suzanne valadon was a painter; henri toulouse-lautrec's lover, her beautiful face
so alive in its preoccupation isn't it? her wheels are turning.
i reach over through time to try to touch her because i understand. her wheels are turning.
no vapid smile. her jaw is clenched, can you tell? she is biting down on the most bitter truth she's been awarded lately i think
still resonant in her strength.
thank god it is not always necessary to paste on your brightest smile for photos.
thank god we always have a choice, between the truth, and a lie. some of us couldn't lie even if we tried. her eyes like glass. if she tried to make them smile she probably couldn't even swing it. even swilling absinthe in montmartre and watching petticoats fly can bring your face to this state of total granite disillusionment. lautrec himself said:
"i have tried to do what is true and not ideal."
and i think this is wise.
she must have really loved him. i don't think i could ever ask more of someone, than to try to do what is true and not ideal.
the truth makes us all so beautiful when it illuminates us with that completely encompassing, totally impartial light
the curtains open in one slow creak of cable, dusty red velvet draws back to reveal all our folly. and all our promise, we're not hopeless, not hopeless at making some beauty & happiness, never
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