Pablo Picasso observed it would be interesting to take photographs of a painting while in process, to capture its complex organic emergence. Here are two moments for viewing - one obliterated forever yet preserved in digital form; the other as 'final' as any work can ever be, yet subject to physical decay.
My anima wanders - sometimes leaving me deserted for months at a time. This week she has made an unexpected visit, an intense ferment of feeling. Intoxicated, suffering, the paint drips darkens coagulates like heart's blood, undrunk, unwanted. Another Pablo (Neruda) provided this torn lament, scribbled onto the painting, an appropriate epiphany:
Those who wanted to wound me wounded you,
and the dose of secret poison meant for me
like a net passes through my work - but leaves
its smear of rust and sleeplessness on you.
I don't want the hate that sabotaged me, Love,
to shadow your forehead's flowering moon;
I don't want some stupid random rancour
to drop its crown of knives onto your dream.
Bitter footsteps follow me;
a hideous grimacy mocks my smile; envy spits
a curse, guffaws, gnashes its teeth where I sing.
And that, Love, is the shadow life has given me:
an empty suit of clothes that chases me,
limping, like a scarecrow with a bloody grin.
- Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets, LX (translated by Stephen Tapscott)
