Sleeping Gypsy

La Bohémienne endormie, or Sleeping Gypsy, was painted by Henri Rousseau in 1897. He described it like this: “A wandering Negress, a mandolin player, lies with her jar beside her (a vase with drinking water), overcome by fatigue in a deep sleep. A lion chances to pass by, picks up her scent, yet does not devour her. There is a moonlight effect, very poetic. The scene is set in a completely arid desert. The gypsy is dressed in oriental costume.”

After completing the paining, Rousseau tried to sell it to his hometown, Laval. The mayor showed no interest, and the painting—eventually bought by a private collector—disappeared for years. It was rediscovered in 1924 in a charcoal merchant’s shop in Paris, fourteen years after Rousseau’s death. Today, it is on display at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

If we were to take Rousseau’s painting apart—object by object—we could be left with a list. On that list there would be a gathering of separate things, disconnected from one another:

a sleeping woman wearing a colourful dress, holding a stick,

a lion,

a desert landscape,

a mandolin,

a vase,

a moon,

a sky

Each element with its own potential for a story and its own symbolism. Symbolism unfolding itself differently for each viewer, shaped by their experiences and their capacityfor meaning-making. The power of symbolic thinking lies in stepping away from the literal and looking at the same canvas from a different perspective.

One could focus on the colours of the woman’s dress (and wear one instead of trousers),

or the lion’s eye (and write an essay about it),

or the desert landscape (and reminisce about their homeland),

or the mandolin (and feel a burning desire to play an instrument),

or the shape of the vase (and put some flowers in their own),

or the fact that it is a full moon, not a crescent (and paint both),

or the colour of the sky (and go outside to look up).

I’ve ascribed my own meaning to this painting—the whole painting. In November 2024 (I know because I write down my dreams, and this one I even drew), I dreamt about a woman who gifted me a piece of fabric. At first glance, it looked quite ordinary— its uniqueness apparent only after I touched it with my fingers. Its delicate and smooth texture surprised me.  She told me to sew something beautiful out of that delicate material. The woman was generous, even though she didn’t look like someone who had a lot. She was older than me, knew more about life, she was savvy. Because of the wide, flower-patterned dress she was wearing, she reminded me of some gypsy women from old movies I used to watch as a child. She also reminded me of my auntie and my mum, who used to dance to Roma music wearing flowy, flowery skirts.

These women are vidid in my mind. They are colourful, imperfect, wise, and not afraid of life.

The woman from the painting has everything she needs. She has her stick, which helps her walk as far as she feels compelled to, water so that she is never thirsty, and the mandolin she plays whenever she needs company. And there is a lion, whose presence—even though ephemeral, and beyond her control—grants her protection from the undesirable. She is not afraid, therefore free.

The print of that painting is on the wall of our living room. Sometimes, I talk with the gypsy woman. I ask her questions. In her own time, she answers. I have learned to be patient in these conversations.

She knows. And I listen.

References: A beautiful blog Byron’s Muse, You Tube video by MoMA, NY, Wikipedia, Britannica