Emma Lara Jones shares a poem and chats with Charlotte about who we uncover when we write.
Nude Girl
after Nude Girl by Gwen John, 1909-10
Gwen opens the window
but refuses to light the grate.
As soon as I undress
my nipples are stones.
She is never satisfied with her art.
Today, she complains of a sore tooth
and works with all the joy
of a maid scrubbing floors.
She is making herself sick –
the daily letters, the vigils at the station.
I tell her it’s agony to love this way.
The rods in her neck tighten.
She starts to clean brushes.
Whisk, whisk in a glass jar
like she’s beating eggs.
The room stinks of turps.
Must I sit here like a mute?
I wriggle my shoulders. She sighs.
The stillness in the air
is worse than church.
It is a lovely afternoon, I say
to the back of the canvas.
She frowns. Fussy dabs
of some liverish colour.
I expect Le Jardin du Luxembourg
will be busy this evening.
Her eyes veil as I speak.
Later, we will walk through the park
hardly chatting, pretending
not to notice –
those wide-brimmed ladies,
their adoring beaux.
Emma Lara Jones, first published in The Pomegranate London, Issue 6
Charlotte Gann: I love the voice of this poem, Emma – you bring to life the model sitting for Gwen John. You also manage to bring alive the painter, their relationship; the painter’s love relationship (I like the ambiguity of that line ‘I tell her it’s agony to love this way.’ Is the model in love with John? And/or is she commenting on the painter’s suffering at the hands of her lover, presumably Rodin?); and much of their social context.
It’s beautifully natural, the way she – your version of John’s model – speaks; and the whole poem is spoken by her. The physical details – the cold, the sounds, the smells – bring me right into the room:
Whisk, whisk in a glass jar
like she’s beating eggs.
The room stinks of turps
I especially like, too, your line endings – every line turning on a strong simple word – and what that conveys of her quite down-to-earth character and way of thinking. She doesn’t seem afraid to speak her mind, even though more broadly women go unheard:
Must I sit here like a mute?
It’s also a glimpse behind the scenes, both of her life, and of Gwen John’s. And I really appreciate that contrast with the surface story of their time, and that strong image we close with: ‘those wide-brimmed ladies, / their adoring beaux.’
What led you to write this poem? And does it have some deeper echo for you, personally?
Emma Lara Jones: I’m pleased you commented on the voice of the poem and how natural it felt. The writing process didn’t feel that natural at all and I did a lot of research before I could imagine the scene in my head. I really enjoyed writing in Fenella Lovell’s voice. John hated painting her and called her ‘dreadful’ (in Sue Roe’s biography Gwen John, p. 134 – see Other Resources) but whenever anyone is described as unlikeable I tend to feel a kinship with them – they are often the people who don’t conform to society’s expectations. But I say that as someone who is autistic and often struggles with social niceties.
I’ve seen the painting ‘Nude Girl’ in London a couple of times and there is something defiant about Fenella’s expression which makes me feel uncomfortable. It is as if she is inviting us to look at her but also judging us for doing so. It’s not a flattering painting. Fenella looks ill and malnourished with dark circles under her eyes. We’re so used to seeing an idealised version of the female form and Fenella appears to present her body to us without any hint of apology. In that sense the painting feels quite empowering – a woman seen by another woman without the oppressive nature of the male gaze.
I was also interested in John’s mindset when she painted Fenella. Rodin started to lose interest in John at this time, and their relationship was coming to an end. John was still modelling herself, but she was also at the point of trying to sell her work and establish her name as a painter. While she had been Rodin’s muse, she’d neglected her art, and this was about her finding her independence from him. I don’t think we should take John’s complaints about Fenella at face value. Fenella had modelled for Rodin too, and perhaps there was some sexual jealousy there. I like the fact you picked up on the potential for sexual tension between John and Fenella – that was a possibility as well. Most of all, I think John was starting to see herself as an artist and detaching from the artist’s model and muse she was before.
It’s hard to explain why this particular painting has so much resonance for me. If I am writing a more autobiographical poem the link with my own history is obvious but here I can hide behind another person. If I go back to my initial reaction to seeing the painting, which was quite strong, I think I am torn between wanting to be seen fully as myself and this impulse for secrecy. I’m both attracted and repelled by Fenella’s nudity. I’m sure this is related to being a masked autistic and I use that term as someone who has never been able to take the mask off completely and the mask has been part of me for so long it’s not like taking off a piece of clothing. Do I envy Fenella’s boldness? Maybe, but it feels exposing, too. At this point in my life, I’d rather be the person behind the canvas.
I realise this is also about power. I notice I’ve been calling Gwen John by her surname and Fenella Lovell by her first name because that felt the natural choice but I wonder if I’m implying that John, as the artist, has earned the right to be taken more seriously. Perhaps this is another patriarchal view which I wanted the poem to challenge but my choice of language now seems to be reinforcing it!
