Her Eyes Wide Not Looking at Anything in Particular
This
painting looks better in the mirror. This painting looks better after sunset,
the horizon still on fire, still brilliant and red. There are mountains. Can
you see them? Blue mountains in the distance holding up the red, brilliant in
its need. Can you see baby Bacchus getting his evening meal? He is hungry, he
drinks eagerly from the dish. What I like is the wine-sprite in the background,
a wreath of green leaves on his tender head. What I like are the handsome young
men on their knees squeezing grapes into juice. I am drawing a picture for you,
simple and neat. Can you see it, dear boy? Can you trace the quiet beauty of
nature? It is like a footprint melting into a pallid sky. It is a painted story
of St. George and the dragon. I will play tragic for you. I will play dead,
invite the flies to buzz around my face as you draw the scene on the palm of
your hand with a red ink pen. We will invite the public, charge a hefty
admission. Have you a better suggestion?
