Choosing a Self-Portrait, by Elaine Wilburt

Self-Portrait at the Allegory of Painting, by Artemisia Gentileschi (Italy) 1639

Choosing a Self-Portrait

I have so often thought
I’d like to be as elegant,
irresistible as Ingrid Bergman 
or Audrey Hepburn, as self-possessed
as Katharine, but I’ve never wondered 
which fine art beauty I would like to be.
 
Today with so much leisure . . .
Of course the puzzling Mona Lisa 
with her subtle smile I could find
an easy choice, though once when
in her court, a bald Swiss asked if 
I might make myself available 
each time he came to call in Paris,
on business,  
 
so maybe I should consider brave 
Judith in Caravaggio’s hands who
seems as young as I was then,
with such distaste, confusion,
empathy in her youthful eyes
while slicing off Holofernes’ head,
 
but now years later, I might prefer 
to bask in Vermeer’s clear light 
as a milkmaid intent
on her daily tasks, 
full of purpose, knowing
and giving simple pleasures, 
 
or to be caressed 
in Rembrandt’s chiaroscuro,
making my spirit 
glow, his warm gold 
acting as a perfecter 
like love in every portrait of Saskia, 
for the gentle shadows 
could soften all my faults, 
which seem so unyielding
to a woman of a certain age 
in daily need of concealer 
to blur what ifs and regret.
 
As I’ve always envied those
who move unconcerned how much
bikini-clad flesh wiggles,
should I seize 
self-confidence, be 
naked
at a picnic lunch in the park
or at a brothel in Avignon, 
a diamond of a woman
at once masked and unmasked, 
gazing 
straight
at you?
 
That might do for me 
what years of therapy have not:
 
I could stride forward 
in victory like Samothrace
in marble as supple as gauze,
grieve as ageless as Mary
in St. Peter’s cradling Christ 
in death as she had in birth, or 
worship Him in ecstasy 
as St. Theresa of Avila,  
my stone cheeks 
as luminous as skin,
 
but then 
I picture Caravaggio again
offering his scandalous view 
peering up the nostrils 
of a dead Virgin.
 
Another possibility to explore…
yes, I might prefer it
to the others, as it seems 
more like the me I know:
White Light by Jackson Pollock,
a melding mosaic with 
an order of its own emerges 
from paint thrown on the canvas 
like indistinct experiences 
building up 
inside our frame.
 
Perhaps after looking back,
I’d better settle on an allegory
of life as a self-portrait 
by Gentileschi, whose 
brow shines with effort and tresses 
tumble loose, and join her 
in preparing to paint today 
on an empty background
of earth.
 
Elaine Wilburt

Author's note: "As lockdown continues worldwide, some art lovers are creating parodies of famous works. They are entertaining themselves as well as sometimes their children and countless others by sharing their photos. After reading the article, I began to wonder which portrait I would like to be, and I wrote a poem instead."

Elaine Wilburt’s fiction and poems have appeared in The Cresset, Little Patuxent Review, Route 7 Review, Heart of Flesh and Thimble Literary Magazine, among others. She volunteers as a copy editor for Better Than Starbucks. A graduate of Middlebury College, she received a 2019 Creatrix Haiku Award and lives in Maryland with her husband and five children.