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. 

Nu l-am mai văzut

nu l-am mai văzut niciodată pe tata

slab, vlăguit, neputincios

n-a avut niciodată nevoie de cuvintele mele

de încurajările mele de copilă

care n-a trăit ce-a trăit el în aproape un secol

îi spuneam

o să fie bine, virusul a trecut,

astea sunt doar reminiscențe,

efecte secundare

ale tratamentului

schema de tratament a fost dură

dar te pui

pe picioare

ce-a fost mai greu a trecut,

îi spuneam ecranului

să fie puternic

mă privea absent, prin mine, nici eu nu

credeam ce spun, apoi închidea,

nu mai avea forță să stea

în capul oaselor

era convins

că un sughiț compulsiv o să-l omoare.

când l-au dus

la urgențe în perfuzii

mama i-a pus telefonul în față și a zis

ia-ți la revedere de la tata

cu toate somniferele

m-a bușit un plâns

la trei dimineața,

am fugit la bucătărie de parcă

îmi venea să vomit.

m-aș fi urcat în primul avion

dar mă aștepta carantina.

---

I’ve Never Seen

I've never seen my dad

weak, indefensible, powerless

never needed my words

the reassurance

of a little girl who never saw what he lived in almost a century

I told him

it'll be all right, the virus has passed,

these are just reminiscences

side effects

of the treatment

The treatment regimen was harsh.

but you're getting

on your feet

the hardest part is over,

I was telling the screen

to be strong

he looked at me absently, right through me, even I didn’t

believe what I was saying, then he hung up,

he didn't have the strength to stay seated

he was convinced

that an compulsive hiccup would kill him.

When they took him away

to the E.R. to put him on IV

my mother put the phone in his face and said

say good-bye to your father.

With all the sleeping pills

I burst into tears

at three in the morning,

I ran to the kitchen like

I wanted to throw up.

I would have gotten on the first plane

but quarantine was waiting.

Vertebre

am rotule-nverzite-nspre nord

clavicule-nflorite-nspre sud

am o fosă temporală

care nu mai cerșește

nici un dram de atenție

pe vremuri aceste vertebre cervicale

se întindeau sperând

la tandrețe fără bătrânețe

și dor fără de moarte

iar ghimpii aceștia

de pe spina ischiatică

mi-au apărut odată cu pubertatea

când am înțeles

că pelvisul ăsta îngust

nu-mi aparține

și nici nu-l pot oferi

colegei de bancă

unele certitudini te costă

zgârieturi pe simfiza pubiană

trasate-n fiecare joi

la cinci după-amiaza

ca-ntr-o mică închisoare secretă

ascunsă sub osul parietal.

---

Vertebrae

I've got kneecaps greening northwards

clavicles blooming southwards

I have a temporal fossa

no longer begging

for an ounce of attention

once upon a time these cervical vertebrae

stretched out yearning

for tenderness without old age

and longing without death

and these thorns

on the ischial spine

came to me with puberty

when I understood

that this narrow pelvis

doesn't belong to me

nor can I give it away

to my classmate

some certainties come with a price

like the scratches on your pubic symphysis

drawn every Thursday

at five in the afternoon

like a secret little prison

hidden under your parietal bone.

Orhidee

când plec de aici

o să-mi fie dor de locurile încărcate de istorii,

de lacuri și de grădini secrete

o să-mi fie dor

să mă plimb pe străzi pavate însorite

să privesc pictorii cărunți și deznădăjduiți

să-i observ pe cei din spate care mai trag doar

câteva linii în neștire, fără nicio miză,

așteptând sfârșitul zilei, sfârșitul vieții,

sfârșitul

lumii

acuareliști și portretiști înfrigurați,

ultimii inadaptați dintr-o generație plină de tandrețe,

fără internet sau apeluri la proiecte

și să mă-ntreb ce fel de artă fac

atunci când nu-i vede nimeni.

să-mi imaginez colinele din Montmartre

înainte de industrializare

când totul era, cât vezi cu ochii,

o vie,

o moară de vânt, o grădină cu orhidee,

când artistele încă nu pozau goale

pentru Henner sau Renoir,

înainte de a fi ele însele remarcate

și invitate să expună

alături de domni respectabili

când scuterele nu erau încă perfect aliniate

lângă trotuar

și nu spărgeau consecvent

liniștea serii

mintea omului chiar e o cursă de șoareci

suntem acasă peste tot și totuși nicăieri în lume

gonim după un bine suspendat

drept în centrul de greutate al planetei

orice loc ne e mai drag

decât cel în care ne naștem.

---

Orchids

when I leave

I'll miss places full of history,

lakes and secret gardens

I'll miss

walking the sunny cobblestone streets

looking at the gray-haired hopeless painters

and watch the ones in the back who are aimlessly, carelessly

drawing a few lines

waiting for the end of the day, the end of life,

the end

of the world

watercolorists and portrait painters in a frenzy,

the last misfits of a generation full of tenderness,

without internet or calls for projects

and wonder what kind of art they make

when no one sees them.

to imagine the hills of Montmartre

before the industrialization

when everything was as far as the eye could see,

a vineyard,

a windmill, an orchid garden,

when female artists didn't yet pose nude

for Henner or Renoir,

before they themselves were noticed

and invited to exhibit

alongside respectable gentlemen

when scooters were not yet perfectly aligned

next to the sidewalk

and were not consistently breaking

the stillness of the night

the human mind really is a rat race

we're at home everywhere and nowhere at the same time

we’re chasing a comfort

suspended right in the planet's gravity center

any place is more dear to us

than the one in which we were born.

Calota

se topesc cărările

viitorul meu

e o calotă glaciară în derivă

austrul dinspre vest mi-a dislocat

reziduurile nostalgice

de proporții

a măturat pe jos cu ele

cine mai știe cu ce m-am ales după toate astea

o viață de om

sintetizată-n câțiva ani

toate amprentele contează

chiar și cele care te modelează și mai apoi

te uită într-un colț al mesageriei

chiar și cele care se debarasează

de prezența ta incomodă

la prima fisură

într-o sâmbătă răcoroasă de aprilie

perfectă pentru o curățenie

de primăvară

nu-i sănătos să te agăți

de oameni

și mai cu seamă

dacă în viața ta

nu se întâmplă nimic

nu pot să-ți descriu ce bine e

când ne ignorăm reciproc

totuși când vine vorba de locuri

care devin ale tale

nu știu cum faci când revii

fără să te prăbușești

într-un malaxor al memoriei

ce vremuri bizare

acasă e în prea multe locuri

toate devin

zone minate,

de secetă și pericol afectiv

bagajul emoțional

l-am pus la cală

cu bună știință

c-ar fi trântit de toți pereții

și totuși

contrar așteptărilor

iată că-i totul

intact înăuntru.

---

Ice Cap

the paths are melting

my future

is a drifting ice cap

the austral wind displaced my

nostalgic residues

of proportions

sweeping the ground

who knows what would be in it for me

a whole existence

summarized in a few years

all fingerprints count

even the ones that shape you and then

forget you in a long list of conversations

even the ones that get rid

of your uncomfortable presence

at the first crack

on a chilly April Saturday

perfect for a spring cleaning

it's not healthy to cling

to people

and especially when

nothing seems to happen

in your own life

I can't describe how good it feels

when we ignore each other

and yet

when it comes to places

that become yours

I don't know

when you come back

how do you not fall

into a memory maelstrom

what a bizarre time to be

at home in too many places

they all become

minefields

of drought and affective danger

the emotional baggage

was sent in the hold

without ignoring

the wall slam scenario

and yet

against all odds

everything is

impeccable inside.