Читать книгу A Perhaps Line - Gary D. Swaim - Страница 14

I turn my head away. I can neither look at

nor draw his face. Not for reason of skill.

Rather, because of deep, straight lines of pain

that run from forehead to eyes and into lips, like scars.

I turn aside and draw from the top of the canvas, beginning

with only the tip of the strong chin.

As my pen and pastels move just beyond the neck,

I find myself dancing to the black ink and the sepia color

I hold in my hand. His stirring torso movements counter

his frozen face. I hear the music, unexpectedly, of Rilke’s

Archaic Torso of Apollo: “. . . his torso is still infused with brilliance

from inside.” And, I know, as Rilke knew, that I must

change my life. I must look at . . . I must look carefully

at, pained faces.