I am fascinated by how painters work. I do not paint. My canvas is the blank computer screen and my material are thoughts and their counterpart in words. I was imagining what it would be like to paint from rote, or when the subject is absent, missing or gone. Time is fleeting, and so is memory. Do you sometimes forget things? My uncle suffered from Alzheimer’s. How painful it must be for his children when their father couldn’t even remember the names of the faces that appeared from nowhere, so it seems. Here’s to remembering and forgetting and being human.
The painter sat on his stool, his colors with him.
The colors were handpicked by his own hand.
The canvas was spread out before him.
The blue was a true one, from the sky.
The red, from a heart that is punctured.
The pink, from a love that won’t die.
The black, from a galactic hole, an abyss.
And all the other colors, from the finest
of the stars commingled in his palette.
Matched by the orchestra that played in his heart,
now, his baton must conduct the turmoil.
But the lady is fading,
and no color can restore what is going — is gone.
The master sat on his stool with the most beautiful colors
to paint an altered memory.
19 September 2010, 17 April 2018