Prologue
I’m not a real girl. Not in the conventionally understood, flesh and blood sort of way. Also, the portraits appear to depict at least an idea of a woman. Because it is my wedding day, one hopes the artist imagined me to be an adult woman, but for sure, she/me/composite is a woman young enough to be called a girl, and of course at that time, you might call a woman a girl for her entire life. Also at this time, I know. Anyway, originally, Duncan drew me as a composite, or a fiction, and it was a surprisingly popular series of prints considering what seems so obvious about the whole thing now. And because he drew me into existence, I exist only in his imagination and all of yours, and only on this day, which to be certain is a unique and peculiar place to exist, especially because he’s long gone and I am eternal, but thankfully many people look at the prints and take it all at face value as described in the titles, and so their imagination is thankfully not added into the mix of my own idea of myself.
My sense is that Duncan did not mean the main title, or any of the subtitles, to be in any way ironic. Irony wasn’t big in the ‘20s and ‘30s, but if you don’t immediately see it now, I don’t know what to tell you. But I’ll break it all down for you as best I can under the circumstances.
The Dawn of Happiness
In this scene, I am standing by a window, my blonde hair worn in loose curls. I’m wearing a lavender dressing gown and holding back a sheer curtain, appearing to contemplate the view outside. It does indeed seem to be dawn, but the landscape is sufficiently blurred as to be either a nature scene with mountains, fields, water perhaps, and just a church steeple. Maybe the church steeple isn’t a church steeple at all, because it looks a lot like the Empire State Building, which didn’t exist at this time, but just to say that it could be some other kind of structure. On the window ledge is a type of potted fern, and below that, a corner of a wicker chair.
Old Home Farewell
Here, I am seen in my wedding dress holding my bouquet in the crook of my right arm, with my left hand on the cap of the bannister, facing, well, to my left. We’ll get more into that later. On the wall behind me is a candelabra and a grandfather clock, and at the bottom of the stairs is another, larger, ferny type of plant.
Forever and Ever
In the center of the portrait the groom is kissing me, with a white-gloved hand under my chin. I am now holding my bouquet in the crook of my left arm, and looking on, behind me to my right, is a woman who most agree is my mother, in a pale pink dress, a wrist corsage, and a large black hat with a large bow. Seated behind the groom are visible some of the guests; another woman in the front row is wearing another large black hat and a fur stole. Below us in the image is some kind of table, set with more bouquets, these pink.
The Wedding Cake
I stand, smiling, in the center of the portrait holding a large knife poised at the top of the cake. My groom is to my left looking down at the cake, and a mustachioed older man, generally agreed to be my father, is looking upward in my general direction, or maybe in the middle distance, hard to say. Both of them are in white tie. Behind me is another candelabra sconce, this one befitted with tiny lampshades, on a wallpapered wall, and in the next room or perhaps reflected in an ornate mirror, we see a royal blue drapery, another fern, and a chandelier. The single layer cake is surrounded entirely with pink roses.
Off for the Honeymoon
In this scene, I am depicted halfway in, or possibly halfway out, of our carriage, my left arm bracing the car and my right hand holding the bouquet. Behind me, still in the carriage, is my groom, arm up, facilitating either my exit or my entry by holding my long veil out of the way, and/or waving to someone outside. Behind the door is a man widely assumed to be the driver, in a top hat.
Alone at Last
Seated together in a train car, I rest my head on the shoulder of my groom, looking ahead at Duncan. The groom faces forward, and we are holding hands, maybe. We’re no longer in our wedding attire: I am wearing a long, emerald green coat over a yellow blouse or suit, and my groom is wearing a dark green suit with a yellow tie and a plaid newsboy cap. At my feet is a small black valise.
I’ve tried to describe these images to you as best I could without interpretation so that you could perhaps consider them in a more straightforward way prior to the one that I’m going to give you now.
Here’s the thing: this is the only day of my life that is known to me, so sure, you could say it was the greatest, but you could say a lot of other things about it too.
The Dawn of Happiness
Okay, so you have all the particulars now, window, dressing gown, fern, chair, me facing the view of the mountains and something that’s maybe a church. My hair is positively silly, because if you consider it for more than a moment, it’s like two hairdos in one, short in front, suddenly long in back, or what later came to be known as an ill-advised coiffure called a mullet. Women didn’t wear their hair down at this time though, so it was done this way for the updo you’d wear when you left the window. My expression here, as Duncan saw it, was meant to be beatific, hence the title, but I would describe it more as a non-expression, as you’ll see in a couple of the other images. Some impose anxiety on me here, others impose blissful visions of domesticity, but in the truest amalgam of me, it’s just my smooth, young face, wondering what else is out there. As time goes on, a great deal more is added to my feelings about the entire charade, although the genuinely romantic interpretations are fewer and farther between, and any part of “me” that some believe Duncan intended to convey, a sweet, compliant girl anticipating marriage as her happy future, feels less and less true. Few men have ever regarded the work deeply at all, whether in 1930 or now, nearly a hundred years later, so there’s that, and many women have and still do see the whole thing in an entirely positive light. They give it for wedding gifts! If I were to express myself in a more modern way, I might use a slaps head or a shrug emoji here, but overall I don’t feel terribly shruggy about it. My true wish is simply that you all saw how many more wonderful options you have than I do.
