Agnes in London
1
unprepared for this
the tall door opens
and there are the paintings
72in x 72in and full of nothing
the most delicate stripes of colour
‘midst an intricacy of making
nothing else but beauty
and the mystery of life
2
Here’s what’s left of her beginnings
after the landscapes the portraits
the biomorphic forms : abstraction
so very green with loneliness
and the wish to be the solitary self
3
She wanted to be like Picasso
a painter who worked hard
this room is full of that hard work
experimental embroidered forms
beginnings symptomatic of ‘the grid’
set amongst sculptured objects found
roughly brought together
urban : hard-edged
4
Just three compositions
the beaten gold leaf of Islands
the Chinese go board of Friendship
the nothingness of Grey Stone
you saw the meticulously pencilled
hardly visible lines – hiding
5
More of the same but
noticing the rectangle
set inside the square
the all-important border
and the pin-pricked holes
for a guiding thread?
6
*On a clear day
rise and look around you
how it will astound you
that glow of your being
outshining every star*
. . . the Streisand song
a clue to expressing
an innocence of mind
or thirty variations
on a simple grid
7
The colour of the rock
at dawn at noon at sunset
Agnes in the desert
a soft brush on acrylic gesso
dividing colour fields
with the graphite pencil
masking tape and metal ruler
subtle irregularities
a liquid pooling of paint
when viewed close to
8
The greyness you loved
and sat transfixed
to view the textures
I could barely grasp
they were floating therein
a reduction of means
9
neither objects nor space
nor time nor anything
there in this silence
of the whispering kind
at the still centre
you told me you saw
a blueness in all this white
these twelve canvases
of acrylic paint
and graphite line
10
Here her final work
a drawing on paper
rich in the tremor of inconsistency
conveying (the catalogue said)
a sense of optical vibration
art as a realm
of transcendent experience
like nature itself
11
her final canvases
a return to an earlier time
uncomfortably so for me
No longer work
at rest with itself
it reaches out
towards inevitability
and the futility of death
when the painting has to stop