“The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery” – Francis Bacon
“Artist” – Mohit Vamsi
Armed with a sheet of snow white paper
And pencils with lead coal black
She takes her position,
Looking at a person
Sitting on a wooden park bench.
Or is it a picture,
Of a person sitting on a wooden park bench?
This we don’t know
But she looks at it long and hard,
Taking in all the tiny details.
Trifling other might say,
(But she breathes perfection).
The design on the wrought iron handles of the bench,
Some cracks in the wooden planks,
His perfect teeth in a brilliant smile,
The one odd hair standing out,
An old scar here, a wrinkle there,
The crumbled sleeves of his worn-out shirt.
And then she attacks the paper,
Sketching the picture in black and white,
We behold a creator in action.
A couple dozen minutes walk by,
She looks up, almost finished,
The man is still sitting on the bench,
He hasn’t moved.
Or if it is a picture, it hasn’t changed.
Some more strokes, she adds the finishing lines,
It’s done now, a masterpiece created.
Finally satisfied, she leaves the sheet there and walks away,
A beautiful soul lost in a strange world.
Through her art we get a glimpse
Of all the mysteries locked up inside her,
A true maestro, the drawing is perfect;
Or is it a man?
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