In the Spirit of Alice Prin (House #11)

(for Velocity)

She knew in the end the creativity was in her hands, the way they articulated the lines that dominated the rule of thirds, the way they directed your glance away when she knew your eyes were captivated by their expressiveness, the manner in which they conveyed the inner grace that ran like the smooth flow of blood lines through generations of artists.

This memory kept rising in her conversation, as if its anecdotal incidence acquired synaptic reality, as if the clarity of this historical dream placed her in veritable time and circumstance, as if the whispers in her ear was the advice of her adopted ancestors.

Artists now wished to be photographed with her, the lines of her suppleness lending cache to their claims of integrity and lineage, their credibility running in sight lines from her cheekbones.

Photographers now wished to turn her into works of art as if the scrollwork of Man Ray could be recreated and embellished into a digital refreshment, as if turbans ran in exotic swirls past and around her hips.

As she sat in this Seattle café, nine time zones from Montparnasse, her eyes stinging, her vision clarifying, her desire reaching to its level of confidence, her thoughts focused back to the warm embrace Kiki had promised so many years before.