“A picture is worth a thousand words,” coined by Henrik Isben, according to Google, is the phrase that comes to mind when reading “Bellocq’s Ophelia” because Natasha Tretheway proved him wrong. She gave meaning to Bellocq’s images; without her creating narrative, we’d just believe that he was a man with a weird hobby who just so happened to capture history. The poet’s tale and the picture could truly go hand in hand. Her story does follow one fictional octoroon prostitute but the portrayal of life could resonate with many like her during that time. Sought after only because of the fetishization men possess to want to dominate a ‘black women in white skin’. Constantly, questioning her own identity and how she is viewed by herself, others, and to Bellocq’s camera lens.
All viewpoints of her identity can be narrowed down to one thing; to sculpt herself to fit what is desired. Throughout the book, she morph’s her own image to please a plethora of men whose requests vary. In the poem, February 1911, she lists what the men tend to want: “nothing but to talk and hear the soft tones of a woman’s voice; others prefer simply to gaze upon me, my face turned from them as they touch only themselves,” and acknowledges that some acts should never be put down on paper. The fear that resonates with her father lingers into adulthood causing her image to be what she holds dear which is why she does her best to satisfy everyone regardless of their pronouns. Having him gaze upon her as though he sees her, the true her riddled with imperfections and mask crumbled. In Father, she says, “I wanted him to like me, think me smart/, delicate colored girl-not the wild/ pickaninny roaming the fields, barefoot.” Her education lessons are stripped away from her; she even stumbles to write grammatically correct, but I guess it doesn’t really matter in a diary. It’s just the appropriate place to be unapologetically defenseless. She, like the contortionist mentioned in Vignette, is always putting on a show, contorting into someone else to please a crowd. The acts constantly cause her to shield the world from her true identity which she progressively grows tiresome of and eventually comes out from behind the facade in the end.
The unfathomable acts she performs in prostitution aren’t the only audience, but also, the lens of Bellocq. She shares in her letters how she feels uncomfortable in front of the lens only to, again, have to suck it up and meet the photographic demands asked of her because he believes she is “right for the camera”. (Portrait #2) However, peering into her diary the reader knows that Ophelia knows none of it is real– just a facade to capture a moment of ‘truth’ or ‘beauty’ that if not encapsulated at the right moment will be destroyed by a scratch of a fingernail. For the majority of the novel, Ophelia is stuck inside the frame of what others would like her to be, an image distorted by the world’s need in order to survive. Even when she is not working, walking the streets of New Orleans she feels it’s necessary to gain acceptance by passersby. In a Letter Home, Ophelia writes, “Do I deceive/ anyone? Were they to see my hands, brown/ as your dear face, they’d know I’m not quite/ what I pretend to be”. She constantly tries to blend into the background and not to draw attention to herself, so no one would notice that she’s a negress passing as one of them, especially a lewd and promiscuous woman.
Acting, in general, is a centralized aspect of Ophelia’s life since birth. Whether it is trying to impress a customer, posing for a photo, or simply walking down the street, Ophelia is never fulfilled in her own skin. She is always behaving in a certain manner to meet the expectations of others and loses part of herself in this process. The question that can never truly be answered; was the lessons of race equates to worth that sent her to question herself or was it when she took initiative to solicit herself to stay finically afloat? Either way, along the process she lost herself through it her experiences. Ultimately, just becomes a snapshot, a picture of a woman still in place; as mysterious as an illusion open to perception. Similar to the Duck-Rabbit Ambiguous Figure where every answer is correct. There is no right or wrong about who Ophelia is because she herself does not know, which is why in this telling of Bellocq’s work she is perfect for the lens. No individuality shines though thus why no real communication is there, just a blank canvas ready to be labeled by the observer.