You're pondering the painting: the purple in these shadows, the waiting in these hands . . .
You're hearing the colours:
the dialogue between
spontaneity and discipline . . .
Art is the moment's motion in character.
''- That's Rembrandt alright!''
I hear you saying.
When fields flow into a wreathing sky,
when clouds cry out with the earth's hurt -
''That's Turner!'' ''That's Emily Carr!'' we say.
Life is the rationale of paint.
And that's my point:
not what we're doing has to say about us
but what we're doing has to say
about unselfed being . . .
From old masters to vignettes.
Now I'm seeing you in colour
driving to Kingston, Ontario,
to visit an Indian and having permission
to put a fresh pear in his hand
and talking and listening and leaving the prison
driving back with the sun plunging
in purple down your windshield and finding
that waiting's the pause between moments of giving . . .
Don't you see?
You look surprised.
''That's Christ,'' I'm saying
pointing to your living.