ON BECOMING A WINDOW

 

Recycling unused blobs of yellow and red

I make random stabs of paint on the blank target

This huge expanse of canvas is calling for broad brushes

Laid spread-eagled on the floor

I attack it from all angles

 

The leftovers have been consumed

But there’s an energy risen in me now

I squeeze blue, violet

Fresh supplies of red and yellow

Merciful white

Trusting, trusting

Fighting the feeling that this is all stupid

Allowing what is happening to happen

 

The human mind seems programmed to find pattern amongst chaos

Meaning amid insignificance

Looking at the blotches, smears and puddles of colour

I see a frame

Four sides - four corners -

Indistinct, but determined to be seen

Without doubt, there’s a window

 

Now, it’s tricky:

If a window has been born

But has yet to develop into a full-grown, adult fenestration

How to nurture that unique manifestation of creation

Without killing its wild, wide-eyed spirit?

 

Part of me wants to tame this window

To smooth its rough edges, fill holes in the woodwork

A new coat, to neaten and protect

I want to know if we’re looking out, or looking in

And what’s there beyond the glass

 

I tread the tightrope between abandon and control

My window gains crossbars, a sill, a right-way-up

But its essential nature remains untamed

With its gaps and clashes

Blurred edges, muddle and mess

It’s energetic and alive

Mysterious yet magnificent

I like the window best this way.

 

Chris Beale

14th April 2011