PORTRAIT: ANAIS NIN
based on a photograph

"and what do roses matter, Miss Linotte, roses and lovers, dreams and desires-- We must think of stockings, of money, of economy--we must be well behaved and not lose our head even when the moonbeams shine into my little room and I am in bed murmuring, 'I would like to have roses, roses, roses--" -a.n., 6/16/20

This is what became of her, that small bird, Linotte. The one on the oceanliner, writing letters in her diary, leaving Barcelona. You cannot see that girl anymore, can't imagine that thin face, those high cheekbones could ever be round or full with youth. You don't believe those elegant hands were ever fat and greedy for childish things: food, toys, candy.

They are thin and bony now, with nails rounded off and rouged. The fingers curl and lay idle in her lap but you know that on some nights, the claw at the backs of nameless lovers, or henry Miller, or maybe they reach out and find nothing: just empty linens, or a cold pillow, the painted nails like blood against the clean, fresh white.

Hers is the kind of face that wants to be admired, touched, examined. She wants you to wonder at the longing in her eyes, the pale of her skin, the flat line of her mouth. There is nothing rough about her, but you can guess that underneath the black lace and lipstick, underneath the heart-shaped curve of her face, some sort of vixen lives. Praising the sensitive man, living in the house of incest, seducing the Minotaur.

You can see her wanting roses, roses, roses. It's the way her lips are pursed; her eyes, wide and hopeful. Those flowers curl over her chest in black velvet and lace, up her arms, the coy hand sneaking into her hair. The eyes are searching, for roses and lovers, for a warm body to cover cold sheets. She is built of those dreams and desires, laying somewhere ahead of her, outside the frame, where we can't see.