Wednesday, June 26, 2013

V. 2, #90: June 26, 2013

He draws the lines exactly how they look
to him, the photograph in black and white,
like lines of poetry in his sketchbook,
erased, redrawn until they flow just right;

He pays attention to the empty space
between the features, all proportions true;
the gentle, soft gray contours of her face.
It's perfect. There is nothing left to do.

But still there's something missing in the eyes,
a form resistant to the graphite's trail
that he is powerless to realize,
against which his artistic efforts fail.

He crumples her and throws her in the bin.
A fresh white page. He sighs. Begin again.

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