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97: Self-portrait on a blank canvas Bruce Goodman © 20 September 2020 |
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The blank canvas calls for colour; a pale blue perhaps for endless sky, a fresh-filled swimming pool, Our Lady of Lourdes, a blue cat. Perhaps a vibrant green for vernal growth, jade parakeets, new chestnut leaves, bile spewed or envy all-consuming. Not everything on a palate’s palatable. Blotches of red; too much splattered that the portrait’s doomed and ruined. Scarlet garnets show for miles. There’s no grace in brazen crimson, no joy in bloodshot blood. I wish that red would fade. Other tints ungrace and grace the picture: a cowardly yellow, fractured gold, orange sunlight shattered, a purple patch, brown (common brown), a slice of black, a splash of grey, bits of missed transparent canvas. Sometimes a person comes along and scrawls unprompted in a space. Most (but first let me stir another dull-sweetened brew)… most enter; and exit after scribbling… nothing much. They mutter in their passing, “What a… what a fucking mess.” I’m sorry, but it's all there is and it’s all I’ve got. |