I did this painting several weeks ago. It is one of my favorites when viewed from a distance. Definitely not a pretty picture, but I feel it captures the depth, desolation and solitude of an expansive marshland at twilight in the way I visit it now and as a child in my daydreams.
Tomas Transtromer starts his poem “The Indoors is Endless”, like this:
It’s spring in 1827, Beethoven hoists his death-mask and sails off.
he continues later to outline Eric, we presume from Stockholm, “done down by a curse”.
The grindstones are turning in Europe’s windmills. The wild geese are flying northwards. All the surface action turns inwards. He’s taken apart, put together. The wind rises and the wild rose bushes catch on the fleeing light. The future opens, he looks into the self-rotating kaleidoscope sees indistinct fluttering faces family faces not yet born. By mistake his gaze strikes me as I walk around here in Washington among grandiose houses where only every second column bears weight. White buildings in crematorium style where the dream of the poor turns to ash. The gentle downward slope gets steeper and imperceptibly becomes an abyss. Tomas Transtromer, this copy from Poetry Foundation
There are enough sensory/emotional imagery here for 10 paintings.
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