I make a rendezvous with Silas,
Russian
Prussian blue,
an artist now though I knew him in another time and married to a friend of mine he knows me well.
We sit a spell and chat a while about the passing of acquaintances and the commencement of his new commission of which he says he holds the ammunition to paint a catastrophe of events across the canvas.
I am war, says he with a touch of irony, too much TV and his father died as he was born, torn apart by random shell amid the hell of Normandy.
I see Silas as the antidote to all men who profess to be what he paints and it comforts him as he wrote me at some great length that some can understand even if they cannot feel or see his point in paint.
A canvas ain't a book that all can look and see for stretched out on the canvas are the crosses of his Calvary.
Silas leaves me with his blue
We make a date to make another rendezvous,
It's what old men and artists do to pass the time of day.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 7:53 PM UTC
I make a rendezvous with Silas,
Russian
Prussian blue,
an artist now though I knew him in another time and married to a friend of mine he knows me well.
We sit a spell and chat a while about the passing of acquaintances and the commencement of his new commission of which he says he holds the ammunition to paint a catastrophe of events across the canvas.
I am war, says he with a touch of irony, too much TV and his father died as he was born, torn apart by random shell amid the hell of Normandy.
I see Silas as the antidote to all men who profess to be what he paints and it comforts him as he wrote me at some great length that some can understand even if they cannot feel or see his point in paint.
A canvas ain't a book that all can look and see for stretched out on the canvas are the crosses of his Calvary.
Silas leaves me with his blue
We make a date to make another rendezvous,
It's what old men and artists do to pass the time of day.
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