Elsa Schiaparelii.
Those luxuriant drapes tell me without a doubt… that I’m…
by some osmosis …in Paris …in a soft lit room…
Of shadowy grace….
…I get a feel of old style space.. and smells of creamy paint
…and almost hear the distant sound of horns and human gait
down on the streets of Place Vendome
…an ancient place.
The woman sits..and there beyond I see
the cast iron balcony
And further still , set in the mists of time …
A phallus rises up erect in silhouette
It speaks Supremacy…Napoleonic wars..
…and looking down
The Hero’s perched upon the penis crown.
But back I come again from wars and those false prides
Into the room of light filled silk ..into a silent still..
And there she is…no frills..
…her legs are crossed , her dress is dark
Her cubed heeled shoes a-shine in leather black.
She wears a smart bowed kerchief round her neck..
Her face is polished skin with solid eyes, neat nose and softly lips
A smooth high brow and hair , neat as a pin
behind her ears
A Roman arm band on her wrist.
A sketch pad on her lap …she turns to look into the room.
Contained within her thoughts …
She’s captured by a camera
As Vermeer captured women with his brush.
Banished to a convent for her sensual poems..
She crossed the line… lived life as a bohemian…
…as the designer who put zips into a dress, split skirts.. created Pixie Hats
Devised the shoulder jacket and the wrap , and so much more than that
Her tour de force was cutting garments from one length of cloth.
She brought her clothes into the World of Art.
and did the Dali dance..unravelled with Mae West,
Giacometti , Cocteau and the rest..
Elsa Schiapareli was a Fashion Queen , 600 workers at her peak..
And yet she died alone , a bankrupt ..and unknown..
How does life go so wrong…and come to this ?
The photo cannot answer me
…or offer me those truths.
Kristine Byrne 25th Nov 2014.