Someone Give Seurat a Smartphone
Imagine, making that transition from Pointillism to point-and-click. Now, zoom in. Look at all those pixels instantaneously created by fingertip on glass. What would you think? Would you embrace the digital domain retiring your brushes forever? Or, would you cling onto the old? The art history lover in me likes to think the latter that the smell of ochre mixed with linseed, the smooth handle of a well-used wooden brush, the squelch as horsehair enters paint and the scratch of brush scraping on canvas would be enough to keep you loyal, enough for you to toss that new tech to the side. That you would choose to stay seated in the sun with your easel on that tranquil beach at Honfleur a cool breeze tickling your skin feeling your naked toes on the warm sand with the sound of waves calmly lapping on the shore. That your preference would still be to spend whole days – not just seconds – recording that lighthouse, one tiny dot of paint at a time.
Chapbook Unwrapped
The book arrives in my mailbox, packed in plastic, eager to be fingered again. God knows
how long it had been stacked on the dusty warehouse shelves at Thrift Books HQ. Alone, unread.
Unwrapped, the sun shimmers on its cover of cobalt blue and I linger over the touch of it, soft like skin. Opening,
I flick to the title page, my eyes immediately arrested by curved words, styled in black fountain ink:
For Kyle, a friend, not an enemy — with all my thanks! I imagine you writing this, timidly, heart-sleeved.
Questions rise. Who would donate these pages with such personal words within? Why was this gift of affection
not cherished by him? I suppose I will never know. So, in the afternoon shade, on my favourite wood-backed chair, I
settle down to read, determined to show these poems the love that they deserve.