stands before his triptych—three self-portraits—
in the photo I took and later titled
Portrait of the Artist as a Creation
of His Creation, or more playfully,
What Came First, the Real or Painted Tom?
The first two panels show the painted Tom
struggling to lift himself from the backdrop,
as if to free his body from his work,
but sinking back down in the last panel
into the careful brushstrokes of a fire.
Seeing him through my lens, I wonder if
there’s any way an artist can escape
his work and be simply himself, plain Tom?
Tom’s pose seems to suggest it’s possible
to be the young creator in control
of his creation—but behind his back
the triptych mocks him with a triple self
as if to say this making and remaking
is also who you are. It touches me,
this quadruple portrait of the young artist:
the triptych and then my picture of Tom
standing in front of the triptych
in black jeans, black shirt, a white undershirt—
as if all color went into the work,
and Tom’s the washed-out version, what remains
when the feast is over, and the soul joys
in its temporal boundaries, which is why
I’ve hung this photo by my writing desk
as a reminder that we make our art
out of ourselves and what we make makes us.