Just what the hand can gesture at, not grasp,
The always-escaping tantalising line,
Bare and pure...
The artist, left to his own devices.
The solitary pencil.
What can four fingers and a thumb
Cut out of the air?
Hand, shaper of flints,
Spear-launcher,
Feeling, appreciating
Nothingness.
This is devotion.
Stroking and honing
Light to dark to light,
Working with the paper’s tooth,
The texture of shadow.
Figures coalesece, emerge
Out of the black whiteness,
Tone on tone,
Without edges,
Modulating a music
Finer and lighter than life.
A Möbius strip.
Particles colliding in space,
Substance shading out...
Is this evidence of substance
Or emptiness?
Marks on paper,
Waves in water,
In sand.
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