anthropography of Francesca Woodman, American photographer who killed herself at 22, bringing her talent to an end [by Eftychia Panagiotou]

a flash under the sheets.

hand picturing another that once wrote.

everything impossible to disclose

pierced by the mind.

maybe something exciting

like a crack, like a breath

-upright

melody in blind system.

wrists dragged on hands

a painful

click

organ music; stomach hole.

vomits the bed, the suffocating silence.

she knows, the nurse will tell her off, and rings the bell;

she aches for someone to keep coming.

what happened was words

her mind blossoms on a wire.

she slowly moves her broken hip,

a true woodpecker,

present in the ceremony, festive,

she wears a white Victorian dress.

(her father dancing before the window.

her brother dictating the rhythm.

not a step missed, her mother singing,

and everything is jubilant),

so jubilant without me

what I cannot see

they call bliss

(tormenting steps and off-key voices around a receiver,

and tears)

one word – s’ wet – and all is darkened once again.

pupil addicted to colours

something impossible to utter

sincerely

entirely human

Translated by Lena Kallergi and Vassilis Manoussakis