Angela Carr

 

A Valence House

Whenever I braid my hair, the mistaking of one smaller strand makes for
an unbalanced plait, one that is impossible to complete, for the thinner
strand slips from my finger, unwinding. It is easier to achieve two strands
of equal strength; balance is given more easily to two than three;
strolling groups diverge into couples; the Easter sun races through dusk,
night and day forming the largest portion. So the braid undoes itself,
refusing an integral meaning.

This is the case with Louise Labe, myself, and the much conjectured
after third party who was the object of her sonnets, her lover. One of us
is too thin; most often it is myself or the beloved (whom I have called H).
One of us is too thin, the braid unwinds, the hair is wild, words flying left
and right with no rational temper. I know too little about myself, and
even less about the beloved, the ghost of a ghost.

The beloved I call H after Henri, the French dauphin and then king in
Louise’s lifetime. Henri was defeated in Perpignan in the war of 1542;
according to myth, Louise single-handedly defeated an entire army at
Perpignan when accompanying this future king to war. A second myth
writes that in 1542 she participated in a tournament for the dauphin dur-
ing a carnival to celebrate his appearance in Lyons. In this capacity, the
swordswoman, she is known as le capitaine Loys. That she loved Henri
is a rumour; that she loved someone other than her husband seems
undeniable.

 

Melanie Shatzky, next three images from the series Predilection. C-prints, 2001.