Old Home Farewell
In my wedding dress now: again, expressionless, or possibly contemplative in a mostly good way, or as some have thought, finish the goddamn sketch, I cannot hold this false expression much longer. Here’s a bit of what’s really going on though: maybe if I do hold this expression long enough, I can both leave the past behind but not go into the one I’m meant for here, like I could perhaps transport myself with the power of my extremely still face and mind to somewhere where there are other options beyond the rule of men in this house and the rule of men in the next. The title, of course, suggests a fond look back, right, it doesn’t say “fare poorly, old home,” but many, many versions of this moment involve a more complex understanding of the inbetweenness of my life, with everything from wondering if the past might contain more intrigue than the more likely mildly dull versions of my childhood, to wishing that things were better than some more grim versions of my childhood that a surprising number of you have contributed. What no one besides me ever really adds up, and how could they, is that my whole life is in between, a sorrow of its own kind.
Forever and Ever
You may have noticed the first go-round that I described the groom as “kissing me,” which was deliberate wording, as this image could be described accurately no other way. Save for one viewer with an oddly specific wedding dom kink (upon learning this terminology and bit of culture, I wished, not for the first time, that communication went two ways, because I continue to have questions), few have seen this kiss as erotic, much less inspiring of romance. There is clearly no room for kissing back, or kissing each other, which we both might have liked had he or anyone else considered it as an option, but that’s the wording. You may kiss the bride, says yet another man. No one asks me, but if you did ask me, I’d lay money that my mother figure, behind me, is looking on remembering when no one asked her either. I’m guessing the same for that lady in the front row, who I am sure is triggered by the whole thing, remembering the day her demon husband sucked her soul right out of her own mouth. There has also been discussion of the relevance of black hats throughout the series, but no agreement on that. I don’t really see them as sinister in any way, but I don’t not see them that way.
The stiffness of the energy between me and this man seems impossible to overlook. You’ve all seen wedding kisses that look sweet, that look like yes, those people love each other, and that they like kissing each other, tender or passionate wedding kisses that offer what one wishes for on a day when you’re agreeing to a lifetime commitment that statistically speaking, now has about equal odds of not turning out that way. I’d never kissed anyone else before this, and I haven’t kissed anyone else since, but I sure have thought about it, and it’s always better than what it looks like here, and no, it isn’t always a white man or any kind of man.
The Wedding Cake
I love this image the most, and at this point you can probably guess that I am smiling like this because holding the knife in this position while Duncan sketched, allowed me time to fantasize about things I might have liked to do with that knife, to either or both of the other parties depicted here, if I were a wicked sort. Followed by eating cake. Much has been posited about the composition of this image, not least about the way I am centered and standing above the men. Even subtracting the knife and the smile, it has been said that this is the only image in which my power is truly indicated. Mostly now, I think of the specific frisson I feel holding this knife. It feels like possibility.
Off for the Honeymoon
Here’s the thing; traditionally the bride and groom are depicted in the carriage leaving the ceremony, because the artist doesn’t usually follow the new couple’s journey beyond that. All this to say, knowing there’s one more image ahead, I am likely halfway in, but poised there for the sketch, you can see that I am absolutely on the verge of changing my mind. I daresay I’m legitimately frowning here; there’s no way you can call this expression beatific. My groom is smiling behind me, he can’t see my face, so he probably still thinks what’s left of today is going to be what makes it the greatest day of his life so far. But there’s no series about him titled The Greatest Day of a Boy’s Life, for multiple reasons you are all surely aware of.
Perhaps, mad with a suddenly endowed power of choice, I am at last feeling emboldened to break free of this convention to go do, well, who knows. March in the streets or have a series of lovers or take to drink. Become real.
Alone at Last
The groom looks worried. I’m smiling but don’t be fooled. Partly I’m smiling simply because it’s the end of this godforsaken day (that I’ve relived for a hundred godforsaken years now) that was just this side of an arranged marriage. (Meaning, basically, that I didn’t say no.) I’m also smiling because I know I’m going to beg off the expected wedding night activities, and that he’s just nice enough to not be insistent about it. Let it be known though, that mostly, I’m smiling because Duncan wanted to offer me at least a little hope. Now that I’m nearly a hundred years old, I am much more sure that Duncan was more sly than one might think, and that the subtleties here, alongside the titles, had to have been intentional. The black valise holds a few of our vacation clothes, a small bottle of Arpège, and the cake knife.
