WILLIAM SNYDER

The Now of Stroke and Jab 

                                                  After, Self Portrait, 
Vincent Van Gogh,
Paris,1887             

He’ll paint à toute vitesse, he says—
like a blinking star, a pebble-skip
on a stream, a bee’s wings nectaring.
And he does—rapid, bristly lines,
though he stands rooted for the task,
the mirror propped on a chair.
But his arms, hands, brushes—
and, Don’t get close, he says, I might
stab you, might paint you visible.
He cannot dally, he says, not here,
not in this life, not with anguish
everywhere, and, I waste
so much of it—my time—just sleeping.
And listening to you. The one brush,
the hatch of strokes in gold
and yellow, the deep blue stripes
beneath the eyes like shadows.
Like bruises. Shadow or bruise? I ask.
Both, he says. If shadow,  imagine
bruise. If bruise, imagine shadow.
I have enough of either, of both.
Thick and raw, as if I open my eyes
for the first time to see his face,
see it as it is—a rote of skin
and beard, a spark of nose and eyes.
Look at this face, he says, kneading
his cheekbones. Do you see the bristles
of my brush? And here, he says,
pressing his lips, do you see the paint?
No? Ah. Too late. Gone. Now I am gone.                                                                                              

 

 

 

                                                                          

       

           

         

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