'Self-portrait', 1887
Visiting Van Gogh. It’s quick impasto: this is the shape
loneliness takes in the morning. It’s creases of white re-lined: this is the
dread of time hurting, laughing, walking away, ending. It’s industrial strength
colours wriggling from tubes: this is the proof no-one’s paying for a face like
that. It’s the fleck and turn: his eyes checking every inch of light and
darkness, those are brushstrokes that were his eyes, outstaring us all. It’s
stroke stroke: the torrent of effect a garden hedge in May. It’s everything a
photograph cannot do: this is a face free of every cameraman alive.
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