Woman with Gardenia

by Pamela White Hadas

I.
Breda strikes another classic tricky pose
part dance part factious sway, a grace she's hired
to hold for half an hour, to dare us to
approximate with strokes of conté crayon
on cheap blank newsprint. The tilt of her torso's
third dimension (toward me) is hard to fake, as is
her elbow's angle from my eye-level, just below
the contrapostal jut of her hip. I get the bone
logic of the stance, but not her ease.

Her head is a halo of backlit red-gray hair
against framed daylight. I'm trying to be good,
and get the planes of her skull, her face, her
neck in line with what I imagine "Mabel,"
the skeleton in our life class closet, would
allow supportable. Despite the glare,
my eye keeps catching on one forbidden
detail: her body's naked, but there's a flower
tucked above Breda's right ear.

Novice that I am, I do know better
than start my drawing by drawing this
one uninherent outré item out
from curls of shadows equally flimsy, light-
weight, irrelevant to the discipline
of volumes in space, her deep-embodied
gesture, balance, basic planes, her body's
undecorated complexity. Her form is all that,
for the life of us, we need get right.

Scars, ankle chains, nipples, birthmarksall that
crude frosting, will never make your lousy cake
taste better. Don't draw the belly button before
the pelvic slant is set. And yet, by the light
that sneaks through Breda's dazzled frizz of hair,
I can see how her gardenia must be put
above mere distraction in the scheme of her
appearance today. I'll ask her, during our break,
how she ... why ... the gardenia?

Tick tock. Tick tock tick. No one would ever say
our Breda's easy, however willing she is
to lend her body's dignity to our haste
of scribbles, freak miscalculations, waste
and slack of effort. Breda shows no surprise
when, taking five, she sees all the boundlessly
plump, footless, headless, tipsy, versions of
the self she must have dreamed she was up there,
her gesture composed of greed and pride and love.
She shrugs. One could have done better.

III.

She strolls in a flowered robe toward the water fountain.
I follow her to say how much I like her gardenia.
She knew I'd noticed, and she is glad to tell how
this bloom was the first from a plant she managed to make
grow up from this tiny dead-looking slip tossed out
in the alley back of where she lives. Just look,
she says, at what comes of ... And to leave it in the dark
alone all day. . . . She thought she might wear it to work.
Her next pose tips toward me.

"Every mark you make," he shouts again,
"had better aspire to be specific. Don't
you dare go looking down expecting your own
mistaken mess to tell you if something goes
or not. Don't make a line that doesn't stress
your eyes' commitment to her body. How often
have I said this?: 'Sorta' ain't good enough!!" And then,
I have nothing but time to lose, and "sorta" want
this last pose, with that first one. . . .

As always, too few minutes left. But I begin,
despiteGod damn it!to draw what I want, Breda's
whole human body invisibly raising it.

No need to go below her neck for this.
The nose of my conte crayon turns on minute
sweet detailseyelash, wrinkle, mole, gardenia. . . .
How easy one growsthe breast-thick petal, a thigh-
solid leaf, well-turned; her crown, deep garden.
Time! I hand my drawing to Breda.
She hands me her gardenia.





Last updated December 19, 2022