Meeting a Sophisticated Young Lady

As I stated in a previous post, rebel publisher Nancy Cunard is one of my personal icons, so it was a pleasant surprise to meet her at New York’s Met.

Well, I didn’t obviously meet her in person, but I met the indomitable editor in Constantin Brâncuşi’s polished bronze statue, entitled "Portrait of Nancy Cunard" (1932).

There is actually a walnut version of this statue that Brâncuşi did in 1925-27, known as “Jeune Fille Sophistiquée” (Sophisticated Young Lady) or simply as “Portrait of Nancy Cunard”.

Cunard actually never posed for it and knew only later on that she had been the inspiration for this sculpture.

Both the walnut and bronze statues were based on Brâncuşi’s main principle, a simplification of forms and silhouettes.

The artist captured the essential features of the poet and publisher by focusing on slender forms and on her forehead, chin and chignon, communicating in this way a sense or restrained elegance and style.

I find the sculpture very inspiring especially for jewellery designers (I'm sure the polished bronze and the smooth forms could lead to some intriguing experiments…) and, as further inspiration, I’m republishing in this post "Wheels", a poem by Nancy Cunard that appeared in Edith Sitwell’s Wheels: An Anthology of Verse (1916).

Wheels
I sometimes think that all our thoughts are wheels
Rolling forever through the painted world,
Moved by the cunning of a thousand clowns
Dressed paper-wise, with blatant rounded masks,
That take their multi-coloured caravans
From place to place, and act and leap and sing,
Catching the spinning hoops when cymbals clash.
And one is dressed as Fate, and one as Death,
The rest that represent Love, Joy and Sin,
Join hands in solemn stage-learnt ecstasy,
While Folly beats a drum with golden pegs,
And mocks that shrouded Jester called Despair.
The dwarves and other curious satellites,
Voluptuous-mouthed, with slyly-pointed steps,
Strut in the circus while the people stare.
And some have sober faces white with chalk,
Of sleeping hearts, with ponderance and noise
Like weary armies on a solemn march.
Now in the scented gardens of the night,
Where we are scattered, like a pack of cards,
Our words are turned to spokes that thoughts may roll
And form a jangling chain around the world,
(Itself a fabulous wheel controlled by Time
Over the slow incline of centuries.)
So dreams and prayers and feelings born of sleep
As well as the sun-gilt pageantry
Made out of summer breezes and hot noons,
Are in the great revolving of the spheres
Under the trampling of their chariot wheels.