Its temple stands, alway,

Photograph — Alex Waterhouse-Hayward

In one of my first gallery shows in Vancouver I shared the space (the Threshold Gallery, now long gone) with two other photographers. It was a show that featured women with nothing on. My show was called Homebodies. I photographed 13 women, separately doing something that they usually did at home but undraped.

This show was in the early 90s and feminism seemed to have a different approach then as to how men approached the female form.

A tradition in Vancouver galleries is a book in which gallery goers can give their opinions. The other photographers suffered criticism for fracturing the female form into parts and not showing their faces.

I received a glowing comment, “Thank you for the faces!”

Every once in a while when I have a blog missing and my brain isn’t working full time (as in now) I look for photographs that might inspire me to write. When I saw this one I knew I had to crop it. It is not only faces that we cannot show now but then there are all those parts that in some way objectify the human (particularly the female human) and is entirely verboten.

And yet this cropped photograph has a luster of beauty and eros that remains even after all the offending parts have been removed.

The Body grows outside, -

The more convenient way,-

That if the spririt like to hide,

Its temple stands,always,

Ajar,secure, inviting,

It neverdid betray

The soul that asked its shelter

In timid honesty.

Emily Dickinson

More Emily Dickinson

The Woman in white

Her Grace is not all she has

To know if any human eyes were near
Linda Melsted — the music of the violin does not emerge alone
The Charm invests her face
A sepal, a petal and a thorn
The Savior must have been a docile Gentleman
T were blessed to have seen
There is no frigate like a book
I pay in satin cash

Emily Dickinson’s White Dress & a Hunter of Lost Souls

El vestido blanco — The White Dress

Water makes many beds

The viola da gamba

But sequence ravelled out of reach

A parasol is the umbrella’s daughter

Without the power to die

Lessons on the piny

Ample make this bed

How happy is the little stone

Sleep is supposed to be

The shutting of the eye
 I dwell in possibility
when Sappho was a living girl
 In a library
 A light exists in spring
 The lady dare not lift her veil
 I took my power in my hand
 I find my feet have further goals
 I cannot dance upon my toes
 The Music of the Violin does not emerge alone
 Red Blaze
 He touched me, so I live to know
 Rear Window- The Entering Takes Away
 Said Death to Passion
 We Wear the Mask That Grins And Lies
 It was not death for I stood alone
The Music in the Violin Does Not Emerge Alone
I tend my flowers for thee
Lavinia Norcross Dickinson
Pray gather me anemone! 
Ample make her bed 
His caravan of red 
Me-come! My dazzled face 
Develops pearl and weed
But peers beyond her mesh
Surgeons must be very careful
Water is taught by thirst
I could not prove that years had feet
April played her fiddle
A violin in Baize replaced
I think the longest hour
The spirit lasts

Link to: Its temple stands,alway,

Originally published at