Her mother, who had travelled young to Sicily, encouraged her to tour Europe until the money ran out. When she left college she didn’t know where her place in the world was, so the answer seemed to be to explore it.
Who knew whether her very own Dante might not be standing on some corner, while she swept luminously by?īesides, even when she was not Beatrice, she was a New York girl having a wonderful time. Her dollar-a-night hotel was on the Arno, and she had a corny postcard of a Victorian painting by Henry Holiday that showed Beatrice walking by the river, in shining white, ignoring the stricken Dante, who pressed his pounding heart at the sight of her. She had studied the “Divine Comedy” with Robert Fitzgerald at Sarah Lawrence in New York, and had fallen in love with that notion of unattainable beauty. On the contrary, she was imagining she was Dante’s Beatrice.
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Then she would laugh her boisterous full laugh and say, not at all. Wasn’t she afraid? Surely she was upset? Her downcast eyes, that clutch of her shawl, strongly suggested both those things. They stared and leered one grabbed his crotch their calls were almost audible. Whenever it surfaced, in restaurants, in students’ rooms, on T-shirts, on tote bags, so did the questions for Ninalee Allen Craig, who walked at its heart through a phalanx of Italian men. THE photograph, by Ruth Orkin, was called “American Girl in Italy, Florence, 1951”. The star of one of the 20th century’s most famous and controversial images was 90
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