Thick paper, creamy and smooth like old china.
Soft shadows, graphite shapes and curves already dress the surface.
The brush sweeps in simple forms, rough hewn black bass notes.
The rhythm and balance of space holds its truth in anticipation,
waiting for the story to wrap its personality to the page.
A simple sequence of panels emerges:
A dark landscape, the patient crosshatching of lawn
weaves through the foreground. The sky is softer, cloudy
perhaps a storm, but with sunlight escaping to catch
the edges of the afternoon.
A figure silhouetted, walks between the gum trees and
their calligraphic shadows. A house waits ahead.
Two stories, bay windows, the house hangs like a puppet
from its chimneys. Old fruit trees, quince, apple, loquat
wallpaper over the faded paint with their shadows.
From here the edge of the lawn is closer.
Walking across the grass, the ground slopes away.
A cliff rips the edge of the garden, ragged stone
falling to the ocean below. These waves are not tame.
The rocks are under siege.
Facing the house, the door is slightly ajar.
Pushing open the door, stirring the still air.
The shadowy hallway holds four doors and a curved staircase.
A pinboard flutters with eclectic messages.
Feet on the carpet, old roses still weave their pattern
in the corners. The path to the stairs is worn smooth.
Fingers find the banister, waking the dust and
showing the warm timber beneath.
The stairs creak, but feel solid.
Upstairs there are also four doors,
two each side of the hallway.
This door is open, a wash of sunlight
laps through the door.
The room is long and wide. Perhaps a ballroom?
The bay window faces the ocean.
Walking through the emptiness
imagining this space in busier times.
Stepping towards the sunlight
Watching the dust and light moving at the window.
The floor moves.
Softens, distorts and is elastic.
Falling through blackness.
Fresh dark wet ink.