Louise Bourgeois, artist, December 25, 1911 – May 31, 2010
"She continued creating art until her death."
(Pia Catton)

"My childhood never lost its magic, never lost its mystery, and never lost its drama." ~Louise Bourgeois

"An artist can show things that other people are terrified of expressing."~Louise Bourgeois

Rest In Peace, Madame Bourgeois, but may it be your kind of Peace.


She bought a new dress today, something simple, yet elegant;
it took her 3 hours to find what she was looking for.
It still doesn't really reflect her personality, but does anything, ever?
She wonders if she should wear it around him,
or not.
She can never tell what he thinks of her.
He gives nothing away.
Then again, do they, ever?

She has never been courted the way the older folk speak of,
those dawn-kissed days when a young man called upon a lady.
She can picture it in the cinema of her mind;
he would ask her, "would you accompany me on Friday evening? I am inclined to seafood and white wine, and afterwards, the theater"
She would reply "why that would be lovely"
He would say "wonderful, I will pick you up at 7"
When Friday comes, he will arrive at 6:55, and he will not forget, or make other plans, or decide to work late, because she is the person he is thinking of.
She is the one he is looking forward to talking with, lamenting with, laughing with.
He will open the door for her, just to show her he thinks she is a lady.
And she will blush at his handsomeness,
and he will admire how lovely she looks in her lacy dress.
For the rest of the evening they will speak only to one another, caught up in solving the world's problems, in solving each other's botherations, in conspiracies against the other patrons, in unbridled laughter.
He will tell of his grand adventures and frightening ordeals, and he will listen with rapt attention when she tells of hers.
She will delight in his myriad shining talents and accomplishments, and he will goad her into telling hers.
They will stretch the evening into the night, after all the Greek diner is open for breakfast in the wee hours.
He speaks of his friends, how silly they are, and how much they are going to like her.
She will not be conscious of her fading beauty, her face lined with laughter and fatigue, make-up undone, and neither will he.
He will not notice the voluptuous waitress who blatantly snubs her and vies for his attention, and neither will she.
She will not notice the exquisitely lovely man three booths over who seems to find her very interesting, and neither will he.
When they can no longer hold open their eyes, they resign to the night, to their humanness, it is time for sleep.
And she will dream of him, and he will dream of her, and neither of another, and they will each know, and no longer wonder if they will ever find the other.

When the credits roll she is not sure if she feels more hopeful, or less.
It is not an extravagant dream.
She is sure that it has happened before, and it will happen again.
Just, perhaps, not for her, not in this lifetime.
So she picks up her pen again, and opens her notebook.
Not many pages left, time to buy a new one.
Something elegant, yet useful.

Something that will reflect her personality this time.

~M. Black                                            Photo: Bertille Black