The mermaid sat on the beach singing and combing her hair with a melancholy smile. She watched fishermen bring home the catch, tears rolling down her cheeks in the knowledge she could not ever belong.
The nymphs and sirens were more proactive, albeit with a different agenda and the power to attract and to ruin, leaving rumours of sexism trailing in their wake along with long haired maidens in woods and Pandora, the queen of them all.
Yet Circe, though she may have poisoned the sea, was strong and wise, gave her man the information he needed. And Penelope was resilient and clever, deflecting her suitors to welcome home the same man. Not for them the innocence of Ariadne, betrayed in her sleep, spurned once her wisdom was used: already they are knee deep, as soon she will be too- along with Tristram and Isolde, mere seconds from plunging.
And Shalott, poor Shalott (and Ophelia before long), moments before death, one for sorrow on the bank behind. Cursed from the start for no rhyme or reason she could fathom, sick of her lot and seeing the world by reflection, she sought the man she desired and succumbed to death on the water leading to Camelot.
So much sadness, so much wisdom, power, arrogance, innocence, beauty. The women of the gallery, frozen in time and within a story, there for us to take in and wonder at their plights and to imagine, ponder, and sometimes, too often, sadden despite the warmth.
The nymphs and sirens were more proactive, albeit with a different agenda and the power to attract and to ruin, leaving rumours of sexism trailing in their wake along with long haired maidens in woods and Pandora, the queen of them all.
Yet Circe, though she may have poisoned the sea, was strong and wise, gave her man the information he needed. And Penelope was resilient and clever, deflecting her suitors to welcome home the same man. Not for them the innocence of Ariadne, betrayed in her sleep, spurned once her wisdom was used: already they are knee deep, as soon she will be too- along with Tristram and Isolde, mere seconds from plunging.
And Shalott, poor Shalott (and Ophelia before long), moments before death, one for sorrow on the bank behind. Cursed from the start for no rhyme or reason she could fathom, sick of her lot and seeing the world by reflection, she sought the man she desired and succumbed to death on the water leading to Camelot.
So much sadness, so much wisdom, power, arrogance, innocence, beauty. The women of the gallery, frozen in time and within a story, there for us to take in and wonder at their plights and to imagine, ponder, and sometimes, too often, sadden despite the warmth.
Note: As with the last 250 Words, this was inspired by an exhibition of John William Waterhouse paintings at the Royal Academy - in this case, I have linked to the paintings in question within the text itself (though I may not have remembered correctly throughout). It was very hot and overcrowded in the gallery that day, hence the last line.
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