CG: There’s so much here… That sense of wishing to hide and wishing to be seen as we really are is so strong, isn’t it? And yes, masking – specifically around autism, but also more generally.
Poems are, themselves, kinds of masks, I always feel. Ironically! Not the social masks we can feel forced to wear – but, still, not direct, autobiographical reportage. They’re wonderfully subtle mirrors, masks, puzzles. The ways our unconscious communicates important things to us, through the process of exploring and discovering them.
My experience has been of finding out what it is I really need to say, or show, or reveal, through the act of writing them. At the same time as feeling safely (enough) hidden – not least, behind the fact they’re simply small boxes of words on a page mostly people don’t even read! (They’re also wonderfully adept at housing such subtlety and paradox. Bless them.)
In your poem, Gwen John is hiding behind the canvas, creating her own (for now, to Fenella) hidden version of the model. (Yet, the model is staring and staring at her. The poem’s in the model’s words and the first four stanzas all start with observations of the painter: ‘Gwen….’; She…’; ‘She…’; ‘She…’ Who’s watching/seeing the real who?) And at the end of the poem, I see those ‘ladies’ hiding behind their wide brims.
I also see their would-be lovers hiding behind the words and image of ‘adoring beaux’. Words, eh? Those wonderful magical things through which we reveal and behind which we hide?
(You and I are both, I know, the youngest of big families. I wonder if that’s potentially relevant, for you, in any way, to this discussion?)
ELJ: I love the idea of a poem being a mask. I hadn’t thought of a poem that way before, and it’s true, consciously putting on a mask can be a liberating experience and allow us to access different parts of our psyche. I’m drawn to writing about defiant women at the moment and perhaps this is a way to encourage my voice to be bolder.
I’m fascinated by the unconscious communicating to us through our poetry. When I was studying poetry at school, I assumed the writer knew exactly what they wanted to tell the reader. Nobody talked about how the writer uses their work to communicate with themselves but I think that idea is far more compelling. It also makes me feel better about struggling to explain the poem because I haven’t fully worked out what’s going on under the surface either! It feels risky publishing my work because there is always the danger I will reveal more than I intend. Maybe that’s exciting too – I love the reader seeing something I didn’t.
It’s interesting how talking with you now has changed my views about the poem and what it is really about. I hadn’t thought about the ladies in their wide-brimmed hats hiding when I wrote it. I read Sue Roe’s biography and she says Gwen John was irritated by Fenella’s outrageous dress sense and the way Fenella drifted from one infatuation to the next. I imagined Fenella and Gwen John walking through the park together and watching the courting couples with an element of wistfulness. But you’re right those couples are also performing.
I do wonder if there is something about our perspective as the youngest in a big family and I’d love to know what you think about this. A lot of my family’s history was lived out before I existed and I’m thinking especially of my sister’s death and how her loss was inextricably linked to my birth. As I grew up my language and understanding increased but there is a preverbal understanding of the family before that point isn’t there? We sort of piece the puzzle together and, for me, there was also the moment when I realised I understood more than the grown-ups assumed. It was a bit like being the fool in a Shakespeare play and because I was young my outspoken remarks were humoured. At the same time I did long to be treated like an adult and I guess that’s a large part of what drives me to write now. Returning to the poem, I’m beginning to think of Fenella as the younger child – she’s being asked to sit there quietly but she fidgets and makes annoying observations!
CG: Ah, thank you. I love the idea of the puzzle we’re born into that we start piecing together, even in our preverbal lives. And that sense, as a youngest (and maybe, also, a girl; growing only gradually to trust in our own defiance?), of sensing we’ve been born into a family whose story is already significantly written, and maybe also told. (It’s a long way from being born as a first child to two young parents and becoming a small tight golden triangle! Though, this, of course, is also part-fantasy on my part…)
I can totally relate to the balance as well between being affectionately tolerated (at best) and not quite taken seriously, as an entity. (e.g. I always went by a nickname – still do – a funny, monosyllabic label which isn’t even really a name! – and which was sort of imposed on me from before I could speak…)
I know writing the poetry has been a way for me of taking myself seriously, my utterances, and my own experiences and instincts, and not following any kind of party line handed me by anyone outside. My poems feel deeply precious – or certainly have done – to me, in this way. Like coded unlockings.
Thank you – for sharing your poem, and your impressions…
ELJ: Thanks so much, Charlotte, I’ve loved our conversation and it’s gone in a direction I wasn’t expecting! Coded unlockings is a great description. And what I love about poetry is we don’t ever unlock everything, do we?
CG: No, we don’t. And I love that too. It’s a lifelong practice. As long as we need it to be. Thanks Emma. 😊