Jackson Pollock et al
“I’ve been doing more painting lately,” she says, her eyes sparkling like a
Gauguin girl poised at the edge of a deep dark green forest. “But I don’t
think you would like them,” she adds sipping her coffee. Women, I think
to myself, women. “Now why do you say that?” I ask. “I don’t know. They
are really abstract and you’re more classical in your tastes.” “But I love
the Impressionists,” I say in a weak defense. “I’m not Impressionistic.
I am really Abstract, really,” she repeats. “Remember that painting in
Robert’s office? You said you didn’t like it. I paint like that. Nope, I don’t
think you’ll like my paintings.” If she could see the mess, the churning
colour, texture, feelings, the massive cacophony swirling inside my head
she certainly wouldn’t be saying that. But I can’t let it rest, I can’t. I love
Abstract Art, I really do. I admit I don’t understand it as well as I’d like, but
I am trying to learn more, certainly finding it easy to appreciate Paul Klee,
Wassily Kandinsky, Umberto Boccioni, Jackson Pollack, and the others.
“I’d like to see some of your paintings anyway. Maybe I could write
poems to go along with them.” (The audacity, my hubris knows no
bounds, to think I can write a poem to go along with anything, really,
particularly with Abstract Art, Jesus what an idiot I am.) “It might be
interesting, an interesting coming together of two art forms.” “OK,” she
says right away, “I’ll send a couple to you over email.” Yes, her eyes are
sparkling, sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight, or like cat’s eyes. In the
five years I have known her, I’ve never seen her as excited, as animated,
as this. She’s so excited I can barely eat my lunch. So she’s an artist.
She’s really an artist. All she needs to do now is carve out some time and
do it. She needs to study the masters and practice like crazy, paint, paint,
paint until her knuckles are sore. Say, where is Jackson Pollock when we
need him anyway?
Michael Estabrook has been publishing his poetry in the small press since the 1980s. He has published over 20 collections, a recent one being The Poet’s Curse, A Miscellany (The Poetry Box, 2019). He lives in Acton, Massachusetts.
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