Vive Mademoiselle

The vibrations of the orchestra seep into her skin and tickle her ears. As she fans her powdered face, she fans away the men she never needed. Independently living and thinking and breathing, she confidently supports herself on a crimson cushion. It is her personal podium, stained with the blood of the battles she fought to reach her current position. She is a woman of wealth. She wears her power around her neck as a string of pearls. Her hair shines golden like her riches. Her white gloves, her purity. The glistening chandelier--perched above her head like a crown--declares her royal presence. C'est la vie.

From across the theatre, the men, pretending to be absorbed in the music below, let the corners of their eyes deceive their front-facing postures as they eye Mademoiselle. Her blushed pink beauty and foreign femininity intimidate them. But Mademoiselle notices not. She leans comfortably to her side. Contempt with her current situation, she expresses a reserved yet elegant smile. With her chin tipped above the crowd below her loge, Mademoiselle finds herself contempt for once in her female existence. La vie est formidable. 

The orchestrations radiate through the Theatre. Soaring. Humming. They are birds. Floating. Swimming. They are fish. Tiptoeing. Spinning. They are ballerinas. They travel, attracted to Mademoiselle's demeanor. In the air, they speak her joy. They celebrate. Vive Mademoiselle!

(*The second is my personal rendition of Mary Cassatt's "At the Theatre" in acrylic. It's in the never ending hallway if you are interested. I must admit that I don't enjoy viewing the two side by side. It's a bit like comparing the Statue of Liberty in New York to the one in Las Vegas.)