At the Magnolia Hotel, and: Retreat into Night (Wave, Night, 1928), and: Ranchos Church, Taos, 1929, and: Black and White

At the Magnolia Hotel

O'Keeffe leaves the green enclave of Charlottesvillefor the vast expanse of blue above Amarillo,where the tracks of three railroads meetlike a metal star pounded onto ground.By day, thousands of cattle are goadedacross the plains, creating an earth-boundcloud of dust, while at night, distantcampfires shine like dissolving moons.Cowboys wear the smell of cattlelike cologne. As a sign of respect,they knock the mud from their heels,spit before entering the hotelwhere dinner is served on china platesheaping with shimmering slabsof seared beef. Amid this reekand clatter, like a studyin black and gray,Georgia O'Keeffelifts her fork.

Retreat into Night (Wave, Night, 1928)

    Sometimes the moon is a revenant, reluctantto part with the shrouds of mourning; sometimes,

    an insomniac in soft-slippered feet. In this painting,it is a distant shard, a destination above the line

    where the water breaks, above the line where it scrimsthe shore. At the edge of this well that nature creates,

    where susurrus waves are like the churningof our minds, it's easier to examine

    the shadows of ourselves. O'Keeffe knowsthat we long for darkness with its prescribed vision.

    Once, she mounted black fabric inside a black frame,hung it on her bedroom wall—peace found

    in what remains unformed.

Ranchos Church, Taos, 1929

It's the back of this building—windowless,unadorned—that fascinates O'Keeffe. The beautyof adobe is that it has no sharp angles—every corner

is a curve. Late afternoon light glazeswalls the color of toast, lightly browned;shadows scatter like picnic blankets tossed

to the ground. But in her rendition,there are no human forms, no detritusof everyday life. The building appears

to have risen unbidden from the ground,fills the canvas like the settingof an empty stage where we each will stand

alone beneath the gaze of God.

Black and White

At first, Stieglitz wants to photograph    only O'Keeffe's hands, the demure

black dress with its white collar,    her artwork in the background

like a halo. Then, he watches her paint    in the nude in her citrus-colored room,

her body a pale seed splitting. Nothing    moves but her hands, the brush,

an orchestra of dust motes scoring light.    He brings her to 1111 Madison where

his bed sits four-square in his dressing room;    the bed of his wife Emmy is an empty locket

down the hall. Each pose is an exploration, each    snap of his camera's shutter mimes a caress.

When Emmy returns she senses what hovers in that room    even if she refuses to utter its name,

bitterness on her tongue like something unripe.    Her white gloves tumble

haphazardly to the floor,    each finger full of emptiness.