In shifting light he sees Cezanne’s shading like a street corner,
like a bag of pills hidden in a childhood closet.
He feels Caillebotte in the hardwood, in the chipped lacquer,
and it’s as if shirtless men pull him apart.
He considers what standing would be like without any toes
and thinks Van Gogh thought the same about hearing.
He stares in the lights, makes him see Kadinsky’s rainbows
in the settled bath, the broken colors rippling.
In his towel, he stumbles between the broken legged tables,
the disemboweled cushions, textures like a Monet chrysanthemum.
The art critic gags on the oil in his gut wanting
to spring from his mouth and cover all the canvas
he has stretched before him, as if art is divined
from a darkness even El Greco can’t paint.
SethWilson Isaac Gray is a recent graduate from Colorado College, still living in Colorado. He is a musician who has just begun recording music in his half-underground apartment, also deemed “The Hobbit Hole”. He spends his days trying to convince himself he likes eating healthy and exercising, but indulges often, as a true hobbit would.
© 2019, SethWilson Isaac Gray
2 comments on “When the Art Critic Spills His Guts, by SethWilson Isaac Gray”
You have amazed me with your writing since I read your work as a fourth grader.
Keep writing and most importantly, sharing!