Circle

Lisa Fremont

6 Lisa Fremont from Hitchcock’s Rear Window She says she would follow him across tundras, through forests with green roofs, sweat, caked dirt. She would give up the cover of Life Magazine, lunches with women held up by thin necks. She thinks she would give up tables of pyramid stacked with Gruyère cheese and salmon, finger sandwiches crumbling like an ocean, daily visits from suitors, the haute-couture one-piece dress. But who wouldn’t want a tailor-made dress, stitched by Balmain, Chanel, Guy Laroche? Fabric that follows the contour of the body, made by physicians of figures, fold and stitch, slipstitch the casing, a dress that makes any shape look good. Who wouldn’t want to sleuth, telescope in hand, tiptoeing with binoculars, poking in Thorwald’s drawers, the underground world of hashish, saws, and crowbars? How strangely her many selves paradox one another, fight for light. What is it that each wants, driving and driving towards a surface? We think she is a precursor, cursed in a betweenness. When he sees her, he only sees petals of Teton sky, 7 too perfect to break, as she swings in a cage, chirping, waiting for him to fill her dish with food. But I love how nothing in her minds her state, how she lets others, much later, mind for her. ...