Closed eyes conceal only that which isn’t imagined.
I mark, draw blends, and portray,
the small as though it were large,
the ignored as if it were important,
the shy escaping things
that mark
our having come this way.
With this, my vanguard, I draw, today, this week, and last,
time and space, tomorrow,
measured by the universe, the rule ,
drawing, sketching and painting,
paper thick as skin,
on the floor,
well enough to sit upon and play.
Whisper a private, resolved, secretive thing.
Who hears?
...not what I imagine, but what is here.
A paintingly expressed probable reality,
drawing on the reasons for what we accept,
in this cosmos and, chances are, another,
but for now, a painting,
or drawing,
...not imagined, but true,
knowable, changeable,
an echo of will and intent,
a voice handily made.
Fires of little fusion sparkle
like the flutter of leaves in new dawn air.
The audition of silence
summons awe from inside.
Having come this way
in strength deep and strong,
or lighter than a mite on a dandelion’s whisker,
to a brighter forgotten find
to do what we do best,
and to make that our calling.
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•
The artist is the person
who makes life more interesting or beautiful,
more understandable or mysterious,
or probably,
in the best sense,
more wonderful.
– George Bellows
Portraiture
