Glow in the Dark
There were no
women artists
not before Kora of Sicyon,
who cherished, like a precious thing,
the shadow of her lover drawn on a wall
more than 2600 years ago.
Not before Timarete, the daughter of Micon,
painted Diana’s portrait in Ephesus.
Not before Irene, Calypso,
Aristarete, or Lalla of Cyzicus.
Not before Hildegard of Bingen
painted with honesty
about motherhood
859 years ago.
Not before Ende, Guda, or Claricia
illustrated manuscripts,
or Marietta Barovier and Elena de Laudo
painted stained glass in Venice.
Not before Lavinia Fontana
earned her living from painting,
even from her nudes,
nor before Sofonisba Anguissola
became famous
for painting the nobility
without being
the daughter of an artist,
like Virginia Vezzi
and many others.
not until scholars of Vouet and Blanchard
realized, only a few years ago,
that the author of Danaë
was not some brilliant man,
but—surprise!—Vezzi herself.
it only took them
four centuries.
Susanna’s despair
and resistance
before the lecherous elders
wouldn’t have screamed
through her gestures
and her gaze
had Artemisia Gentileschi
not sketched the biblical scene
of bathing in the garden
from the perspective of a woman—
frightened, contorted, blackmailed
with accusations of adultery,
not of the thirsty voyeur’s.
It took art historians years to accept
that this is the reason why —
the painting was not by Orazio,
but, surprise!—by his daughter,
who was not spared
by any misfortune of her century.
That is,
today
you wouldn’t be tortured during
interrogation.
The shame wouldn’t be wiped away
by marrying your aggressor
to silence the world.
Perhaps he wouldn’t refuse
to take you as his wife.
Or the transaction wouldn’t be
a matter between your disgraced father
and your potential husband-aggressor.
in 27 years of life,
many of us wouldn’t be able,
like Elisabetta Sirani,
to support a family through painting,
to found the first art academy for women
outside the convents,
to cultivate oneself
and rewrite
the story of Timoclea of Thebes,
a marginal figure in the biography of
Alexander the Great,
told by Plutarch—
a tertiary character
casually assaulted.
Elisabetta’s Timoclea
lures her aggressor,
a Thracian captain in Alexander’s army:
“Come with me; I’ll show you
where I’ve hidden
my money and jewels,”
and shoves him into a well.
Oops.
Who’s the captain now?
and maybe she wouldn’t
have done so much
in 27 years
without the patronage of
Ginevra Cantofoli.
It’s good to have around you
at the right time
sister artists,
20 years your senior.
If Giovanna Garzoni
had limited herself
to the splendor of embroideries
or calligraphy,
she would’ve died in obscurity,
like a mere artisan
decorating cushions.
But her still lifes
saved her—
naturalistic studies from life,
an androgynous self-portrait,
as Apollo.
Just kidding,
she still died in obscurity.
You could be a child prodigy
like Anna Waser,
support your whole family
through illustrations,
landscapes, calligraphy,
paint for royal courts
like Anna or Rosalba Carriera,
illustrate the baroque music concerts
from the taverns
like Judith Leyster,
write the first manual on oil painting
like Mary Beale,
or completely reinvent
the genre of historical painting
like Angelica Kauffmann.
you could spend years
on expeditions
to other continents,
study and draw
nature in Suriname
like Maria Sibylla Merian.
Degas might even invite you
to exhibit with the Impressionists
like he invited Mary Cassatt.
Rest assured,
you’d still die in obscurity.
You could have joined them
from their first group show
like Berthe Morisot,
work from the age of ten,
be a waitress, a nanny,
a circus acrobat,
a model for Renoir
and Lautrec,
rise above
your condition by drawing,
painting nudes,
have Degas buy your works,
become the first woman admitted
to the Société Nationale
des Beaux-Arts.
yet today, in the museum,
you’d still appear as a model,
dancing
in a Renoir painting,
like Suzanne Valadon.
you could wear a man’s suit,
make thousands of sketches
at animal fairs,
paint them monumentally,
take your own future by the horns,
like Rosa Bonheur.
You could support your family
by painting portraits
at 22,
like Therese Schwartze.
You could invent abstract painting
like Hilma af Klint in 1907—
yes, sweetie, Kandinsky was late
to the party
by six years.
but our respectable
art historians forgave him.
you could have won all
the art competitions in Japan
since you were 15,
like Shoen Uemura.
you could have made costumes
and assemblages
from recycled materials,
written dadaist poems,
like Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven.
You could have married a woman
and then realized you were one too,
you could have painted landscapes
and luxurious interiors,
only to die trying
to become a real woman
in the eyes of doctors and the world,
like Lili Elbe.
Dear sister, what have you done?
to Wegener,
you already were one,
and what a woman!
Gerda's inspiration
for all the codes of femininity
explored in her paintings,
you were the fascination
and love of her life.
you could have delved deep
into the Afro-American heritage,
struggled to untangle your roots,
studied,
shattered racial barriers,
like Elizabeth Catlett.
