Not many passions take your pants off— painting with oils, reading in the afternoon, other people's bodies. I want to really say something here. I want to be clear. But just as no two people see the same colors, what you hear is not what I'm saying. Not conversations as much as serial misunderstandings, proximate in space. One considers the dictionary definition of "man." One considers the definition of "woman." One considers arm hair, soft spaces on a hot body. The obsessive heat-seeking quality of attraction. The paint on my pinkie is for you—a little poison, a little turpentine. The snaggletooth I want to stick my tongue into. This is pigment from a rock, this is pigment from a bug, this is pigment from a bleeding heart, and this is jeopardy. Passion brought me here, but passion cannot save me. To mix linseed and varnish, to create something is to vanish what was there before. Chroma for fastness, chemistry tricks. Such bold strokes in erasing and framing delicate beginnings. Copyright © 2017 Erika Jo Brown. Used with permission of the author. |
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