I’m waylaid by light-fingered perspectives and culpable clouds in a
gallery so still that each landscape seethes in framed frustration, oils
of the Grand River begin to surge under sensitive skin, currents that
slyly drift in this preserved room with depths shallow and deep. Banks
barely hold supplicant trees that creak-creak knowing eyes, and layers
hide orphaned fox cubs, three sleeping, according to sheer imagination.
There is a moment, a treason moment, when I long to slip the art from
all holding pens, toss each outdoors, mindless of reason or consequence,
such is my empathy for boxed, old strokes, genuine and replete yet defiant.
Paint speaks. Its heartbeat blinds as it repeats pastoral scenes with the ochre
and puce of distant thunder; oh, I taste wind, smell resistance in blues while
inspiration sways on fields so prepared for rain, a dance of wildflowers.
Restorative, my drowning, for umber’s touch is soft. I’m suddenly freed
from worn floors as the hum of Watson’s mossy greens grows stronger.
Gone, blood and bone, for one hour I belong in another’s cherished miles...
for one perfect hour I disappear into canvas and linseed.
By Cyndi MacMillan, Nov 20, 2012
For Nette Onclaud's Synesthesia, Inner Body Movement Contest
*Homer Watson (1855-1936) was a Canadian landscape artist. The Homer Watson House and Gallery features many of his works, though his masterpieces are scattered around Canada. To see his painting, Near the Close of a Stormy Day, see the About this Poem link, if you are able.