Camille Claudel lived the last thirty years of her
life in an asylum, wondering why, writing letters
to her brother the poet, who had signed the
papers. Come visit me, she says. Remember, I
am living here with madwomen; days are long.
She did not smoke or stroll. She refused to
sculpt. Although they gave her sleep stones—
marble and granite and porphyry—she broke
them, then collected the pieces and buried these
outside the walls at night. Night was when her
hands grew, huger and huger until in the photo-
graph they are like two parts of someone else
loaded onto her knees.
: anne carson, ‘on sleep stones’/ short talks; plainwater
Geen opmerkingen:
Een reactie posten