Portrait of Daphne Belt by Christine Schaeken 2002
Having been press ganged (by my photographer daughter Jacqueline Rackham) to take the Queens shilling and start to serve yet another of this modern world of social media fads, I posted this photo on Instagram yesterday whilst still wearing my ‘L’ plates.
It is a quite striking portrait that was painted by my former next door neighbour and dear friend Christine Schaeken. She painted this in 2002 so I was a lot younger then and as you see was sporting violent red hair. I loved my hair that colour but the downside was, that being a triathlete and therefore spending at least five hours a week in a chlorinated swimming pool the colour was stripped out very quickly and it was impossible to keep the depth of colour. Strong colours are the weakest in pool water.
After Christine gave me the painting a couple of years later, when she had shown it many times and moved on with much more art work, my husband Steve and I walked it around out home before setting it up on a wall right by my desk where she feels like an honest friend but also my harshest critic. That is how the poem below came to be, because although it is a very modern work of art and you could pick at it if you wished and say “Oh Daf, your nose is not as long as that” or “You do your eyebrows differently”, it is none the less, what Christine saw, and I have to say that I am sure, (as sure as eggs are indeed eggs) that she saw deep into my soul as she worked. It is very much me: Right in your face, with plenty to say but also ready to listen and help in any way possible.
Portrait of My Soul
At first glance she dares you to look away,
then makes you think about what you will say
attention fixed ‘No nonsense please’ to convey.
Challenge.
Her bright red, dyed head of naturally curly hair,
a stop light helmet of protection to be aware
the falsehood misleadingly shouts; take care.
Guard.
The eyes lock firmly on to the viewers gaze,
time stills or ponders on some old yesterdays
sitters hazel eyes (now painted blue) appraise.
Think.
Wearing lenses coloured to the artist’s choice,
once garrulous woman now has a quietened voice
imprisoning frame holds one no more able to rejoice.
Restriction.
Concentration cannot unlock her from your face,
determined stalking rather than a heated race
Following the intruder around a limited space.
Control.
She silently takes in all within her placid sight,
dimming but still held still throughout the night
relentless no matter if movement be left or right.
Helpless.
The carefully painted eyes seem slowly to change,
a rainbow of emotions expressed within their range
to have been put there by a brush seems so strange.
Incredible.
Searching my mind whilst concentration stays in abstention,
a moment in time hovers forever in spiritual suspension
an invasion of my soul if this be skill by intention.
Fear.
An exploratory operation undertaken to find the cause,
to remove faults with scalpels, clamps and shiny saws
delicate remedial work cut, stitched, then held with gauze.
Fright.
I see myself clearly in my artist friend’s patient work.
The mouth reflects a secret humour too polite to smirk.
Neath the surface of her strokes, my inner truth shall lurk.
Secrets.
Please do put these dates for Littlehampton’s newest poetry venue in your diaries and on your calendars.
No comments:
Post a Comment