Extrem Female Genital Tattoos

art, poetry and song

(Jules Joseph Lefebvre, Ophelia)

There's rosemary, that means remembrance - pray you love, remember - and there are
violets, which are for thoughts.
(W. Shakespeare - Hamlet, Act IV, Scene V)

Shakespeare, you know, he loved women.
His works are studded with beautiful portraits of the great female characters: Portia, the smart princess from 'The Merchant of Venice', Titania, queen of the fairies in the whimsical 'Dream of a midsummer night', Desdemona, the woman betrayed of 'Othello', the intrepid Viola de 'Twelfth Night'. And again, the indomitable Catherine de 'The Taming of the Shrew', the loving force Cordelia in 'King Lear', the incomparable Lady Machbet , Juliet, who defies the reputation of the family to love ...
are many, and are characterized, almost all from a single cunning and independence, or a great inner strength.
Then, there are cases like that of Ophelia .
Ophelia, naive and delicate as a flower, one of those who likes to pick flowers and weave one last time before the fatal death that awaits in the guise of a willow branch is too weak to support his weight, which breaks, leaving fall into a river from the murky waters
Ophelia, made mad by love.
A fragile character and clear. Disappointed and desperate.
Yet, despite their apparent simplicity, is she the woman Shakespeare's most mysterious.
The most represented, the most praised, most loved ... to the point that painters, poets and songwriters have repeatedly grappled with his character, with its vacant look and indifferent, marked by a pain too large and impossible to understand .
Ophelia, that graceful picking flowers, not knowing that soon it will rest on the riverbed.

(John Everett Millais, Ophelia)

There is a willow grows
across a stream and reflected its leaves in the glassy
current, here she was, her head adorned with strange

garlands of buttercups, nettles, daisies
and those long purple flowers
that licentious poets bucolic
designate with longer run
name but that our maidens loth
all called "dead fingers", she up there while
climbed to hang the
erboree its garlands hanging from the branches, a branch
, envious
is broken and the grassy
trophies and herself fell in the river, weeping.
His clothes, expanding the water, the
have supported for a while afloat,
in while she, as a mermaid,
sang ancient songs of inspiration, as unconscious of his misfortune

or as a creature of another realm
familiar with that element.
But not for long, because his clothes
weighed down by the water absorbed
trascinaron
the poor from the bed of her singing to a muddy death.
(W. Shakespeare - Hamlet, Act IV, Scene VII)

(Paul Albert Steck, Ophelia)

(Carl FW Trautschold, Ophelia)

(Richard Redgrave, Ophelia )

(James Sant, Ophelia)

(Pascal Adolphe Jean Dagnan, Ophelia)

Ofelia
I
Waterfront calm and black, where the stars sleep, like a great lily
waving the white Ophelia,
sway slowly, lying between long veils ...
- are heard distant cries from the woods hunting.
Son more than a thousand years sad Ophelia
passes, white ghost, in the long black river.
Son more than a thousand years her sweet madness
a rumored romance to the evening breeze.

The wind kisses her breasts and reveals a large corolla
veils gently cradled by the waters;
rustling willows weep on her shoulder, the wide
dreamy face bend the reeds.
tap water lilies around the sigh,
she sometimes wakes up in a sleeping alder,
a nest from which escapes a small wing with anger:
- a mysterious chant falls from the stars of gold. II O pale Ophelia

, beautiful as snow!
you died young girl, kidnapped by a river!
- The winds that rush from the mountains of Norway
you had talked about the tremendous freedom and a puff
, upsetting your bushy hair, wearing strange rustling
dreamy soul;
your heart to hear the song of Nature in
groans of the fronds, the sighs of the nights, the roar of the seas in
fury, like a huge gasp, breaking
your breasts sour, too sweet and human and
April morning, a handsome pale knight, a poor crazy
sat mute at your knees!
Heaven! Love! Freedom! What a dream, my poor fool! You
you to him as snow melted in the sun
your great vision you strozzavan
the word - and the Infinite tremendous lost your blue eyes!
III
And the poet says that the rays of the stars
comes to look at night, the flowers that cogliesti;
and he saw the water, lying between the long veils White Ophelia
the swaying like a great lily.
(Arthur Rimbaud)

(Arthur Hughes, Ophelia)

(Eugene Delacroix, The death of Ophelia)

(Georges Jules Victor Clairin, Ophelia)

(Henry Gervex, Ophelia)

(Annie Ovenden, Ophelia)

(Henry Nelson O'Neil, Ophelia)

"...Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid

To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession's her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah's great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row..."
(Bob Dylan - Desolation row)