On the chin, on its edge,
under the chin many a kiss...
The golden boat trembles
on the surface of closed eyes.
Hair, rowlocks, clavicles,
fuzzy skin, lilies, reeds...
Every particle of me knows
what has happened, what is bound to be.
And I proffer my face, my shoulders,
to the miracle as to the wind.
Come and row. a child again,
I will sleep curled on the stern.
—Vera Pavlova, "If There Is Something to Desire,/There Will Be Something to Regret..."
In the studio, the fan of the air conditioner nosily rotates, strands of Laurie Andersen deliver an inconsistent beat.
It is hot and strangely quiet.
The dogs and cats sleep.
The birds, perfectly posed tucked themselves to sleep.
And I paint.
to the pure pigment I add some oil.
The paint flows from the rounds and the fans like water in a slow river.
Liquid, quiet, strong.
And then the painting is done.