Coming out of the Georgia O’Keeffe exhibit at the Whitney Museum, I left blinded by the beauty of her paintings and lost in reverie by the intensity of her relationship with her husband, Alfred Stieglitz. Through the nude portraits he made of her and the letters she wrote him, I discovered a woman in love, sharing her intimate and naked soul. She could not do otherwise.
New York, 13 June 1918
You will be here in a few minutes I guess but I have to get up and write you - its necessary – I must -
I’ve been lying here listening for you in the dark – my face feels so hot
Aching for you way down to my fingers end – an actual physical ache-
As I came up up the streets into the sunset after supper – I wondered – can stand it – the terrible fineness and beauty of the intensity of you – I do not know – may yet have to run away – it seems almost too much -
The hot sultry sun so brilliant – shining white I could hardly walk toward it -
And lying here – wanting you with such an all ache – not just wanting – loving – feeling – al the parts of my body touched and kissed – conscious of you
A volcano is nothing to it
No words I know say the hotness – consumingness of it
Still I some way feel I can be quiet when you come can control myself
Feeling it growing though – I seem to feel that the moment will come when I cant control myself – when Ill be blind and mad
I have to tell you – I know you know – and still maybe you dont know how really mad I seem to be growing
you will have to think for me when I cannot think for myself
Trust
Why do you know – the trust I have in you is the finest thing Ive ever known
No absolute
The woman you are making seens to have gone far beyond me – Almost out of sight
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