1 of few.
3.16.18 – Fence-sitting
I was ready for patterns again. I could hear the high whine of a machine eager to stab and mark me for a fine offering. I didn’t always watch the paint dry, but I think I imagined it would have a certain kind of interest to it if we could pinch in on that stream and see it slowing before any moved off canvas. A delicate build was happening when the oil was extruded and caught in its course over the last aggravated stroke. Here I was anticipating a wince and extended blink to keep me from watching each drop added to the under-drawing. There’d be no way to bear tight witness on that act; only the artist got to know his secrets.
I’d already spent time on translating the lines to a fine symbol. Meaning mattered to those who might find it in decades past decay and I wanted it to still hold the integrity of its initial intent. I didn’t have the capacity to erect such a structure in simplicity or elegance so I did as all masters did and found something better to steal and bury in my own yard. It was easy enough to keep such things secret as long as you knew there was no need to dig them up and enjoy them. I’d watch that still-life from the window and peer through whatever covered its face without the benefit of remote-viewing; it was a power that came from ownership and the lack of anxiety over transferring it.
When time wore even me away I’d have to let that piece come back to the surface and find life again on walls and halls where others could gain first-hand accounts of that ink and its circuit. Maybe I’d be wrong and its meaning would have faded with me, but at least the walk from here to there would always be a layer available to those who chose to look further in.