After Giotto (Forthcoming, Autumn 2027)

After Giotto, a book-length series of poems, was born of Osherow’s visit to Giotto’s Scrovegni Chapel nearly forty years after her first visit, which had been a momentous introduction to fresco, to Christian iconography and mythology and to proto-Renaissance Italian art. The book, which includes sonnets, villanelles, terza rima, couplets and free verse, engages all the preoccupations, passions and obsessions of Osherow’s writing life, from history, religion, ekphrasis and anti-Semitism to the ways both life and art beget art. The images which most moved her on her later visit were not the same ones that had most affected her the first time around. She came to see that she might produce a kind of autobiography out of the changes in her reactions to this great, great work of art over a lifetime. She then spent three weeks in Padova, visiting the Scrovegni Chapel three hours every evening and producing drafts all day, and then the following two and a half years to turning those early drafts into this book. She also visited three twentieth-century artists’ chapels: Matisse’s, Rothko’s and Nevelson’s. Long poems about them—partly in relation to the Giotto—punctuate this book.

Early praise:

“I can’t think of another book about art, certainly not another poetic work, that so thoroughly and rigorously looks at the forms of world-making (as the critics say these days) that art-beholding entails.”
—Wayne Koestenbaum

Annunciation with Clothesline

No dove, just bedclothes waving in the air

between Mary and her announcing angel.

(She now has a married woman’s hair,

the guard points out to me: a braided coil

wrapped in two neat rows around her head.

The guard’s grandmother wore that same hairstyle—

as do Anna, Elizabeth—until the day she died;

that’s how it was done here in the North.)

No dove, just laundry on a line outside,

as if Mary’s already preparing for the birth—

or maybe to suggest that housework

is the holy ghost’s proxy here on earth:

each stir of a pot, darn in a sock,

each scrape, each sweep, each stitch a stand-in dove.

Or maybe the laundry’s Giotto’s little joke.

The chapel’s full of jokes, as if to give

everyone who enters what we seek

whether we’re giddy or contemplative:

bliss, laughter, epiphany, joy, heartache.

The wonder is they flourish side by side,

here audacious, there holding back,

but always pure, uncompromising, vivid.

Or maybe the point is, chores must be done,

the bedclothes scrubbed and rinsed and hung outside

(quick, while there’s still a bit of sun

and a strong, stable, brisk, obliging wind)

Annunciation or no Annunciation.

Unless it’s the other way around

and Giotto means for us to see that miracle

might happen anywhere – won’t be confined

to any single realm, that it’s adaptable

even to our humdrum daily grind,

accommodating, lucid, unstoppable,

stuffed with innuendo, gift, demand,

a one-off visit from a kneeling angel

or piling up like laundry, near at hand.