He is a painter, time indeterminate. Europe.
Then. Also a husband, father, neighbour.
Burgher of the town he was born in, a citizen.
Self-portraits, mostly. Masks, in various light,
shadow so, various moods, different stages of his life.
Certain moments he was drawn to paint:
his message to the woman he’d marry he’d not met yet,
in his hand a sprig of rosemary. A flat faced boy,
the young soldier, a wanderer, mid-life, old age.
The day he won the old quarrel with Sartorius.
The years of invasion, famine, the great death.
Mother, wife, children, all at once gone.
What he couldn’t paint: the black rump of night
where there’s no point to the dawn, no purpose
for him in the sun’s ever again coming up.
And the outrage of birdsong, the dawn chorus
a panic in the chest, acid on the tongue.
And who let all this sudden white light in here?
Self portrait in shadow. Self portrait in sorrow.
Self portrait with fruit and flowers.
Self portrait with instruments and cats.
Slowly: outside events: astrolabe, compass,
half finished block of stone, the texts
Sheaf of gathered wheat. A stuck pig.
Baskets of dark grapes. Like so. On the hills bonfire smoke,
autumn woods, towers of the city. Cloud etched to rain.