You could reject gender norms,
shave your head,
change your surname,
redefine your identity endlessly through
self-portrait photography
before Sherman,
and rewrite the story of Delilah,
Helen of Troy,
Judith,
Cinderella,
Sappho.
you could publish with the surrealists,
risk your life distributing anti-Nazi leaflets
to German soldiers,
like Lucy Schwob,
or rather, Claude Cahun.
You could have introduced
African tribal art
to Parisian galleries,
like Loïs Mailou Jones.
you could have
shown the human tragedy
of motherhood,
the lives of mothers
who lose their children
in their arms,
break everyone's hearts
mercilessly,
with splendid,
overwhelming,
brutal,
raw drawings.
you could also lose
your child in the war
later in your life,
like in Käthe Kollwitz’s prophecy.
you could have advocated
for an androgyny of the spirit,
as a necessary condition
for art,
and ordered your tea
in a fur-lined cup,
like Meret Oppenheim.
You could have painted surrealist, alchemical,
psychoanalytic works your entire life,
while fleeing poverty,
war, and Nazis,
from one continent to another,
like Remedios Varo.
You could have done choreography,
sculpture,
photography,
costume design,
besides surrealist painting,
like Rosa Rolanda.
You could have
lived eccentrically,
always in a new disguise,
with 23 cats
and many male and female lovers,
painted sphinx-women,
impossible to train,
to dominate,
to tame,
like Leonor Fini.
They could have canceled
your admission to Fontainebleau
because you forgot to mention
you weren't white.
You could have founded
the Community Art Center
in Harlem
and the first gallery dedicated
to African-American artists,
like Augusta Savage.
You could have picked cotton by day
on the Melrose plantation,
and painted only at night,
like Clementine Hunter.
You could have reconciled
matter and space,
like Barbara Hepworth
in her sculptures.
You could have shown
how the world and science work,
how much beauty can exist
in the banality of urban daily life,
built bridges between Paris and New York,
like Berenice Abbott.
You could have been orphaned at nine,
falsely accused
of poisoning your classmates,
dragged into a field and beaten,
and still become
the favorite sculptor
of abolitionists,
like Edmonia Lewis.
You could have become the first graduate
of the art department
at Howard University.
You could have rejected the boundaries
between abstract expressionism
and figuration,
like Elaine de Kooning.
You could have descended into
the basements of mourning,
like Lee Krasner.
You could have been among
the queens of abstract expressionism,
celebrated by critics,
the first American woman
to have a solo exhibition
at the Museum of Modern Art in Paris,
like Joan Mitchell.
And still, you’d die in Pollock's shadow,
like our dear Janet Sobel,
who, surprise, surprise,
invented dripping in 1938.
But isn't it
much more romantic to imagine
that it was discovered by a genius,
alcoholic and violent,
in a manic struggle with himself
in his chaotic studio,
and not by an Ukrainian immigrant
without art studies
in her tiny Brooklyn apartment
with a pipette and a vacuum cleaner?
Peggy Guggenheim
could have noticed you
and given you your own solo show
at *Art of This Century,*
and even Greenberg
could have admitted
that he admired your works alongside Pollock's,
that Pollock was influenced by you,
but these convenient little secrets
remain in the footnotes
of history.
You could have entered Beaux-Arts
and painted with rare maturity
at 16,
like Amrita Sher-Gil.
You could have been
your own hidden camera,
the diaphragm that appears
totally unexpectedly,
without anyone’s consent,
in your own life,
your own tragedies,
your own weaknesses and dependencies,
like Nan Goldin.
you could have
painted the human body
in all its authentic grotesqueness,
like Alice Neel.
You could have merged with the earth,
with exile and death,
gone beyond land art
and body art,
shown the indifference of passersby
to blood,
to violence,
you could get drunk
and argue with your husband,
and fall—what irony—
from the 34th floor,
screaming
NOOOOO
after scratching his face really well,
but there were no witnesses,
no sufficient evidence,
and so,
all the gallerists supported
Carl Andre,
the museums celebrated him
in retrospectives,
and this is how an artist's life
ends at 36,
as in the case of
Ana Mendieta.
controversies come and go
in the art world,
but Andre knows what truth
he took to his grave at 89.
you could have played with
our eyes and minds,
like Bridget Riley.
You could have photographed,
with delicate curiosity and fascination,
all the outcasts,
the misunderstood,
the marginals of society,
like Diane Arbus.
You could have transformed art
into a serious game,
like Geta Brătescu.
You could have become
the first British woman
of color
to have a work
in the Tate collection,
like Sonia Boyce.
You could have examined
celebrity,
power,
beauty,
porcelain skin,
like Anette Bezor.
You could have immersed yourself
in the avant-garde,
Chagallian
light and magic,
forests,
gardens,
archetypes,
villages,
in Romania,
exhibited textile collages in Paris
in the ’60s,
like Margareta Sterian.
You could have reduced
the human figure
to its essence,
like Wanda Sachelarie Vladimirescu.
you could have
combined Fauvism
with social satire,
like Lucia Dem. Bălăcescu,
revolved around Brancusi
and Giacometti,
shown with the independents,
painted the carnival of life,
like Magdalena Rădulescu,
created archives
and kaleidoscopic carpets
of images,
like Zofia Kulik.
imagined new museums
of photography,
like Dayanita Singh.
at the end of the day,
we still glow
in the dark.
