In a corner of the city
a model;
slender, delicate
runs her fingertips
drawing an uneven star
down the little staircase
of her weathered skin.
Her fingers slide down the curving compass
of her naked waist,
across the ebony fingerboardÂ
that runs down her spine,
plucking the rusty strings of her tuneless soul.
She threads a melody, silky, shapeless, muffled. Filling the empty space With gestures, With movements, ephemeral, seized by the wind.
A masterpiece of Black and White, Blind to the common eye. Spools of raw emotion burning smoothly, worn out by generations and forgotten, at last.
It's night again,
Another revolution of the clock,
the whole block is quiet,
she cannot sleep.
Man Ray (1890-1976), Le Violon d'Ingres (Ingres's Violin), 1924, gelatin silver print
Photograph source: © Man Ray Trust ARS-ADAGP