How they’ll see Her.
(after modeling for Adolphe Piche)
She exists in intervals.
Metered by the haptic gaze
of brush on skin, skin on brush,
her flesh unfolds.
From ribs of uncertainty,
strung with solecism,
awash in memory, pigmented by
slow-waltzing studio dust and thinned-out
with eucalypt turpentine,
he makes her.
She’s a celadon-green enigma, something
Archeologists will ponder, but never really see:
Hatshepsut in high-heels,
Because
if there’s one thing
I bloody can’t stand
it’s people who look,
and think they know.
he says,
wiping his pallet.
His eyes dart like ripples
in the cruise-ship Nile.
From me to canvas, canvas to me,
To beyond profile and canon.
He reads Her
against the hieroglyphic tone
of flesh, divines the space between us
for what’s unknown.
I watch on.
I watch on for
what’s unknown
between us;
of flesh against the hierolglyphic tone:
Profile and canon,
from me to canvas, canvas to me.
His eyes like Eucalypt turpentine,
wiping his pallet,
He says, “they know”.
And, “think, people who look”.
Hatshepsut in high-heels,
archaeologists will ponder, but never really see.
A celadron-green enigma
with thinned-out dust, awash in memory,
pigmented by slow-waltzing solecism.
From ribs of uncertainty
her flesh folds.
Skin on brush, brush on skin.
Metered by the haptic gaze
in intervals.
She exists.
A.H Brekelmans
