This morning, he’d concentrate on whites, place
them by his window, view of Quai Voltaire
there before the Louvre, revel in pure grace
of pigment bathed in light, lisp softest prayer—
thanks for de Romanange’s lithopone,
Courtois’s zinc oxide, the Romans’ ceruse.
By noon Cézanne would show, always alone,
wild-eyed, scowling about Gustave’s poor use
of celestial blue, never right for Paul’s
skies. Patience marks how we love our artists,
he’d later counsel son Henri, recall
Gauguin’s fight outside their shop, Mars-stained fists
pounding another drunk. That night, he’d dream
of lakes, fluorescents, barite-flowing streams.
Roger Armbrust
November 20, 2009
