in the studio of my friend young Alice,
born of painter and poet.
I admired her deeply.
She encouraged my work.
Her widowed mother
showed us two pieces,
red background, black or blue detail:
on one, rough figures in black, streaked with red,
and a few clearly drawn distractions;
on one, a cerulean circle, bold and smooth.
The difference, she said, was suggestion, the basis of art.
the roughness and red obscured and denied;
the blue-on-red suggested colors unseen.
She gave us principles – very rare for her:
paint, don't record.
the act of painting must be primary
through visible brushstrokes - even those created by artifice.
Form is key, the major virtue of the work.
Represent by suggestion.
Together we breathed only one word, how.
Deep breath.
Rapidfire:
we know circle, we know sky, sun -- don't draw
do we need circle, or can it be transformed,
folded on itself, present as shadow, present as void?
overpainted, incomplete?
ovoid imperfection?
Embarrassed by such explicit wordrain,
she fell Silent.
color is the gift, the bonus
color suggests things not drawn
color is emotion
color is beautiful.
It is a striking afternoon, I must go.
We paused by the sink:
she touched each of us, ran fingers thru gloss-black hair,
held a small mirror angled toward the ceiling and said
Henry, I'd like a special gift; nevermind though, I'll pick it up.
Turned to us effusively -- happy thanksgiving.
Mother flinched;
they planned to spend thanksgiving together.
No, thanks can be more thoughtful alone.
I’ll go get my treat, this gorgeous afternoon.
