the gift shop - don't ask how I know - and they all go for the Renoirs, Klees, Klimts, Wyeths, and, even worse, the Warhols (seriously, the man painted soup cans and popular junk). But you picked me...

And here I am...

You want me to give you answers...and I have so many questions...

He was a very interesting man. Swiss, not Parisian like so many of you seem to believe (with a family name like that, what did you think?). He moved around a lot, got ill, got famous, and then...well, like all artists, they never see the end; they only see the work and hope that the tap will never stop.

Did you know about the paintings? Did you know why he did what he did? After two wars and all that struggle, what could he do (man's inhumanity to man and all that were perfect for his...creations).

Fragile? Oh, yes, he was. And that was how we all ended up looking like this. People seem to think that we are such delicate creations that if anyone even breathes on us the wrong way, we will suddenly crumble, or fall apart...or die. Alberto was too careful for such things to happen. And we were proud to be caught in his hands, standing with what little pride we had in our rough skin and skinniness. Never thought that the rest of the world would pay that much attention.

How did he live his life?

He was an artist, my dear.

Money played its role, but it did not stop him from the bohemian world that he loved and did not want to abandon. How could he? If he had started to drive around that neighbourhood in a Rolls Royce, he would have been shunned even more so than when he was poor. All that wealth went into mattresses and underneath his bed. He wanted what money could not buy; what he could never buy: freedom.

No, not for me. That was not my fate.

Look at what they have written for me:

''A filament-thin woman stands posed in precarious equilibrium, as if perpetually suspended between movement and stasis, advance and retreat...''

Total and utter nonsense... I was what he imagined I could be. And I cannot understand why so many of you say such things.

And yes, as everyone forgets: I am a woman. One with one foot, not much of a shape except for the usual thin and emaciated form...and those silly wheels.

Why the wheels? Oh, another comment on freedom and the need to allow us to move and be ourselves no matter how often he made us look so similar. What nonsense (now I sound like one of those guides).

Yes, I know. They are going to push all of you out of here eventually and I am going to be alone with my thoughts and anger. But you should know this: there is no one else out here like me. You see wheels on all of those other stand-ins and skinny men. He gave them to me for a reason. Even if I cannot really take off with them, I got them. They are mine. All I ask you to do is think carefully about why that is. Ignore all the nonsense all those critics think...and stay away from those misguided tours (ha, ha, you laughed at that one). Use your own imagination this time.

And think of a woman who will not be defined...and has her own way of travelling beyond bronze and the hands of an amateur...

Think of me...

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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