Directed by: Jutta Pryor (Australia) vimeo.com/pryorart
Poem by: Lois P. Jones (United States) loispjones.com/
Sound by: Peter Verwimp (ASHTORETH) (Belgium)
Available in spoken English or spoken English with German subtitles.
La Scapigliata is an international online poetry film collaboration. All artists contributed original material created specifically for a narrative that investigates historical, social and gender issues. The work fuses four sections of the poem with several production processes, still images, animation, layered blends and video. La Scapigliata (The Woman with Disheveled Hair) After the painting by Leonardo da Vinci is a deep emotive journey seeking to highlight the undying natural beauty and spirit of woman.
LA SCAPIGLIATA (The Woman with Disheveled Hair)
After the painting by Leonardo da Vinci
This face, a house of stars before the fall.
Lorca’s round silence of night.
One note on the stave of the infinite,
as if the head were a hermeneutic circle
that we may know the whole through our parts.
The distance from chin to nose and roots to eyebrows.
In each of us the same.
You can feel Leonardo’s brush above the soft triangle of cheek, the light left below the eyes.
Rooms he admires but never enters, who knows what they have witnessed.
Pupils of a black moon carry the codices of more than one life.
Her thoughts cast toward a world of inner frescoes.
Here is the spirit’s underpainting awash in a clear glaze before a commitment to color
and don’t think she is unaware of her inner nudity, not as one would be conscious of a body
but the way a bolt of silk rests on the edge of a dune.
She can’t stop looking in your direction.
A horizon that never makes its way toward her. Her face as a field, hatch-marks of hay. Hair drawn from wild grasses.
When daylight fell into this small room of her, the body seemed remote.
There is a falling of hands, the light through the window making shapes until you leave.
If she stepped out of her face just once
the landscape would be white foxes at twilight.
Her hand a frozen river, her mouth a creature half locked in ice.
When she looks at you without eyes you see your entire history
as if it were the back of your head.
Winter is the god she returns to.
Disheveled, undone, disarrayed, let down,
the howl of human utterances
the hair à part de ça.
Just as she is just as I was.
Fresh from the ochre linens, feet padding on worn wood leaving sunlight striped across the pillow.
Once I dreamed I awoke in her body.
It was me looking out from the petite form,
just the suggestion of a swell below the neckline,
like two koi coming up for air.
I placed my palms on each gesture.
This is what the mirror saw