inches from the brushstrokes
of a master. . .
and yet I'm alone
in my own time and space
—red lights, January 2012
the green
in van Gogh's Roses
vibrant enough
to be supernatural. . .
a man just weeks from death
in van Gogh's Roses
vibrant enough
to be supernatural. . .
a man just weeks from death
—red lights, January 2012
van Gogh's Irises
arising
from brushstroked ground
the depth of his
perennial blueness
arising
from brushstroked ground
the depth of his
perennial blueness
—Sixty Sunflowers, 2007
I end up making the across-town trek to the museum by myself. It's been many years since I've been there, and the facilities have nearly doubled in size. Midmorning on a weekday: the main parking lot is overflowing, yet oddly I'm the only one roaming the rooms of this particular special exhibit. That is, except for the watchful eyes of a guard, who I guess needs to ensure I don't stuff a work of art into my purse. Still, I manage to get as close to the paintings as possible without actually touching them. Dust-quiet, the only sounds are the conversations of old masters.