The Princess of Florence is what they called my sister,
born as she was in the town, although we carted her
everywhere.
An amateur by her sex, a maestro by her brush.
I take from her, my little Emily with the auburn hair and
the pointed nose. Not my Muse- I called her that once and
she poured salt instead of sugar in my tea.
We have learned to drink tea although we are Americans.
We paint like magicians, with light flashed on top of color.
Mr. Sargent, she called me, once I had my first
commission. If I became any more famous, she
threatened, she’d call me Sir.
Lake Garda in the summer, just as the sun rises we take
our easels to the shore. The mountains, our Cathedral, the
lake, our holy water.
There’s this blue, I told her, I’ve mixed it for you, and I
hand her back her palette. My sister throws a dollop of
black oil into the blue pool. See this, she tells me, that’s
the blue of this fine lake. No shallower, no deeper.
No woman I would ever paint, no Madame, no Lady,
would ever terrify me so.
35I gather my paints. I fold my easel. She works, still.
There’s a sailor I must meet and so I leave her to it.