Elizabeth Montgomery sat relaxed in a weathered wicker chair

 Circa 1970, Elizabeth Montgomery sat relaxed in a weathered wicker chair on the sunlit porch of her California home, the kind of chair that creaked just slightly when shifted, its weave worn smooth by years of afternoon breezes and quiet contemplation. She wore a loose, linen blouse, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a pair of faded denim trousers—no makeup, no jewelry, no trace of Samantha Stephens. Her dark hair, slightly tousled by the wind, fell naturally around her face, and in her hands she held a well-thumbed copy of *The Second Sex*, its pages dog-eared at passages she had underlined in pencil. This was not a publicity shot. There was no studio lighting, no stylist, no network executive hovering behind the camera. It was a moment captured by a friend, or perhaps herself, in a quiet lapse between rehearsals, between roles, between the noise of fame and the stillness she had learned to crave. The chair held her not as a star, but as a woman—grounded, thoughtful, entirely present.

By 1970, Montgomery had moved beyond the gilded cage of *Bewitched*, the show that had made her a household name but also threatened to define her entirely. Though the series had ended its run in 1972, its legacy was already cemented—and Montgomery, no longer bound by its constraints, was reshaping her career with deliberate intention. She turned to television movies that tackled issues rarely addressed on prime-time TV: single motherhood, postpartum depression, the quiet desperation of women trapped in loveless marriages. In these roles, she brought the same emotional precision she once used to make a nose twitch feel like a revelation. Sitting in that wicker chair, she was not rehearsing lines or posing for a fan magazine. She was reading, reflecting, breathing. The chair itself—a humble, handmade piece, likely purchased at a local market—became an extension of her philosophy: that beauty and meaning resided not in grandeur, but in simplicity, in texture, in the ordinary rhythms of a life lived with awareness.

The porch, with its peeling paint and hanging ferns, was her sanctuary. It was where she wrote letters to friends, where she listened to jazz records on a crackling turntable, where she watched the sunset over the hills with her husband, Robert Foxworth, and their daughter, Rebecca. The wicker chair had become her throne—not of power, but of peace. Photographs from this time rarely show her in motion; instead, they capture her in repose, eyes half-closed, a book open on her lap, one leg curled beneath her. There is no urgency in her stillness. No need to perform. In an industry that thrived on motion—on quick cuts, on smiles, on the next project—Montgomery chose silence. And in that silence, she found her most authentic voice. She once told a journalist, “I don’t want to be remembered for how I looked. I want to be remembered for how I felt.” Sitting there, in that chair, she was feeling everything: the weight of her past, the hope of her future, the quiet ache of being a woman who had spent years speaking for others, and now was learning to speak for herself.

This image—of Elizabeth Montgomery in a wicker chair—has endured not because it is glamorous, but because it is human. It does not flatter. It does not idealize. It shows the faint lines around her eyes, the way her fingers rest lightly on the page, the slight slouch of shoulders that have carried too many scripts and too many expectations. Yet there is strength in that slouch, too: the strength of someone who has stopped trying to hold herself upright for an audience. The wicker, with its natural imperfections and handwoven resilience, mirrors her own journey—not flawless, not polished, but enduring. She had spent years perfecting the art of illusion on screen; now, she was mastering the art of truth off it. The chair held her not as a star, but as a woman who had chosen to be seen—fully, honestly, without the filter of magic or makeup.

In the decades since, this quiet portrait has become a touchstone for those who seek to understand the real Elizabeth Montgomery—not the witch who made children laugh, but the woman who made women feel seen. In an age that now celebrates vulnerability and authenticity, her image in that wicker chair feels profoundly modern: a woman reclaiming her space, her time, her stillness. She did not need a wand to change the world. She needed a chair, a book, a porch, and the courage to sit quietly in the sunlight and be, simply and completely, herself. And in that act of sitting—of refusing to rush, to perform, to pretend—she offered something far more powerful than magic: permission. Permission to be tired. Permission to be quiet. Permission, finally, to be enough.