The painter makes marks all over the canvas,
all sorts of marks, with different brushes
colors, fast
jabbing
marks, slow lyrical curves,
like a secret language, like
runes,
that map, treasure or passion
until the canvas is filled with a rich surface.
He waits until the paint dries.
He takes two colors, one day an
off-white and a gray, another a
yellow and cerulean blue.
One on top, one on bottom
and where they met, which
is never quite in the middle,
a line forms. It became the
horizon line.
He paints something simple –
a hat, just a shape
so the bottom color is a table top,
the top, a wall in a room.
The hat lays on the table
or hovers above it.
Or he paints two women,
nudes,
their bodies placed just so, defined with
contour lines and flat color.
They stand on the floor of a room, or
sit in a field leaning across the sky.
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