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From a rather shattering moment during my first trip to New York City. I was nearly fifty years old, starting over, again, but happy to be experiencing the city at last.
Early that Sunday morning in 2003, I took a bus up to Spanish Harlem, 126th St., and walked back to my hotel near Union Square on 14th.
Along Lexington Ave., I stopped before a ahop window. Three organza silk blouses of such delicate form and whispered color seemed to float, buoyed by the very beauty of their confection.
They made me ache with the knowing, the seeing, how wide the gap between me and those women who moved in worlds requiring such finery. I would never ever ever be that wealthy, thin, privileged.
Never, Ever, Ever.
Yet, no matter how piercing the realization, I also remembered that I was free in a way those women could never be. My writer's eye and painter's hand lent me a freedom that trumped penury. I've wanted to paint these apparitions, these dreams of chiffon perfection ever since.
On it, at last.
(The shop display area was dark brown. Brown is not the most exciting color, so will go with a deep plum. The blouses were see-through, so trying to keep some white to permit the colors to glow more brightly, while depicting the mannequins and walls. #Challenge)