"emotional landscapes"

The easternmost spike of the eight-point star gives the best view. On mornings like this, the North Atlantic canvas is coated in thick grey gesso. Nothing moves at sea; it’s all moving at once.

I’m painting a man in Africa, due east of me, a big white man, looking out the window of his airless compound. He’s thinking about lilacs, the ones in the park back home. In his mind, they push against the back fence, fragrant and intrusive.

Westward another man pats his raw face with cold water. A torrent of words shifts and bubbles: he hasn’t had enough coffee. Later, he’ll let them trickle out, one by one, a managed flow. They’re not real words, though. He keeps those to himself.

Behind me, I’ve painted the smallest hours, still dark, in a bedroom eight thousand kilometers away. There, my son sleeps on a lumpy futon with his arm around his girl. These hard young people – all legs and tattoos, piercings and bursts of indignation – soften, boneless as babies, when they sleep.

I keep all the ships out at sea, past the horizon. I can’t have them cluttering my landscapes, even though they are full of souls. Let their lovers fill them in, waving from the foredeck, happy to be home.