Mirror of love

Mirror of love, pencil drawing

She is looking at the woman in front of her, admiring her, being fascinated by her beauty, her tall slim stature, her soft white skin, her long dark hair, her white dress 👗 her jewelry, everything about her.
Does she want to be her or her lover? Does she want this beautiful girl or her dress and jewelry?
They look so similar, like twins and while they stay face to face they seem to be one    and the same person in front of a mirror.
Many women and girls admire other women and tend to draw and paint 🎨 young beautiful girls, not handsome men.

I've made this pencil ✏ drawing starting from an older version, a drawing I've made by the year 2004 wanting to have someone like me next to me. I had some dreams about the girl with dark hair in the drawing by that time even if I've never meet her.

The drawing I've made by the year 2004

Sappho's girl-garden

This is my painting of Eranna Gyrinna Gyara and Gorgo, the young girls Sappho has written the poem below for.

This is my song of maidens dear to me.
Eranna, a slight girl I counted thee,
When first I looked upon thy form and face,
Slim as a reed, and all devoid of grace.
But stately stature, grace and beauty came
Unto thee with the years — O, dost not shame
For this, Eranna, that thy pride hath grown
Therewith? Alas for thee ! I have not known
One beauty ever of more scornful mien,
As though thou wert of all earth's daughters queen!
Mnasidica is comelier, perchance,
Than my Gyrinna — ah, but sweetly rings
Gyrinna's matchless voice ! In rapture-trance
I listen, listen, while Gyrinna sings.
Hero of Gyara is fleet of foot
As fawns, and as light-footed in the dance,
The dance taught by the measures of my lute.
Ever-impassioned Gorgo! — is it strange
That I grow weary of the change on change
Of thine adored ones? — of thy rhapsodies
O'er each new girlfriend, while the old love dies?
Joy to thee, daughter of a princely race,
For thy last dear one! Lie in her embrace —
Till shines a new star on thy raptured eyes!
Fonder of maids thou art, I trow, than she.
The ghost who nightly steal young girls, to be
In Hades of her woeful company.
This is my fair girl-garden: sweet they grow —
Rose, violet, asphodel and lily's snow;
And which the sweetest is, I do not know;
For rosy arms and starry eyes are there.
Honey-sweet voices and cheeks passing fair.
And these shall men, I ween, remember long;
For these shall bloom for ever in my song.