The Bathers
"Permit me, M. Cezanne, to leave the picture.
I am Sylvie, on the far right. Something -- pipe smoke,
an old dream's deja-vu -- something caught your brushstroke
off guard. How else would my wraithlike caricature
rise from fishtail sweeps of green and hover half there?
I am no mermaid! The others at least are whole,
but I'm an apostrophe, a violin's scroll
on canvas. Ah! There's a thought! What note of despair
robbed me of arms? I do not belong to this love-
less outcrop. They would sink like stones, all these no-name
eternal women you call bathers. Nothing sirs.
A masterpieces, no? With my last blue breath, Monsieur,
I grant you your genius. Please grant my remove.
No one will miss me. I shall go as I came."
-- by Ellen Dudis, originally from Literary Imagination Vol. 9, 2007
Paul Cézanne might have never been confronted by such an odd, though perhaps justifiable from her (the fictional Sylvie's) point of view, query. The female bathers in this abstract master's paintings, as a favored theme for Cézanne, were seldom presented as individuals (even not so much in his small piece "The Three Bathers"), but pyramided as a whole to fit in Nature, exuding a pleasant and serene, rather than erotic, aura. “So Sylvie, you should be grateful to be part of it.” Or is it just your grudge against those who marginalized you? I know those actresses would fight for a most eye-catching position when posing for a cover group picture for Vanity Fair.
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Once one felt unfairly treated, she would immediately threaten to drop out. Old trick. You are no exception.
Sometimes, people just like a refreshing perspective, no matter whether it is a misreading or misleading one. This poem is a cute creation I should say. Very smart. But was there a prototype from Cézanne? I searched. In one online
gallery, I think I may have found some trace: in this version of "The Bathers" (1900-1905, National Gallery, London), a study version of "Les Grandes Baigneuses" I presume, we can see a limbless "wraith" as accused "on the far right" of the canvas. Now you are re-discovered, Sylvie, mysterious Sylvie. Don't leave your arena; don't suicide your art life. You know how such beauty of women was classically paraphrased in Chinese poetry? "She came, her face half hid behind a pipa still."