At 59, his magnificent mind
unraveling—impressionism’s haze
confounding his sense of nature destined
to save us—he slurs Whistler’s art of glazed
night light. Gets sued and loses. The age’s
art master deposed, he stumbles alone
through reclusive silence, inner rages
hidden. No sign of gothic visions; none
of his 50 books re-read. No hint of
his horror of London’s factories, stark
image of slavery and greed. No love
call for the Alps, forest, garden or park,
or Venice—life’s grand lesson. Mute statue,
he sits for years, eyes toward Lake District’s blue.
Roger Armbrust
December 21,
2012
