--Johannes Vermeer, The Guitar Player 1670-1672
The Art of Daily Bread
She’s a player, all right,
her face a boneless,
perfect oval made-up mask,
peering playfully out of the picture,
-- --“Like this?”
She holds her pinky so.
The guitar across her lap
is a prop,
its mocking motley border
outlining the harlequin foolery
in full.
Her costume-robe, rich yellow
silk and ermine,
graced this canvas stage
five times before.
Behind her, a landscape painting
invented, unfocused,
somehow more real
than the commedia dell’arte
centre stage.
The branches of a lazy green tree
tumble toward her,
just as her ringlets
tumble toward the guitar
from the pictured picture.
Sitting away from this scene,
You could easily miss the prescient commentary
of tatty drape and books
in the corner,
and mistake the wooden picture frame
for a trompe l’oeil shelf
solid enough
to support this poem.
Three years after this girl
pretended to play,
Vermeer would be dead.
But the beau geste
lived on,
as the painting paid half his debt
to the local baker.