I say, distracted,
"I'll catch up,"
but I don't.
Instead I stand
mesmerized by an
inexplicable light - by
cascading dapples of
brightness beams and
sparkles, flying like
diamond-shot bursting
from unseen artillery.
Standing steadfast
before me, with light -
this bright insoluble
light at its back,
a grove of ancient
trees lifts its golden
canopy high upon
silhouetted branches.
Beyond the trees -
behind a grassy ridge,
an army of rebels
fighting darkness with
torches and ramrods,
tamp luminance deep
into black iron cannon
barrels. From here they
fire volley after blinding
volley into the trees
as they have without
pause for centuries.
Cannon light crashes
through the wood,
rips through the canvas,
and scatters at my feet.
I approach closer,
spellbound by the
dancing illuminations
that backlight the
dry spice colored
leaves of these
deep-rooted trees.
I stare through the
wizened foliage,
following flecks of
silver glint backwards,
deep into the scene -
deep into the painting
that hangs before me.
I look beyond the
stillness and into
the motion of the
brush strokes;
at the light flitting,
at the leaves rustling,
floating, falling -
scuttling along
the forest floor -
pushed by winds,
and pulled by time.
I watch sinuous bands
of fog hang lazy o're
the grassy ridge.
Rising above the fog
climb layer upon layer
of dark foreboding
mountainous rock,
pressed down by a
moody autumn sky.
"Go ahead,"
I said, distracted,
"I'll catch up".
But I didn't.
A new assemblage
of gallery patrons
now mingle around
me - murmuring at
the painting with
the backlit trees.
They observe it, nod,
and move on from
frame to frame, fading
from my notice until
their mumbled voices
fall and blow away
across the floor.
After the chamber
empties of all eyes
save mine, and the
last footfall's echo stills,
the painting begins
to increase its
animated activities.
At first it moves almost
imperceptibly. Then
with the intricacy and
dexterity of a woman
removing her bra
while fully clothed,
the painting slips out
of its frame and hangs
adrift in the cool air,
slowly undulating.
Then in tones that are
neither sound nor color,
the escaped painting
cries out - summoning
its creator. Time and
distance bridge like
water drops bumping
and joining together.
Out of nothingness
the artist with his
tools appears, and
the unbound work
settles lightly on its
old master's easel.
I lean and look over
the painter's shoulder,
watching his arm and
brush as they sweep
hither and thither
serpent-like, adding,
blending, pushing
and pulling colors
across the canvas.
Aromas of oil and
solvent, pigment,
and earth, fill the air.
Then, as one might
see by turning a
kaleidoscope wheel,
the scene multiplies.
Sounds erupt in
multiple languages
and the room fills
with a flurry of activity.
Painters by the dozens
are working on their
canvasses along every
wall of the gallery.
They work with
instruments large
and small, with strokes
long and short, light
and bold - applying
pigments of every hue.
Eventually one painter
sets down her brush
and walks to another
easel. Each artist in
time does the same -
pausing to admire
the creativity of others.
Some stand gazing
into the past, while
others stand gazing
far into the future.
All are connected -
connected forever
through the conduit
of their art, and the
conductivity of the paint.
R.L. Johnson, 2020
