THE ART LOFT
Just because you've got to have it -
the tools of a maestro, all those collected
cans and bottles - amplitude and true congestion.
Paint cans slobbered and dry with drip, old slathered
brushes, dried too and dimpled and pressed. I never
knew one place could hold so much. The accordion
folders of sketches , the sink with all that rust.
If you could just stop for a moment, you'd see
what I see - magnificent crazed matter, slats
of wood and plaster, a Gesso bucket over the
top with hardness. There are no steps to stand
on, as there are no limbs to break.
Just because you've got to have it -
the tools of a maestro, all those collected
cans and bottles - amplitude and true congestion.
Paint cans slobbered and dry with drip, old slathered
brushes, dried too and dimpled and pressed. I never
knew one place could hold so much. The accordion
folders of sketches , the sink with all that rust.
If you could just stop for a moment, you'd see
what I see - magnificent crazed matter, slats
of wood and plaster, a Gesso bucket over the
top with hardness. There are no steps to stand
on, as there are no limbs to break.
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