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It is not too hard when you begin to understand.

The point is not to unlearn and when you get the chance

Not being able to recall and invent at will; let it go.

This is the irony. We painters know it and we set forth

Our works in solo expositions in corridors and caves. Walk in.

Open up new paths. Cut new wood, breathe in the strong odour of the resin,

Oil and spark; carefully picking your way through thorn and bush.

The lines embalmed in longing lead the curve of your eye,

Touch, feel, alter, and afterwards disfigure patches of colour.

The walls have a will of their own.

Order and nuance are there to turn to.

We will repaint mountain, plain, tree, bush, bird, bee,

Sky and water, air and desire together. Ripping

All inside out, pulling everything a little closer.

All expositions are carefully cut out impressions.

All expositions are miscalculations. That you will understand

Or why begin at the end of each corridor

All over again? Letting no walls collapse.

Fearing the shadow lengthening.

On leaving my works between walls I have to rush up for air.

This submergence is awful, torturous.

After setting forth my stuff I feel all nude. Cold.

It is the shame of not being able to find the line

The curve the splash the dab the structure the feel–

An amazement cuts across alright – seeing it when we both begin.

But the shame the shame! It is all over. Let’s start again.

That dark bird against the sun.

How can one man or woman speak for all art?

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About the Author: Murali Sivaramakrishnan


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