Vanishing Point
Paint-smell. Black aprons and
a blue sketchbook. The giant press
which we weren't allowed near.
An older boy flecking away
at a gathering of spanners,
clamps, screwdrivers and other
such tools for a lino print–there,
somewhere in the background.
All I was trying was one-point
perspective. Indicate plane, set
vanishing point, draw out some
parallel lines. I knew even then
I could never be a draughtsman–
What could I make real, or just
to look it?–and yet did better,
given time, with colouring pencil.
I remember an artfully-mad mess
of my dad's ties overtaking
a double-page, and then you'd turn
to see my owl-face, haunted
by dissolving into so many shapes.
I wasn't there, though. Loyally
I sat and practiced my perspective.
A quick fuck in the background.
He'd nicked a finger, I think.
Paint-smell. Black aprons and
a blue sketchbook. The giant press
which we weren't allowed near.
An older boy flecking away
at a gathering of spanners,
clamps, screwdrivers and other
such tools for a lino print–there,
somewhere in the background.
All I was trying was one-point
perspective. Indicate plane, set
vanishing point, draw out some
parallel lines. I knew even then
I could never be a draughtsman–
What could I make real, or just
to look it?–and yet did better,
given time, with colouring pencil.
I remember an artfully-mad mess
of my dad's ties overtaking
a double-page, and then you'd turn
to see my owl-face, haunted
by dissolving into so many shapes.
I wasn't there, though. Loyally
I sat and practiced my perspective.
A quick fuck in the background.
He'd nicked a finger, I think.