"a great love, unsolved"
Hands and thimble of Georgia O'Keeffe, photo by Alfred Stieglitz, 1919
Madrigal
by Tomas Tranströmer
I inherited a dark wood to which I seldom go. But a day will come when the dead and the living change places. Then the wood will begin to stir. We are not without hope. The most serious crimes remain unsolved despite the efforts of many policeman. In the same way there exists, somewhere in our lives, a great love, unsolved. I inherited a dark wood but today I am going into another wood, the bright one. Every living thing that sings, wriggles, oscillates, and crawls! It is spring and the air is very strong. I have a degree from oblivion’s university and am empty-handed as the shirt on the clothesline.
by Tomas Tranströmer from The Great Enigma: New Collected Poems, translated by Robin Fulton
Reflection
The silver thimble on Georgia O’Keefe’s right hand looks like a sharp claw in this portrait. A single middle-finger claw—elegant, sharp, ghostly and animalistic.
The fingers of her left left hand, with thumb and index finger making a circle, form a symbol that could be the eye of a bird. It means “okay!” or “allright.” It is a mudra, a hand symbol for inner peace, and appears in many cultures.
And, this hand gesture has a new meaning this decade that you may be aware of. This meaning didn’t exist when Georgia did or when the photo was pulled from developing liquid in 1919. Then, it was just a gorgeous arrangement of hands.
Now, it signifies the white power movement and the “in-crowd” of extremist militias. Keep your eyes open for it.
The New York Times explains, “Neo-Nazis, Ku Klux Klansmen and other white nationalists began using the gesture in public to signal their presence and to spot potential sympathizers and recruits. For them, the letters formed by the hand were not O and K, but W and P, for “white power.”
I hate bringing these three things together — Transtromer’s exquisite poem and Georgia’s hands photo, and this nauseating cultural tidbit about life in our country. I hate a lot of things that will be brought together unintentionally and fall in a heap with a clanging of cymbals.
But that’s where we are, isn’t it? Sudden intrusions. Surreal strippings of meaning. Cruelty poking through the “okay.” I tell myself, Get used to it—get ready to resist— be joyful, fearless, communal— but I’d also like a degree from oblivion’s university.
If you could get an honorary degree from any place on earth, where would you like it from? I can imagine getting one from the beehive, the laundromat, the kindergarten, the forge of cast iron skillets. I’d love a degree from a Zen monk’s tea hut. I’d like degrees in listening, chance, humility, and the life-giving uses of power.
I’ll give you any degree you fancy, if you tell me which one you want, and where you want it from. We are our own iconography.
That poem gets to the middle of me -- I'll have to look up the poet (and the translator!)
I drove round trip from Austin to the very northwesternmost corner of Washington state recently, and there is still so much wild in the world, so much empty. Some mountains are old and some are new and some are yet to be born from tectonic collisions. We're in the middle, forever. On the way back I got to visit the Georgia O'Keeffe museum in Santa Fe, New Mexico, which I adored. There are many details about her life there as well as her work. Her kitchen shelf, her twisted metalcraft brooch made by a dear friend, the outfit she designed only to wear for photographs and always did thenceforth, such branding! And her long love (not always easy) with Alfred Stieglitz, whose adoration of her I can see in that photo. And her work, which was the center of her. Her grade school was New York City but her degree was granted by the desert.
I would like an honorary degree from the pause between moments, please.
Great poem . yes I saw that during the game that was sickening and sad . Peace to you Abriel