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47 Painting At Court When he comes to the weavers with his kerosene lamps he can not imagine what was woven or who was speaking, spreading over the reproduction—Las Hilanderas. Velázquez’s women: timely, molten. slippage. slaves to dusk. He’ll not remember this, will not be forced to remind himself of the normalcy of fissure. Things she must beg for then enjoy: wideness, the innocuous drift, a woman to help her with weaving. a blue gown. He’s in love not with her, her hideous web, but the ladle of her, her widening pools. He’ll study the reproduction, the monument of her shifts. Undressing what haunts him until the hurt becomes his own monument shaking in the steady sway of them—weaving, washing. Velázquez’s women: the brawny breath, a private viewing. Painted, chained to these sheaves, these pipes and valves. ...

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