Reading about Egon Schiele today after a friend posted a great gif of his work on Facebook. (Thank you, Jason.) Schiele lead a scandalous sexual life. And created great art.
And wrote some poems, too.
My favorite is this one:
The portrait of the silent pale girl
An effusion of my love, – Yes.
I loved everything. The girl came, —
I found here face;
Her worker’s hands,
I loved everything about
I had to depict her,
Because of her stare and her
Closeness to me. —
Now she is gone,
Now I encounter her body.
(Note: the word “here” in the third line sounds wrong to me but it’s been reproduced in all of the copies of this that I’ve seen on-line so far….)
And here’s a poem by Carol Frost about the artist’s wife, who died of the flu three days before him, while six months pregnant.
Egon Schiele’s Wife
More since her illness he tried to think of her not purely as a wife —
as someone who finds herself trying to please, to
be of his mind.
The spread legs and bunched up slip,
the reddened labia, and an almost compulsive
they were his wishes.