Dialogue with an Artist

I used to paint the sea, but never a shore,

and nobody was sailing on it. It wasn’t even

the sea, it was just my own loneliness.

It’s all there, you know. It’s all in the sea.

The battle is there, the inevitability of it all,

the purpose. When I switched to people

they were all lonely. Crowds are the

loneliest thing of all, I say. Every individual

in them is a stranger to everyone else.

I would stand for hours in one spot

and scores of little kids who hadn’t had

a wash for weeks would group round me.

Had I not been lonely, none of my work

would have happened. I should not have

done what I’ve done, or seen what I’ve seen.

There’s something grotesque in me and I

can’t help it. I’m drawn to others who are

like that. They’re very real people. It’s just

I’m attracted to sadness and there are some

very sad things. These people are ghostly

figures. They’re my mood, they’re myself.

Lately, I started a big self-portrait. I thought

I won’t want this thing, no one will, so

I went and turned it into a grotesque head.

You’re right, there are grotesques who shine

a dark light that lures us like how the sirens

tried to lure Odysseus, and yes, maybe we

ourselves are among the grotesques, but

there are also the beautiful who, if we’re

lucky, save us from ourselves, and validate

the sun’s light, and maybe also the moon’s.