Don Maynard

A few years back, an artist I like very much promised me a nice painting when I sold his house. I did my job and this week that work finally showed up at my place. Peace has been brokered more quickly between warring nations. The delay, though, is almost entirely my fault.


The work, chosen early on, had assumed mythic proportions in my mind. The colours had been distilled through aeons of peat, like a whisky, the horizons sharpened by a winter sun, its dimensions expanded so much that we’d surely have to buy a bigger house when it showed up.


And yet now - suddenly, like a storm - it is there when I come down in the morning, taking up a large part of the wall. Its dissolved plant life counterintuitively and yet also perfectly settled above blue waters, rather than sunk within them. Its mylar washes of smoke and chlorophyll. Its nearly geological depths, as if an Atlantic has been installed atop the old teak buffet. A plaintive description of sound. A sad painting of the ruinous soft space behind my eyes.


As you can probably tell, I’m quite fond of it already.


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