Growing up, I always wished that my mother was a poet. I wanted her to write poems about me and my antics. Instead, she read me a lot of poetry. This was the beginning of my life-long (well, so far anyway, it might change when I am 42 or sometime) dream of being someone's muse. A woman of soft smiles and voluptuous inspirations. Draped in yards of opaque fabric, lying on a granite slab, lighting up an artist's canvas.
Something like the exhibit I went to yesterday. "loving jayne" is a series of photographs by my cousin-by-marriage Jed Wells. Jayne, as you would suspect, is his wife (my adorable cousin.) All of his portraits pay homage to her as a light bearer--a feminine subject of inspiration. My favorite photograph, "Jayne as a Madonna" features Jayne with their two children-- one on her lap the other at her side--a subtle smile and a wisp of a halo behind her head. It was perfect. Exactly what I wanted it to be.
I couldn't keep my eyes off most of them. I wanted to see every spot on every frame. Chup had to entice me with a El Aztec burrito to get me away.
I thought all night about the photographs. The tradition of muses. Madonna, Rosetti, Marilyn Monroe. In my mind, Jed successfully represented the beauty of his relationships--husband-wife, companion, friend, lover, adorer-- with Jayne, without compromising sacredness.
That is what art can do, remind us of the Divine in humanity.
So at 2:14am, when I couldn't sleep, I bought a ticket to Paris. Vance asked me to go as my fourteen-year-old nephew is dying to see the Louvre and requested a tour by his Auntie. Perhaps I can inspire him to become a Jed, a Vermeer, a Manet one who uses light to paint Light. In my own little way, I'd like to think that is being a muse...of sorts.
If you live in Provo:
b.f. larsen gallery
harris fine arts center