“Despite her [Marie Bracquemond] gifts, despite her striving, despite  her enthusiasm, the day came when with an obscure feeling of grief, she had to confess herself beaten.”

    — Jean-Paul Bouillon, “Marie Bracquemond: The Lady with the Parasol” (Women Impressionists, p. 242).

 

Never met a ladder I liked –

not the trap door pull-down device

to my childhood attic, nor the sketchy plywood versions

in construction sites where my brothers hid

and snickered as we circled below, our bikes

tied outside like royal steeds.

 

But that never stopped me

hauling myself up, hand over hand, until

I reached the upper limits, and could rest

hands on hips, as if lord

of all I surveyed below.

 

Blame it on grandma who climbed

a ladder at 82 to prune her trees,

and fell, breaking her back in two places

then recovering in one sweet week, as if

such a fall only required dusting oneself off,

then retying your apron strings.

 

Never met a ladder that made me sad

until I saw Woman on a Stepladder –

why did you stop drawing?

 

—-response to Marie Bracquemond Woman on a Stepladder, 1882 (private collection; printed in Women Impressionists p. 243)