One of my favorite paintings in the world is in one of my
favorite places in the world: the Uffizi
Gallery in Florence. The painting in
question is in the room with Botticelli’s famous “Primavera” and “The Birth of
Venus”. Those two paintings are so
popular that the room is always packed with people - even those who have no deep interest in art. I remember my second visit to the Uffizi – I
was traveling alone so I had been spending as much time as possible in museums
and churches, soaking up art to my heart’s content. There was no one to beg me
to leave, but also no one to share my experiences with.
Every time I turned from a piece of art, excited to see it again, my only companion was my notebook - that trusty shield that protects all solitary travelers. However, as long as I had the paintings, I
could be content. But on this day I couldn’t get near enough to see because of
a tour group that flocked together in front of the naked Venus clothed only in
her blonde hair. They made me more than
a bit cranky so I sat on a bench to wait them out. This is usually an easy thing to do since most people look at art for so short a time.
I sat there feeling - I confess this freely - smug and superior to these "check it off my list" type of tourists.
On this
day, that wait was fortuitous because I had to make do with gazing at the other
Botticelli paintings in the room – no less beautiful – but much less
famous. Perhaps because they are subtler,
they take longer contemplation. One in
particular caught my eye. Titled “Madonna of the Pomegranate,” what drew my
attention was the expression on the Madonna’s face. Usually Mary is depicted with a sweet,
pensive look or even a bit of sadness – as if she were well aware of the end of
her story. But this Mary, instead of
gazing joyfully or lovingly at the heavy baby clasped in her arms, looked downright
bored. And why was she holding a
pomegranate? It made me remember my childhood
obsession with Greek and Roman myths, of Persephone and her ill-fated bite of
the pomegranate that kept her half the year in Hades. It made me curious enough
to find out that in Christian iconography the pomegranate is a symbol of
resurrection and eternal life (Symbols in Christian Art & Architecture
http://www.planetgast.net/symbols/). In light of that, her expression is even more
intriguing. Forgetting my own loneliness, I sat there a long time. Just what
was Mary thinking?
Madonna of the Pomegranate
- A painting by Sandro Botticelli in the Uffizi Gallery, Florence,
Italy
I have waited here for centuries,
clasping this heavy infant in my
lap,
beset by the whispers of angels –
always words of
praise and adoration,
alleluia and Ave Maria.
Glory becomes tedious.
Sometimes I think the child
teases me holding
a pomegranate in his hand,
its ripe skin split to reveal its
seeds –
glistening rosary beads
which tempt me
to seize something for myself.
Visitors no longer notice me,
never puzzle the meaning
of the strange fruit
my son carries.
They would much rather exult
in the riot of Spring,
the brilliance of Venus.
I long to shake off these stiff
robes,
clothe myself in waves,
strew my hair with roses and
dianthus.
I’d like to sink my teeth deep
into the pomegranate,
roll the seeds across my tongue,
be-rouge my lips with juice.
To relieve my monotony,
I’d relish anything,
even welcome
the revelation of fear.
How lucky was Persephone!
(Poem originally published in my chapbook, In the Poem an Ocean, Big Table Publishing Co. 2012)
My first - and for many years only visit - to Westminster Abbey was in 1987. I was a young and starry eyed English major who had studied all the classic writers of English and American literature. I was also a sometime writer who considered myself more of a scribbler than anything else. Perhaps I was just afraid to hope for more than that -- after all, none of my teachers or professors had ever encouraged me to take my writing seriously. So when I walked through Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey, I was awed by the graves and memorials of some of the most celebrated writers of England: Shakespeare of course, but also Byron, Robert Browning, Chaucer and many others. 
I had such fond memories of that first visit that when after 25 years I returned to London a few weeks ago, I was excited to revisit Poet's Corner once more. I could not have been more surprised by my reaction -- anger and disappointment. Everywhere I looked, I saw names of male writers. Where were the women? Of course, there were the paltry few: Elizabeth Barrett Browning's name stuck like an afterthought at the bottom of the memorial to her husband and an admittedly good-sized memorial to Mary Anne Evans who we all know as George Eliot. Also, after much searching, I found a tiny plaque with Jane Austen's name almost completely overshadowed by the huge monuments to men that surrounded her. 
I was not allowed to take photographs among the graves of Westminster Abbey so all I have are my notes about my visit. How appropriate that I wrote those notes in a notebook with a reproduction of the cover of Virginia Wolfe's famous essay, "A Room of One's Own." I bought that notebook after having attended the summer writer's retreat sponsored by A Room of Her Own Foundation -- an incredible organization dedicated to nurturing women writers. Virginia's essay describes what life would have been like for Shakespeare's sister if she had wanted to write. Instead of flourishing like her brother, she would have had to fight for every ounce of artistic expression she could manage. Wolfe passionately argues for the right of all women to have a "room", a place of their own where they can create the lives they want instead of those dictated to them by a society that sees them as less worthy than men.
Today I received my awards from the Bay Area Poets
Coalition contest as well had the opportunity to read my poems to a
wonderful audience. There was even a small cash prize!
On this
day, that wait was fortuitous because I had to make do with gazing at the other
Botticelli paintings in the room – no less beautiful – but much less
famous. Perhaps because they are subtler,
they take longer contemplation. One in
particular caught my eye. Titled “Madonna of the Pomegranate,” what drew my
attention was the expression on the Madonna’s face. Usually Mary is depicted with a sweet,
pensive look or even a bit of sadness – as if she were well aware of the end of
her story. But this Mary, instead of
gazing joyfully or lovingly at the heavy baby clasped in her arms, looked downright
bored. And why was she holding a
pomegranate? It made me remember my childhood
obsession with Greek and Roman myths, of Persephone and her ill-fated bite of
the pomegranate that kept her half the year in Hades. It made me curious enough
to find out that in Christian iconography the pomegranate is a symbol of
resurrection and eternal life (Symbols in Christian Art & Architecture http://www.planetgast.net/symbols/). In light of that, her expression is even more
intriguing. Forgetting my own loneliness, I sat there a long time. Just what
was Mary thinking? 
Those who know me also know how much I love to travel. In fact, it's
become rather an obsession for me. Like all of my family, I love taking
photographs to record those trips. Recently, I have become aware of my predilection for taking photographs of groups of people going about their lives totally unaware of my presence behind them.
There is something I find so provocative about watching these people
interacting with each other. I can only imagine what they say to each
other, but I love the fact that I can record a snippet of their
relationships with each other. So I have images of school children
drawing on the museum floor in Bilbao, Spain.
