Art Class
James Galvin
Let us begin with a simple line,
Drawn as a child would draw it,
To indicate the horizon,
More real than the real horizon,
Which is less than line,
Which is visible abstraction, a ratio.
The line ravishes the page with implications
Of white earth, white sky!
The horizon moves as we move,
Making us feel central.
But the horizon is an empty shell—
Strange radius whose center is peripheral.
As the horizon draws us on, withdrawing,
The line draws us in,
Requiring further lines,
Engendering curves, verticals, diagonals,
Urging shades, shapes, figures…
What should we place, in all good faith,
On the horizon? A stone?
An empty chair? A submarine?
Take your time. Take it easy.
The horizon will not stop abstracting us.
What I find interesting is that the horizon is always there, shimmering in the distance. Always, we stand hopeful on the shoreline, certain that by keeping an eye on the horizon, that our ship will come in. We define ourselves, not so much by what is, but by what we think is out there, by the idea of who we are, who we can or should be, by all the possibilities just out of reach.
So many times the horizon is so much better than what is solid under our feet. So it is. I suppose it's all a matter of persepective, or mood, or situation, or you name it. Squint your eyes and watch how the horizon changes.
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