Women portrayed reading
Browsing art images on Wikimedia I can’t help noticing how women who read are portrayed in art. There is the traditional Madonna pose, two dimensional, upright and devout, harking back to the stilted stylism of Mediaeval art. She is typically portrayed in profile, reading a bible, missal or book of hours, at any rate, something improving, worthwhile, and seemly. Her face is blank, bent modestly in prayer, or at best, lifted heavenward, whence she might locate divine guidance for her state, her sin, or her enlightenment, and we might glimpse the colour of her eyes.
Then there are the others, young women who have the temerity to enjoy reading. If young, the reader’s eyes are modestly lowered or to the side, rarely directly greeting the viewer. For a young woman reading to look directly into the eyes of the viewer would be too inflaming to male desires, too provocative by half, too presumptuous of a woman’s place in the hierarchy of expectations.
Women who read anything racy, modern or even, erm, suspect, are portrayed as loose, lazy, boneless, filled with the lassitude of immodest – and faintly improper – activities that a young woman should not be wasting her time with, frankly. Far better that she should wash the family’s laundry, visit paupers with nourishing meals and generally deploy her talents for the common good. Shocking, that she might actually be seen to smile! At most, a modest smile is allowed.
Older women, on the other hand, the older mothers and the post-menopausal matriarchs can do what the hell they like, and are quite freely painted full face, frank, and honest. It is one of the real blessings of growing older, (and, by implication surviving childbirth) that older women are freer of the conventions of good behaviour and submission.
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May 4, 2016
Another visit to Belgium
Fran Macilvey Memoir, The Rights & Wrongs of Writing 4 Comments
Another visit to Belgium
Hearing the news of my brothers relapse into cancer (http://hintjens.com/blog:116 ) my family have been gathering in Antwerp, at what was our father’s home and has now become a godsend, a meeting place in the heart of Belgium from which we trip to and fro.
It fills me with delight to see my brother smiling, so much so that I cannot help grinning back and chortling at his jokes. Sure, there is some nervousness beneath the good humour. I want so much to soothe away his worries and reassure him that all will be well, but I can’t do that, so anxiety is never far away. Yet, I love Pieter’s company. And I am able to witness, to share and to be, peacefully, as he asks, though I cannot help wondering, sometimes, which planet I am on today.
Spring is a beautiful, awakening season: The lime-green leaves newly spreading along tree branches, the blossoming buds ripe with promise, the bright, warm sunshine gilding the world with an intoxicating yellow glow, which felt particularly poignant as we walked through mature hospital grounds to and from visits. This is the season of awakening and hope and relaxation. We helped my brother home from the hospital, and it was delightful to be part of that sharing. We returned to his home, where he hopes to live in peace.
Filled with a new determination to enjoy every moment and to act strongly, I resolve again not to waste another second worrying, or fretting about what I might think I need or want. I resolve to take risks for what I hope is the best, most honourable course (which may not always be the easiest) to reach for the stars and hope that one day, my truest, most loving intentions will bear fruit.
Having spent decades sitting and watching from the side-lines, now I shall act fearlessly, in the certain knowledge that whatever happens, I have the comfort of knowing I did my best, instead of simply watching and waiting for the hammer to fall.
With love, and thanks for reading.
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