Reflections

Contemplation in the Studio

Reflections

Reflections

Haiku of contents

Home reminiscing

love, passion, art and the chair

Alpha - Omega

Extract1

Sitting in my father's old chair, which came from Holland after his second wife had died, some fifteen years after his demise, I felt his presence in my bones. In this upholstered chair, with its high back, cushioned yet hard seat and wooden arms, I often think of him and almost unfailingly, my son also appears, he who died this year at the age of forty seven. He is sitting there with me and we three contemplate the fact that the middle one is still alive.

It is a strange feeling to be with those two people at such a time. Just an old chair, yet when I walk into the room and see it, I feel my heritage, the line of my origin, unbroken despite their deaths. I think about my other three sons and my four daughters and I am sure that their children will also feel the same. This is the chair of recognition, the blood-line chair.

Extract2

Extract 2

Lately, his arms have become easily tired but his fire keeps them up and moving like a ballet through the air, arms swaying, rhythmic swaying, the dream of the paint, always like a lovers' dance. He notices that the painting nowadays, comes in short bursts only for while. The mind is dancing a tarantella while the arms work in conjunction with his aged body instead and after a short while, he has to stop.

“I love you,” he says to his hands, to the paint, to the thought, to painting itself but love is a weak word for this swirling passion and warmth.The painting whispers back, words without structure....

The man sits on a swivel chair and patiently studies each small area of the painting. So many days to come, he thinks, before I finish this one, so many hours of pleasure to be the creator of this creation. His face is a mask, paint-dotted here and there as he scratches his nose or wipes his brow or cheek, leaving behind some mark of his love occupation. He sees a blob of paint on her nose which he forgot to smooth out on the canvas and decides to leave it. It is a delicious bit of paint that is so alive, like her in his heart.

She, the painted one, looks back at him and he knows they love each other and that love between them is equal in passion. He quietly rubs the tear into his skin. Yes...yes... I love you...yes.