The artist

The artist

What drifts through his mind, as his hand shifts and slides and moves across the canvas?
As his gentle, or maybe not so gentle hands, for there is violence in his art,
strive to create a thought ? An idea? Or maybe an emotion?
The tranquility of fiery sunsets over cathedral spires
The secretive mauve and burgundy shadows that seem to move as you watch
I can almost feel the warm evening sun on my face

Another beautiful amber sunset behind an abstract pine forest of jade and turquoise
A sad portrait of an emerald woman in an open market,
She looks as though she was cast in bronze
If you look carefully you may see a tear drop to the stone walkway
Sad because her spirit, caught and immobilized in time and space not once but twice

Then there are more canvasses but this time I sense a touch of chaos
Or maybe a smidgen of insanity in a man whose world has become too structured
But even so these same paintings display an unrequited joy
An explosion of colour and shape, happy paintings, a joy to behold
A playground for the artist in an obvious attempt to display his pleasure

These paintings filled with geometric shapes and curlycues
With little hidden chicks and birds all kinds of snakes and foxes
I even spy some hedgehogs and some octopuses
Some oriental dragons but none from England, Germany or France

Looking at another and once more searching my mind for something that is not so obvious to the eye, to me this speaks of untold passion again captured by the colors
And the absence of the man, now gone to his lover, who was sitting in the chair
And the burgundy now left behind and forgotten together with the melancholy scene

Some would leave no legacy behind and others might choose the spoken word
Others yet leave a legacy of great wealth, and some such as I may choose verse
Some may choose wood or steel as a legacy
But you Andre have chosen to bless us with a plethora of colors and shape
And for this we thank and salute you

Grant