Latest essay at The Common Online – art and solitude in company:
Vignettes from Western Massachusetts
Two men scrape blue paint from the wall of the building across the street. They sit cross-legged, each plying his scraper with energy. The one on the right is thickset, wearing a gray t-shirt stained with sweat. The one on the left is more striking. His tight white t-shirt rides up his torso, baring his muscular lower back and the crest of black underpants. His long army-green shorts droop, exposing still more of that black arc. His hair is black and spiky, sideburns visible when he turns his head.
Their task looks endless. Their progress is miniscule.
Isn’t writing like that? One tiny increment at a time, the paint flakes falling, one square inch of space coming to white clarity under the obscuring, faded blue paint. Clarity, first, before the wash of the new can be painted on …
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