ARTMUSING POETRY
Miss La La at the Cirque Fernando
As I swung from the trapeze by my teeth, clung round coarse rope, sinews stretching and flexing, displaying my incredible strength, I listened to the oohs and aahs of the astonished crowd, the air heavy with popcorn and anticipation. Amidst the gasps and cheers, I felt a presence. A lingering gaze that cut —
through the dazzling chaos of the circus. As my body coiled and lengthened, twisted, and swirled, he followed me as I unfurled, again and again. His eyes tracked my every movement, never leaving, seeing. I noticed him, as he noticed me —
Degas. In that poised moment between ascent and descent, the world beneath me blurred into a mosaic of indistinct colors and shapes. All except for him. Degas, in full color, as he drew in his sketchbook, artistically expressing the essence of the show. I thought about the immortality he could afford me —
being captured in his painting at this moment, forever. With each move of my aerial performance, I hoped to sear my image into the canvas of his mind. The canvas of time.
My brown, brown skin, a canvas of its own, the untold story of la femme canon, Black Venus, a mixed-race acrobatic star! Would he truly paint my image for everyone to see —
