By contrast, the second photograph unsettles me. Ava—who moments before looked so lovely, seated, her lustrous mane petrified—here appears entirely unhinged. Her graceful, perfect silhouette remains, as does the delicious articulation of her right leg; yet from the left side she proposes a gesture that twists the ankle joint to the very limit of what is viable. Up to this point, everything is still assumable, tolerable—for true devotees.

What the axis connecting head and torso reveals, however, is a violent, antinatural contortion. Were we to crop the photograph at the level of the abdomen, we would see a woman being swallowed by a diabolical whirlpool. Her facial expression is one of surprise, as if she suddenly realized she has been seized by a predatory beast of impossible proportions. I have seen few torsos more agitated than this—none, perhaps, except those devoured by dinosaurs in Jurassic films. Her hair suffers; she suffers; the golf, the club, and the ball suffer as well.

Strictly speaking, the ball itself does not appear in the image, even though we can see the sole of her shoe. Given who she is—Ava Gardner, a global star—it is hardly surprising that she might look for the ball over her shoulder. What I cannot imagine is how the ball must have behaved to provoke such a determined gesture of annihilation.

These are two photographs that present us with two different Ava Gardners. Within them lie systems of signs one could spend hours revisiting. It is not worth it. This may well be a frivolous post—or an entrada, as we say in Spanish. Perhaps even extremely frivolous. But how else could I allow myself the pleasure of telling you—and telling myself—how deeply, and how painfully, I am drawn to this woman?