Perfect Painting

Andrew Wyeth's painting of Helga conveys weight, and not just physical weight; I think it is supremely sensual. It stays in the memory and compels you to revisit it.

However, it  is not just the portraits, but his landscapes and still-life studies: there is an atmosphere to them, a feeling of being present, that is very unusual. The choice of  palette, the naturalness of his subjects and  compositions, his precision in depicting rural life , people and places. Maybe too we feel like we've got to know Helga, ourselves neighbours.

Whatever, I could  have written this poem for Wyeth and Helga. 

 

i.    ( painting ) 

The chevron shadow beneath her chin,

seagull-winged clavicles,

almond-eyed navel,

lush ravine of her groin,

parabola shade beneath her breast,

arc-topped thigh: 

he exposes these like an archaeologist

dusting a stone’s markings

into the light of day. 

ii. (one year later) 

The weight of her breasts,

the flesh-fold across her belly,

boniness of  her knees,

the muscles down  her calves,

knuckles of  that wrist

angled over the back of the chair: 

much more than seeing,

the feeling  impressed into my hands.