[…] She calls me Violet now –
a common name here in Storyville – except
that I am the African Violet for the promise
of that wild continent hidden beneath
my white skin. At her cue, I walked slowly
across the room, paused in strange postures
until she called out, Tableau vivant, and
I could again move – all this to show
the musical undulation of my hips, my grace,
and my patience which was to mean
that it is my nature to please and that I could,
if so desired, pose still as a statue for hours,
a glass or a pair of boots propped upon my back. (p. 13)
Countess P–’s Ophelia is stripped of her identity and given another. She is the African Violet, a living picture for the entertainment of white men. She is motionless and silent, strategically posed; she is to be seen, to be chosen and used for Countess P–’s profit.
There comes a quiet man now to my room –
Papá Bellocq, his camera on his back.
He wants nothing, he says, but to take me
as I would arrange myself, fully clothed –
a brooch at my throat, my white hat angled
just so – or not, the smooth map of my flesh
awash in afternoon light. In my room
everything’s a prop for his composition –
brass spittoon in the corner, the silver
mirror, brush and comb of my toilette.
I try to pose as I think he would like – shy
at first, then bolder. I’m not foolish
that I don’t know this photograph we make
will bear the stamp of his name, not mine. (p. 39)
Bellocq’s Ophelia is motionless, silent and strategically posed as well. However, Ophelia is given autonomy from Bellocq, permission to choose her costume and pose. When she is not his living picture, she is his apprentice. Bellocq’s Ophelia is his model, “right for the camera (p. 42).”
Natasha Trethewey’s Ophelia is Bellocq’s Ophelia. Ophelia has given her body to Countess P– and Bellocq but she has not given herself. She has saved herself in letters directed to Constance, detailing the Ophelia that Countess P– and Bellocq have created and the Ophelia that she has become while in Storyville. Tretheway’s Ophelia is not a living picture, she is not still nor silent,
Imagine her a moment later – after
the flash, blinded – stepping out
of the frame, wide-eyed, into her life. (p. 48)