This was the year of the first writing workshop in our home in France. I had invited Marlene who I recognized the moment I laid eyes on her in an autobiography class at UBC. She was the facilitator - a fellow reader, lover of words, listener extraordinaire, who wanted to help women find their voices. This workshop was pure magic, a gathering of 17 women from Canada, the United States, England and France who met in our 13th century - yet-to-be-renovated - house. It just so happens that that was one of the hottest summers on record. We met every morning and as the days progressed, the air became stiller and stiller and the heat was so overpowering that every woman present dressed in lighter and lighter garments and many of us forewent undergarments. What did this do our writing? Most of us wrote hot steamy tales. This is the one that I composed on such a day - very much like the weather we're experiencing now in France.
WLADYSLAVA INSPIRES ROCOCO DAYDREAMS
by Yvonne Young
Sharon painted a life-size image of Wladyslava, cigarette in mouth, seated with legs spread, elbows on thighs, eyes confronting the viewer. “Don’t mess with me,” she appears to be saying.
Those who viewed Sharon’s painting thought Wladyslava an imaginary character. I knew otherwise. The real woman or “seductress,” as she called herself, was—still is for all I know—a professor of economics at a northern university in France - but she dressed like a tart, neckline low, lace bra showing, tits thrust up and out. She craved attention and, if her dress didn’t attract looks, she would rub the palm of her hand back and forth over one breast, then the other until her nipples hardened, and then run her tongue over her lips as if eager to taste, to ravish every male within her eyes’ radius.
When Wladyslava moved, she never walked or sauntered. She strode, head up, nose too, arrogant to a fault, magnificent, like Delacroix’ figure of Liberty.
I meant to discuss Sharon’s image, not the subject, but Sharon has captured Wladyslava so well that every time I mention the painting, I think of its subject and here, in the south of France, where I first met Wladyslava, it seems natural that she come to mind especially since, on this hot hot day, I am wearing my wench top, breasts spilling over, one shoulder strap fallen, long skirt, with no underwear. I feel a little like a seductress myself.
I included Wladyslava in another story, written in first person, one that inspired Sharon to paint the shameless hussy. The tale takes place in Venice where I had escaped with John, my lover, my hater, my partner. I refuse to use the words “my husband”—although I am married to John—because the possessive article and noun suggest ownership and I refuse to own or be owned. To paraphrase William Blake, “I must create my own… [language] or be enslaved by another man’s.”
I want to make it clear that the eight days I spent in Venice with John were no wife-husband ode to tourism. They were the sexiest days that I have ever spent with a man. We couldn’t stop fucking. (Is this important to the story? I have too many stories. I simply want to explain how the words seductress and Wladyslava became synonymous.) One day, waiting by the Rialto Bridge for John, I noticed a number of male heads turning to stare at me. Me? Wladyslava instantly came to mind. I decided to be her. I threw back my head, thrust my breasts forward, crossed my legs high at the thigh, leaned back on my hands, and eyed every man as I would ambrosia on a dessert tray. More than one turned his head so I fell more and more into the role of seductress.
My eyes kept exploring the male scenery until, in the distance; I spied a gorgeous specimen of masculinity. His jet-black hair and rugged full beard reminded me of Giancarlo Giannini in Lina Wertmueller’s “Swept Away.” I felt an inexplicable desire for this stranger. How did he know? He hesitated, changed direction, and strode towards me, halting two inches from my feet. As he stood staring down into my eyes, my heart started racing. I couldn’t avert my eyes. My tongue, much to my amazement, escaped and wet my lips. All my force had to be summoned not to be outdone by him. I won. He blinked first and then walked away.
I do not tell this to brag but to illustrate Wladyslava power.
No one would buy Sharon’s painting. Although women liked it well enough, men either loved or hated the strong woman confronting them. After a time, Sharon realized that the men, who hated it, were bores, not worth her time. The men who loved the aggressive female figure were dynamite, in and out of bed. Finally to save time, Sharon would show a prospective lover the painting.
As a birthday gift, Sharon gave me a replica of Wladyslava’s mouth with cigarette dangling that looked as if she had cut out a segment of the larger painting. I hung it in my writing room and every time I enter, those lush lips, that defiant cigarette, confront me.
(written in Castelnau de Montmiral, summer 2003)
