Writing for Fun
The Gallery - Maureen Rampersaud
November 2014
Why was I here again? I stared at the same picture every time. The face drew my attention first, the pale, delicate complexion, her mouth and eyes slightly open, so beautiful. Her long, red tresses, a much darker colour now, immersed in the flowing stream. Those Victorians and their symbolic plants . . . willow for forsaken love, nettles for pain, daisies for innocence and the poppy . . . death. The leaves and flowers framed her, passive and accepting.
I closed my eyes and thought of poor, demented Ophelia out picking flowers. So distracted by the murder of her father by her lover, that when she slipped into the water, she simply let it take her. I had another vision, Lizzie Siddal, lying in a bath of water, while Millais painted her, frowning in concentration on the object before him, no awareness of her health and welfare. Why do women always let themselves become victims?
My mind tuned to Max, whom I had loved faithfully for ten years. How I yearned to see his face, only an hour to wait, I might even take a taxi to the hotel.
Another painting stopped me in my tracks. Trapped in a gaudily decorated room, a young woman springs from her lover's lap. Those Victorians again! She has many rings, but no wedding ring, a clock kept under glass and of course, the cat toying with a bird. No-one could be in any doubt what Holman Hunt meant.
The realization hit me so hard that my whole body shook. Max was never going to leave his wife. I gazed at the picture again and read the title, 'The Awakening Conscience'. I'd fooled myself long enough, it was time to take control of my life. I felt empowered, and all because those marvellous Victorians had reached back to me through all those years and had shaken off my rose-coloured spectacles.