The Woman on the Island and the Woman at the Diner, by Jean L. Kreiling

A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, by Georges Seurat (France) 1884

The Woman on the Island and the Woman at the Diner
 
Although La Grande Jatte shimmers in the sun,
one woman stands in shadow, tense and wary 
This Sunday walk’s unsettling; if undone
by innuendo, she may never marry.
The woman in New York sits in harsh light
that carves her face and neck in gaunt relief,
but darkness lurks behind her: inky night
might be the shadow of impending grief.
These women stir our curiosity,
the artists’ palettes colouring our urge
to make up stories, as if we could see
lives off the canvas. Theirs and ours may merge
as we interpret worlds the artists made
and contemplate the secrets half-betrayed.
 
Our own secrets are also half-betrayed
as we imagine two biographies.
As if I am the woman in the shade,
I burden her with my uncertainties.
Has she arranged her hair beneath her hat
with due discretion? Is her back as straight
as is required of an aristocrat?
Is she sufficiently poised and sedate?
Or I sit in the diner and suppose
the woman’s loose red hair means confidence,
her forward slouch and painted lips expose
her boldness. I can’t cite much evidence
for my assumptions—these women don’t speak--
but there are hints in each painter’s technique.
 
We read a painter’s hints in his technique.
Throughout the canvas filled with Seurat’s dots,
which render faces oddly vague, we peek
at unknowable characters in plots
that never intersect. Each face looks down
or blankly forward—their expressions bland--
not toward another. Every bustled gown
and drab suit on this crowded strip of land
disguises one more stranger. Though less proper,
the New York figures also make a show
of cool reserve; with longer brush strokes, Hopper
drew hawkish faces—but it’s hard to know
if what’s so frankly lit is misery,
a jaded sort of pleasure, or ennui.
 
I’d guess it’s with less pleasure than ennui
that each woman regards the man beside her--
both silent, smoking. Neither seems to be
the woman’s lover, one who’s satisfied her.
The man in France is top-hatted and tall;
his presence renders her more dignified
and decent, so she grips her parasol,
stares straight ahead, walks mutely at his side.
The man in New York, close enough to hold
the woman’s hand, does not; they’re both restrained
by mirthless poise. Companionship looks cold
in both these scenes; no warmth is even feigned.
I’ve known such men: vacant, if debonair;
of course these women train their eyes elsewhere.
 
I see what they see, as they look elsewhere.
With one I see more hats, more bustled skirts,
a river, trees, and people who might stare
if she takes one wrong step.  Her stiff neck hurts,
but posture might just help her pass inspection.
The woman in the diner doesn’t look
at her surroundings; she makes no connection
with either seated man or with the cook
in his white cap in front of her. Instead,
she stares at what might be the check; it’s nearly
invisible before the dazzling red
of her slim dress (no bustle here).  Not merely
considering the bill, she seems to weigh
some other costs. What does each woman pay?
 
The place and time dictate what each will pay
for happiness, respectability,
or what else she might seek. But what if they
switched places? Could the bustled woman be
emancipated by a bright red dress,
the diner’s sharper contours, and late-night
autonomy? And would the blurriness
of dots, the long skirts, and the island light
disclose some softness in the other’s being?
It seems more likely both would be aghast,
the change of scene disturbing more than freeing.
Each woman was in fact perfectly cast,
essential to each painting; to confuse
the two lives disrespects these painted views.
 
These women are more than these painted views--
this park or diner, staid or daring dress,
and dull companions. With these well-drawn clues
that give breath to lives long since gone, we guess
about the blanks paint hasn’t filled. But though
I almost smell the fresh green grass in France
and urn-stale coffee in New York, I know
I may have misread every circumstance.
And yet I’ve met these women. One is shy,
the other bitter; each of them will keep
her secrets, braving what she can’t defy;
and both will sleep alone tonight and weep--
although the diner’s food suits everyone,
although La Grande Jatte shimmers in the sun.

Jean L. Kreiling
​
Jean L. Kreiling is the author of three books of poems; another is forthcoming soon from Able Muse Press. Her work has been awarded the Kim Bridgford Memorial Sonnet Prize, the Rhina Espaillat Poetry Prize, the Frost Farm Prize, and the Able Muse Write Prize, among other honours; she lives on the coast of Massachusetts.

Nighthawks, by Edward Hopper (USA) 1942