Preface
I first saw the John Waterhouse portrait of the Lady of Shallot in July 1995 at the Tate Gallery in London, and was astonished by her expression—an odd mixture of fear and submission as she floats precariously to her death. The Lady’s face, so young, her hair, thick and full, wild and free, her gown white, heavy, and flowing, the sleeves dangling over the side of her boat, and with a furrowed, worried brow, she mournfully chants her carol; she is a vision blending into nature. At the time, I was studying at Oxford University, Trinity College, during the summer program offered through the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. Having been out of school for three years, living and working in San Francisco, and generally feeling unsettled, somewhat identifying with Lady’s troubled expression, I considered myself sadly out of place among my peers during that summer, compensating for my inadequacy by excessively drinking. However, standing there in the Tate Gallery (surprisingly alone in the room where Waterhouse’s painting was featured), the Lady overwhelmed me with images of the past year: leaving San Francisco, going back to school, and finally losing my younger sister who died in a car accident.