To the Milkmaid of Popindrecht
Location
You stand before Julian Alden Weir
He taught you to pose
He and his brothers each took their turn
Hunched over canvas in the dim farmhouse
Thin brushes touch upon your features
Weight shifted to one clog-clad foot
All in blue
Golden springs on your head
A hand on your hip
The other clutches a pitcher
You stare at nothing in particular.
The eyes haven’t a clear focus
You aren’t very tall
The wimple on your head looks more like a jacket, hastily draped
It hardly looks natural
And yet you judge me
Your stance
Your eyes
Your thin salmon lips and the beehive-adorned blue blazer bonnet
Cobweb-strewn copper jugs at your feet in the evening grass
It all suggests a kind of satisfaction
The work is dull but
You’ve earned your golden beehives.
The right to look both ways and know that you have something Weir lacked
As his brushes drag across the canvas
Telling the story he thinks you have to tell
That no one is going to get by looking at you.
Milkmaid of the sky-blue frock and heedlessly placed milk jugs,
You tolerate the artist for his shilling.
(based on a painting of the same name)