The Death of the Painter
At the end of his life
he had money and attention,
and certain towns were known
in connection to his name.
He was fastidious, and wore a tie,
was photographed with brushes, with a bird.
under the subtropical sky
he forgave the things long done.
He hardly saw his children,
by habit was self-absorbed. His atelier
was sacrosanct, with the ocean for a view.
When he painted, it was descent
and descent and descent from the cross,
and when he died
the sepulchre was simple.
His late-life love
wept from another room.
James Arthur
I can hear a pin drop in the space defined by this poem. And the line, “When he painted, it was descent/and descent and descent from the cross” has a particularly poignant ring just about now, as I spend every waking moment in the studio finishing the work for my show in July. Looking for the uplift just about now…
Thank you to Rebecca Salt for sending this poem to me.
I love the line “he forgave the things long done.” Though I’m not sure what it might mean, it suggests the resignation in this poem, that—in doing his work—the artist is giving in to something bigger than himself and paying some price. With a show coming up, you must feel in the throes of Art. I hope you are also taking the time to enjoy the work you’ve created—the “things done”—and appreciating them as something bigger than yourself.
Thank you for thoughtful words my friend. When I read what you wrote, I realized that I haven’t taken one moment for weeks to enjoy anything. I’m painting 10-12 hours a day with no moments of joy. I get so focused and just put my head down–shoulder to the wheel, so to speak–and forget to look up. That’s a misery-making way to work and a bad habit I need to break. Thank you for sharing your wisdom on my behalf.