Foovay's Floozies

Posted By Summer Foovay on January 2, 2010

Warren's Ice

The ballroom was filled with fashion’s throng,
It shone with a thousand lights;
And there was a woman who passed along.
The fairest of all the sights.
A girl to her lover then softly sighed,
“There’s riches at her command.”
“But she married for wealth, not for love,” he cried,
“Though she lives in a mansion grand.
“She’s only a bird in a gilded cage,
A beautiful sight to see.
You may think she’s happy and free from care,
She’s not, though she seems to be.
‘This sad when you think of her wasted life,
For youth cannot mate with age;
And her beauty was sold for an old man’s gold;
She’s a bird in a gilded cage.”

I stood in a churchyard just at eve,
When sunset adorned the west;
And looked at the people who’d come to grieve
For loved ones now laid at rest.
A tall marble monument marked the grave
Of one who’d been fashion’s queen;
And I thought “She is happier here at rest,
Then to have people say when seen;

“She’s only a bird in a gilded cage…

When Warren brought Gloria to my studio, I was prepared to meet an ice queen. Beautiful but remote, and by some accounts, a harridan. In fact, he had arranged her visit some weeks before, especially asking me to set a day aside in which no other “ladies” would be about. I suppose he may have expected me to be honored, to photograph a great lady of society such as his wife – a proper lady, and rather a social butterfly of the time.

Her beauty and style was renowned, much talked about in the society section of the newspapers, and it was more than a little bit clear that Warren was proud of the pretty bird he carried on his arm. Gloria’s credentials were impeccable, a good old family who traced their ancestry to the governors of the first American colonies.

Some said they were “wrong side of the blanket” British royalty. But they did not say it very loud.

Gloria had attended the finest charm schools for girls, was said to sing in a lovely voice, and to be able to accompany herself on the piano as well. Her sense of style was perfection itself, bolstered by frequent visits to The Continent. Her husband probably supported a dozen dressmakers largely on her behalf (and a bit on the side, too, as we know).

Though she was always refered to as being gracious, and did her share of charitable causes, even in her own circles the other ladies regarded her as a bit aloof. Even her ladies maid, often the one woman a great lady would talk to with total frankness – given that the maid was beneath notice and thus nearly as safe as telling tales to your lap dog – said that Gloria treated her as if she were a piece of furniture. Not cruel, no never even inconsiderate, just as if she weren’t quite there.

Warren’s electric car pulled up in front of my studio, quiet and lovely to look at – the perfect bit of transportation for this cold beauty. He came around the front of the automobile and opened the door, proffering a hand to his lady wife.

Taking her husbands hand with only the lightest touch, she alit from the vehicle. Her clothing was immaculate, of course, right down to her white lace boots. I had expected her to wear something extravagant and fluffy for her portrait, with acres of lace and hand beaded décor. Instead she was elegantly understated in a dark silk dress that followed the lines of her graceful body, the more erotic for being so plain.

This was, indeed, a lady who knew what she was doing.

Warren brought her through the door perched on his arm, his nose in the air with pride. He raised an eyebrow at me as we were introduced, as if to remind me to be discreet. That was hardly needed, and he knew it, but I suppose he had to satisfy himself. With a flourish he left us ladies to our oeuvre, excusing himself to attend to “man’s business” with a promise to return for his lady in a few hours time.

The door slammed shut behind him and we two women sat and stared at each other over our teacups for a moment.

Gloria sat down her cup, decisively. “How is it you know Warren?” she asked.

Caught by surprise, I believe I must have blushed bright red.

“I see.” She says, her voice as cool as a breeze over a frozen lake.

There was another long pause while her eyes roved over me. Knowing that I was entertaining the Queen of style this day, I had done my best to remain true to myself while not giving her cause to distain. Well, not too much.

Thus after a great deal of thought, I had donned a lovely suit made for me by a personal friend – well, a former client – who was a tailor by trade. He had created for me the jacket of a very proper businessman, cut to flatter my somewhat curvier shape. Below that, even he balked at actual trousers, so he had consulted with a seamstress of his acquaintence and between them they created a long skirt of the same material of the jacket, and very similar cut although full for freedom in walking, bending, and kneeling as I often did to capture my images. The end effect was not quite feminine, but certainly not masculine either, yet conveying an unmistakable effect of both stylishness, and professionalism. And not the sort of profession you usually think of in relationship to me, thank you very much. Underneath the jacket I wore without apology a man’s white shirt and collar cut full for a big man – or a woman’s figure – with an open collar and a very dainty gold choker with a small diamond pendant.

I suppose I couldn’t help feeling the need to wear something that said, “I’ve got a sense of style, too – my own style!”

In silence we each took another sip. She played delicately with a biscuit, breaking it into tiny pieces as if she might deign to eat it in tiny cruel pecks like a sparrow. Recovering from my momentary shock at her first question, I couldn’t help but start looking at her as a model. Her face, hair, dress and jewelry were perfection itself but she was missing something I had expected to see. That flyaway, gad about, foolish joyousness that often even the lowest who came to see me radiated. Given her reputation as a social butterfly, even a frozen butterfly under glass, I somehow had expected more vivaciousness.

Instead, what my artist’s eye, or maybe it was a woman’s eye, observed was a bird in a gilded cage. Singing without quite knowing why, looking longingly out at a sky she had never been allowed to fly, a beautiful shape with no inner light shining through.

Her midnight blue eyes flicked up and met mine and I knew that she knew in that moment that I had pierced her armor without firing a shot. Her eyes dropped to the now crumbled biscuit on her plate. In a moment, a single tear dropped into the crumbs.

I saw her take a deep breath, and don that outer veneer of polite sophistication as she looked up and past me, but spoke to me.
“Well, then, shall we begin?”
“Yes, of course.”
I rose and led her to the studio.

There among the props I stood with head cocked and then chose. Gloria sat perched on a hard, high backed gilt chair against one of the brocaded backdrops. I took a few photos of her there, her skirts swirled artfully and head tilted this way and that to test the light against her aristocratic bone structure. But those were just test shots, whatever she and her gentleman husband might think when presented with them later.

I brought the brass plated wrought iron headboard away from the other things, and stood it on end in front of the plainest grey silk backdrop. At the bottom I propped it with a few large heavy wood blocks. Gloria watched from the hard chair with distant interest, as if watching a rather boring play, a small smile playing about her lips.

Standing back, I moved a few lights here and there to illuminate the backdrop, so that the shadows would define her beauty. I held out a hand to her ladyship and she looked at me, blinking a little as if I had awoken her. The touch of her hand was as light as a hummingbird landing, as she unfolded her lithe body to stand entirely of her own strength.

She looked at the ironwork, standing shining in the light. Her eyes darkened and filled with unshed tears as she took her hand from mine. Walking as if in a dream, she moved to stand behind the gracefully knotted metal bars, turned to face the camera and ran her fingers over the unyielding curves. Her eyes rested somewhere far beyond my room, on skies she would never fly.

I took the picture.

I cannot hate her.

Category: Dixie Jones Photographer, Gloria, Warren
Tags: bird in a gilded cage, society wife