A Self Portrait

It’s me;

I am the order strewn about my floor in sporadic chaos.
Each paper blooming out from the other like a fire,
Twisting in fragments of neglected thoughts and ink,
Forgotten like a kaleidoscope of partial dreams.

Scrutinize the pallets and I am there;

I tread slowly along the solemn blues in my sobriety.
My desire for affection is splayed in the spotty smears of desperate reds.
And my envy has its roots deep beneath the incorrigible greens,
Begrudging what I desire as it grows slyly across the page.

I am that surge of anticipation before starting;

That fleeting moment of clarity as a masterpiece rears its head from the future,
The lingering fetor of paint reeks of my own stubborn miasma.
Its resolve mirrors my own like the shifting consistency of clay,
Easily changed yet through fire and force I am hardened.

I am that dreadful resentment upon completion;

The ache of a medium as it fades from potential to actual.
I am the question that follows and thus always remain the answer.
I realize then that I am not an artisan, for it is art that dictates me.
I am contingent of art and of its existence and otherwise just wouldn’t be.

Eric Anthony Crew


Originally Written 4/16/2010