A distinct hum emerges from the line drawn, from
the simple gesture of paint. Here, for example, where
Matisse once laid the woman’s fingertip on an ivory key,
and the resonant shadow on the table shed by a bowl
full of pears. It is the same for Picasso’s line drawing
of Apollinaire, his friend’s forearm to drape affectionately
over a chair in the afternoon. Through the night
the hum to press itself against sleep. Peeling, slicing
a kiwi wafer-thin the next morning you experience
a brightness, innocent and in wedges, at the fruit’s
center, the compelling darkness of the seeds that push
forward into the green. Then a slight tightening in the chest,
a dizziness, when all along you thought you were
handling the news that arrived five days before, news
of the death of a long-time friend. A friend your own age
from the home place. That kind of news to register
in the body as well as the soul, so that you walk out
to the studio, draw more lines to leap and connect.