sral
05-12-2018, 08:13 AM
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Saatchi style.
The dark and milder colours bleed subtly
running free underneath his brush technique.
The artist smiles.
Reluctantly.
Seeing something he isn't pleased with;
The picture needs it a hidden meaning
to lift its genius beyond simply feeling.
Instinct leads him in believing there's more surface to scratch.
The figure feebly turning her back on the inner demons that lurk in her past
is too easy an assertion to cast.
Digging deep, he searches for answers.
Who is the girl on the canvas
curled up in anguish
nervously sat in her blur of a satin nightgown?
He casts his eyes down at her black and white outline, shadowed by how the natural light bounced from her skin.
In pronouncing her silhouette,
he paints her as drained.
Her age would remain a mystery, save for the way
her mane of untameable hair looks laden with grey.
By tracing the shape of the Junoesque beauties legs,
you'd think twenty-something.
The head is covered so were left to wonder if she's somewhere in the middle.
A parental figure wouldn't be wearing so little to sleep in.
It's pyjama tops and pilates joggers incase the kids were to creep in (as they did of an evening).
The literature seen in the background hints at her reading,
but this is misleading.
It would be easier to assume the sibylline scenarist had been hitting the keys since her fingers are bleeding.
The ink is in-keeping with my thoughts on the fact this is an author,
perhaps,
fraught with mishaps and caught in the grasp of writers block as her story unravels.
How awfully tragedian to be caught in a battle you thought you could handle,
only to die by your own sword.
The deadline that she'd hoped for arrived at her closed door.
Our writer was so worn out from giving all that she had;
a tortuous cramp had formed in her hand.
Resting the small of her back against the wall as she sank,
falling on back into her tried and tested writing methods.
Sometimes it's best to apply your strengths and find an edge rather than defy convention.
A smile had beckoned on the artists face;
partially raised Chardonnay glass in hand as he marked the day
by splashing back satisfaction.
The gravitas of added class captured her essence
and answered his question as to who the inanimate vestige was that carried his message.
The character lends itself to all manner of headings,
dependent on the observers eye.
Commercialised thirty-five year old working nights?
Dirty diaper discarding wordsmith hiding her maternal side?
Every person finds their own conclusion as to who that she is.
Theres a thousand shoes that could fit loose on her limbs,
but the journey there is the true beauty in this -
The artist's just putting you in the picture.
Saatchi style.
The dark and milder colours bleed subtly
running free underneath his brush technique.
The artist smiles.
Reluctantly.
Seeing something he isn't pleased with;
The picture needs it a hidden meaning
to lift its genius beyond simply feeling.
Instinct leads him in believing there's more surface to scratch.
The figure feebly turning her back on the inner demons that lurk in her past
is too easy an assertion to cast.
Digging deep, he searches for answers.
Who is the girl on the canvas
curled up in anguish
nervously sat in her blur of a satin nightgown?
He casts his eyes down at her black and white outline, shadowed by how the natural light bounced from her skin.
In pronouncing her silhouette,
he paints her as drained.
Her age would remain a mystery, save for the way
her mane of untameable hair looks laden with grey.
By tracing the shape of the Junoesque beauties legs,
you'd think twenty-something.
The head is covered so were left to wonder if she's somewhere in the middle.
A parental figure wouldn't be wearing so little to sleep in.
It's pyjama tops and pilates joggers incase the kids were to creep in (as they did of an evening).
The literature seen in the background hints at her reading,
but this is misleading.
It would be easier to assume the sibylline scenarist had been hitting the keys since her fingers are bleeding.
The ink is in-keeping with my thoughts on the fact this is an author,
perhaps,
fraught with mishaps and caught in the grasp of writers block as her story unravels.
How awfully tragedian to be caught in a battle you thought you could handle,
only to die by your own sword.
The deadline that she'd hoped for arrived at her closed door.
Our writer was so worn out from giving all that she had;
a tortuous cramp had formed in her hand.
Resting the small of her back against the wall as she sank,
falling on back into her tried and tested writing methods.
Sometimes it's best to apply your strengths and find an edge rather than defy convention.
A smile had beckoned on the artists face;
partially raised Chardonnay glass in hand as he marked the day
by splashing back satisfaction.
The gravitas of added class captured her essence
and answered his question as to who the inanimate vestige was that carried his message.
The character lends itself to all manner of headings,
dependent on the observers eye.
Commercialised thirty-five year old working nights?
Dirty diaper discarding wordsmith hiding her maternal side?
Every person finds their own conclusion as to who that she is.
Theres a thousand shoes that could fit loose on her limbs,
but the journey there is the true beauty in this -
The artist's just putting you in the picture.