I sit in silence watching the layers
of self worked by the artist onto the
canvass; wondering what depth she as reached.
Did she start with my birth as I kicked and
screamed from comfort into life; now faced with
an explosion of air which punched me
into being.
Or the consuming years which have mouldered
my skin to experience. As she worked
into my hair the punishment weather
as wrought, or the scar which she delicately
traces with her brush.
I see more layers being added but
still I sit in silent protest. She is
unravelling my carefully constructed
image; revealing truths I had tried
to hide. I see her watching, studying
her subject, then a colour is replaced
as she adds background.
Is it a scene I am familiar
with? Will I recognise the eyes? Is it
a man who walks alone in disagreement
with his thoughts? Is it just a face in a
crowd; unrecognisable, undistinguishable,
but there in every smile, every frown.
Or as I suspect a retching out of
inner spew; guts, entrails and all.
Revealing images: first an arm,
a hand, a leg. It is as though she is
revealing layers to add more depth.
Image is stroked upon image to reveal
a nakedness hidden from the eye. Soon
she is revealing bone as she takes my
universe back to the big bang.
I am aware of this forceful penetration,
as though she is fishing for my soul.
I feel unease as another secret
is plucked from my mind; a rip in the fabric
of being. I struggle to project
another image onto her brush, afraid
of what I may find within myself. She
is pulling me ever closer, teasing
me with a kiss left suspended in air.
I watch her lips as the seduction draws
me ever closer. She is temptation; desire
fools me into revealing more of myself.
She is satisfied. As she releases
me from her gaze I am left in a state
of shock. The intimacy we have shared
is revealed. I stumble forward. She
as fed upon my soul. Her lips part in
a sigh. I stumble again; crane my neck,
it is a moment of inner truth.
But the canvass is blank.
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