Bellocq – April 1911There comes a quiet man now to my room–Papa Bellocq, his camera on his back.He wants nothing, he says, but to take meas I would arrange myself, fully clothed–a brooch at my throat, my white hat angledjust so–or not, the smooth map of my fleshawash in afternoon light. In my roomeverything’s a prop for his composition–brass spittoon in the corner, the silvermirror, brush and comb of my toilette.I try to pose as I think he would like–shyat first, then bolder. I’m not so foolishthat I don’t know this photograph we makewill bear the stamp of his name, not mine.
–Natasha Trethewey, Bellocq’s Ophelia (2002)