Her name was Andromache, she was beautiful and strong like a real woman should be and used to be. Her hair was long, thick, dark and would blow in the wind like the sails of a ship blowing on the seas.
Her skinned was smoothed with exotic oils and the finest luxury care that could be afforded.
Andromache was tall, refined, stunning and every bit the Greek looking goddess she was meant to be.
Her life was a life of a Greek queen. She was worshiped as she should and would also worship the man that would give his very last breath for her. Her man was the kind of man we mostly no longer make. He was a real man, a warrior man, strong, proud, defiant and loving. Nothing could touch him, nothing could affect him, nothing could break his love for his wife. His name was Hector.
Yet here I was sitting in a Museum in Manchester across the small, aged leather sofa looking and studying a painting by Frederic Lord Leighton, 1888, at the Manchester City Art Galleries.
It’s a ancient Greek looking scene.
There are 15 women in the line all waiting to get water from the well. All the women look happy going along their regular business. There are 6 in front of Andromache and 8 behind her. There is a gap, Andromache stands out, it’s clear she has fallen and feels alien where she is. They all notice her, how can they fail to.
She was the wife of Hector. Hector now lay dead killed by Achilles and left rotting with the dead of battle, for the birds to devour.
She looked sad in the scene yet as I spent 20 minutes studying the painting I couldn’t help myself getting into her brain,… continue reading
