old school - poetry from the dusty file

a fair representation by some accounts


I took her to see a film about jackson pollock
on a rainy sunday afternoon
and the theater was filled with patrons
much older than us, much older than me,
all wiping the drops from there coats
and shaking off umbrellas

the actor who played the lead was
very intense, as he was in all his roles,
and he often clenched his jaw tightly,
set like quick-drying concrete, and he didn't
scowl so much as his straight face lent itself to
much anger and inner turmoil

having never studied the painter before
I did not know that he was both
alcoholic and depressed
- a fine combination for an artist -
and the film showed him
falling down drunk with his brother,
being scowled at by various acquaintances,
howling at anyone who tried to tell him
what art was supposed to be,
and painting, always painting,
dragging colors across canvas with a miniature trowel
and dripping them from above in the method
that garnered him
his greatest fame

and there was the woman
who took care of him
at great personal sacrifice
making sure he was coherent for parties
and booking his exhibits;
when he died
stupidly
she went on to paint again
as she had before him
and she too knew some measure of
success

we were warm when we left the theater,
the crush of people and poor circulation
of the old art house
stifling

when we hit the lobby again
we could feel the cool of the outside air
and smell the increased rainfall
sneaking past the usher

upon stepping outside
we breathed in deep
and hooked fingers
walking to the car
where I casually stepped to my door,
the drops misting my coat,
and we got in and laughed,
satisfied that we weren't in the block-long line
of people waiting
in the rain
to see the next feature

I am fascinated by movies about painters
perhaps because I am comfortable with the fact
that it is something I cannot do
and then again,
perhaps it is because in the movies
they make it all look so easy
and I retain some modicum
of hope.


© scn 3-12-2001