The blank canvas

To many artists, a blank canvass is synonymous with long questioning.

Freeing speech is how you set it alive. Painting is a support of speech.

Expression is part of existing. A blank canvass is a form of silence.

A letter to a stranger, as in “Les passantes”, a poem by Antoine Pol, later adapted by Georges Brassens.

Staring at this immaculate canvass for a while opens up a path inviting me to follow it.

In an alley, I imagine damp cobblestones and if I persist, staircases and houses appear detailed to doorframes. With a furtive glance, shadows become visible out of a space-time created with few brush strokes.

Feelings of a watercolor artist take over the scene, spreading thick layers of paint as if to mark the passage of time.

Behind a hidden door, in a side passage, I imagine senseless scenes where I look for you.

Even when I stare beyond forms, not stopping at a particular curved line, or at some make-belief effect, I add some knife strokes to create dense spots or mounts, or the shape of your breasts.

Rebind the link we once shared, recreate time that flew at dawn, only then will I feel you closer to me.