Napo 29 - 2022
Talent
Talent finds its own private places,
an accommodation of sorts,
and the mundane swirls around it.
Diane, a tall introverted lass,
a 'last year senior girl',
with 'privileges'.
She dreamed through other lessons,
sometimes just walked out,
quietly, drifted to the art room.
Like iron filings to a magnet.
Often empty, it gave her a choice,
She'd set up her easel,
wherever the light suited her,
and subsequent classes, trooping in,
swirled around her, unnoticed.
She painted abstracts, in oils.
Using a short-bristled brush,
with a 'proper' long handle,
to produce a stippled effect.
In thrall to her imagination
she would stand motionless,
eyes almost blank,
for minutes at a time.
Brush held low by her hip,
angled upwards. Waiting.
Then, with short sharp flurries,
like an amateur knife fighter,
she'd step into the zone,
stabbing paint onto the canvas,
almost too fast to see.
Disengaging she'd step back,
sometimes knocking things over,
briefly clumsy,
disorientated after that sharp precision.
Occasionally she'd look around,
clearly bewildered,
surrounded by mostly reluctant artists
who saw 'Art' as a skive class.
If she'd finished for the moment
she's clean her brushes,
always thoroughly,
look at her watch,
drift back to the timetable,
to the world of regimented order.
I suspect, to her,
it seemed utter and pointless chaos.
Gyppo
