Gallery Musing

         You would expect a big to-do about something this famous, even so many years after its initial rejection, when the full force of a woman’s cryptic glance was more heinous than any woman herself. But here stand only a few people, in typical gallery form; one hip thrown out to support a body exhausted from long hours of winding staircases and contemplative silence, arms folded, engaged in a heated battle to pierce through the aged canvas and navigate the calm ambiguity of the eyes staring back. It would be much easier to report on an encounter with a movie star, a living, breathing rarity that might pose for a picture with more than deadly placid eyes and rigid form. It is simpler to claim a connection with someone you can hear and feel, to insist that you inner self, your soul, shares something with this poor person who probably just wants a cup of coffee. A canvas smeared and shaped with oils to display the shell of a young woman is not so accessible, although she probably could have used a cup of coffee, too. Or an espresso, more appropriately. She sat down one day, a young wife, dressed in all her finery for a portrait. Suddenly, with the turn of a shoulder, one change of an angle, she was transformed. Instant scandal as she rested a velveteen elbow upon the arm of a chair. Against a stark white wall, addressed only by a small placard and centuries of expectations, millions look to those eyes. They test themselves to find the true nature of her constant and unrelenting gaze. Others focus on the hint of bemusement that twists up the corners of her mouth, not into a true expression, but rather an impression that lingers to heighten the mystery. Certainly the darling muse’s husband felt differently when he looked upon the not-yet masterpiece. The critics of the time, shocked one and all, must have seen a defiant twist in her lips, the hardness in her eyes daring them not to look away, though they did in chastising the blasphemous creation. And what did Lisa see, one of only two who could see the portrait behind the pretense? Did she intend her bold stand against convention, or foresee the great she would leave us each to solve while she looked on, unmoved and unmoving? More likely, she saw only what could be seen; how her dress looked, or how well he had captured her hair.