This is my Workshop Challenge, my interpretation of The Yellow Blouse by William M. Chase.
Totality of beauty emerges through unlocked doors;
sometimes meandering, others in passion’s scurry,
but always true to its innocence— for only there
can it find eternal dominion.
The trouble with portraits is their aggravating lack of subtlety. Take this one, for instance, a little beauty that Daddy paid handsomely for, one that a certain famous artist created to punish me for protesting and finally shunning his advances. As I stand before him for hours at length, my legs are not my only body parts to suffer from cramping. My very thoughts suffer their twisted effect as well. I can scarcely withstand his leering gaze as his eyes flit between palette and my bodice, as his mawkish expression trumpets my discomfort, exposes my shame. Even now his impudence mocks me, flaunting my weakness before the world.
No matter. Portraits, for their intimate betrayal of one’s innermost secrets, lack the cudgel necessary to wield blow after blow upon the psyche of a viewer, no matter how long he might stare at my questioning countenance, no matter what speculations he might hold about my character. No, portraits cannot inflict any modicum of retribution as exacted payment for indignities suffered at his hands.
The same cannot be said for the pistol concealed beneath my beautiful yellow sweater. For his sake, I hope he likes my Cross— it will be the last thing he sees when he stares at my breasts and bends to caress them.